The rain fell in sheets.

It was not water.

It was a gray mist that tasted of iron.

I stood on the ridge.

My boots sank into the mud.

The mud was alive.

It pulsed against my shins.

I checked my weapon.

The rifle felt heavy.

The wood was wet.

The metal was cold.

I looked at the horizon.

There was no sun.

There was only the gray.

And the noise.

A low, constant hum.

It vibrated in my teeth.

It vibrated in my bones.

I was a soldier.

I was not a man.

I was a function.

My orders were clear.

Hold the line.

Do not let it cross.

The enemy was not human.

It was the air itself.

It was the ground.

It was the silence between the drops of rain.

I thought of my brother.

Thomas.

He was back in the city.

He was safe.

Or so I believed.

The mist thickened.

A shape moved in the fog.

It was tall.

It was thin.

It had no face.

It only had hands.

Long, pale hands.

I raised my rifle.

My hands shook.

I fired.

The bullet passed through the shape.

It did not stop.

It kept coming.

I fired again.

And again.

The gun jammed.

I dropped it.

I picked up my knife.

The blade was short.

It was rusted.

I waited.

The shape stopped.

It tilted its head.

It listened.

Then it spoke.

"Turn around."

The voice was mine.

I turned.

Behind me stood the Commandant.

He wore a white uniform.

His face was clean.

His eyes were black.

"Report," he said.

"I am holding the line," I said.

"You are holding your breath," he said.

"Is that not the same?"

I looked at him.

He looked at the mist.

"We have a breach," he said.

"Where?"

"Here."

He pointed at my chest.

I looked down.

My shirt was dark.

It was wet.

But it was not rain.

It was blood.

I had been shot.

I did not feel the pain.

I only felt the cold.

The Commandant stepped closer.

"Your sector is lost," he said.

"No," I said.

"It is."

"I will stay."

"You will die."

"I am already dead."

He smiled.

It was a sad smile.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"To the other side."

I looked at the mist.

The shape with no face was gone.

The rain had stopped.

The air was still.

I followed him.

We walked through the fog.

It was thick.

It was warm.

It smelled of ozone.

And of old books.

We walked for hours.

Or minutes.

Time did not exist.

We reached a door.

It was made of stone.

It was set in a cliff.

There was no handle.

The Commandant stopped.

"This is the edge," he said.

"Beyond this is the world you know."

"And beyond that?"

"Nothing."

I looked at the door.

I thought of Thomas.

I thought of his laugh.

I thought of the coffee he made.

Bad coffee.

Bitter.

Sweet.

I was afraid.

Not of death.

Of forgetting.

If I crossed, I would forget him.

I would forget the rain.

I would forget the weight of the rifle.

I would be free.

But I would be empty.

The Commandant watched me.

He did not push.

He did not pull.

He waited.

I stepped forward.

The stone was cold.

I touched it.

The door opened.

There was no light.

There was only space.

I stepped through.

The world changed.

The gray mist was gone.

The sky was blue.

The grass was green.

The sun was warm.

I was standing in a field.

A field of wheat.

It was golden.

It was quiet.

I looked at my hands.

They were clean.

They were young.

I was not a soldier.

I was not a ghost.

I was a man.

But I was alone.

I looked around.

There was no city.

There was no brother.

There was only the field.

And the wind.

The wind whispered.

It said my name.

James.

It said Thomas.

I turned.

No one was there.

I was free.

I was free from the pain.

I was free from the fear.

I was free from the duty.

But I was free from him.

The price was high.

The price was everything.

I walked through the wheat.

The blades brushed my legs.

They felt real.

They felt soft.

I sat down.

I waited for him.

He did not come.

The sun set.

The stars came out.

They were bright.

They were cold.

I looked at my hands.

I made a fist.

I opened it.

I was alive.

I was here.

But I was not whole.

The freedom was a cage.

The silence was a scream.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered the rain.

I remembered the iron taste.

I remembered the Commandant’s smile.

I was a traitor.

I had left the line.

I had left the fight.

I had chosen peace.

But peace is not life.

Life is struggle.

Life is pain.

Life is the brother who waits.

I opened my eyes.

The field was gone.

I was back on the ridge.

The rain was falling.

The mist was thick.

The shape was there.

The Commandant was there.

"Did you go?" he asked.

"I did," I said.

"And?"

"It was empty."

"Good," he said.

"Now you can fight."

I looked at my rifle.

It was in my hands.

It was dry.

It was ready.

I looked at the shape.

It was waiting.

I was afraid.

But I was not alone.

The rain fell.

I stood.

I aimed.

I fired.

The bullet hit.

The shape shattered.

It turned to dust.

The dust blew away.

The mist cleared.

For a second.

I saw the city.

I saw the lights.

I saw the window.

Thomas was there.

He was looking out.

He was waiting.

I raised my rifle again.

More shapes came.

From the fog.

From the dark.

I fought.

I bled.

I screamed.

I did not stop.

I would not stop.

Not until the line was held.

Not until the dawn came.

Not until I could die.

But not before.

The Commandant watched.

He nodded.

He was proud.

I was not a man.

I was a shield.

I was a wall.

I was the cost.

The price was paid.

The price was me.

I held the line.

I held my breath.

I held my soul.

And I stayed.