The mud was thick. It sucked at my boots. The air tasted of iron and ozone. I held the line.

I am a man of duty. That is what they taught me. Before the fog, before the shift, I was a sergeant. Now I am a guard. The distinction is thin. It is thinner than the veil between here and there.

My name is Elias. I do not need to say it often. It is a weight I carry. Like the rifle. Like the silence.

Beside me stands Thomas. He is older. His hair is white. It stands out against the grey sky. He does not blink. He watches the horizon. The horizon does not exist. The world ends in mist. The mist breathes.

"Steady, Elias," Thomas says. His voice is low. It is the sound of dry leaves. "Hold the shape."

The shape is broken. I feel it in my hands. The wood of the rifle is warm. It is alive. It is not wood. It is bone.

We are in the Hollow. No map shows the Hollow. No compass works here. We have been here for days. Or years. Time is a fluid thing. It pools. It drains.

The pressure is from the outside. They come for us. The Council. The men in clean coats. They say we are defective. They say we are lost. They say we should be recalled. Recalled to what? To the office? To the desk? To the life that was before the war?

The war is over. The war is not over. The war is inside.

A figure emerges from the fog. It is not human. It is a mirror. It has my face. It wears my uniform. But the uniform is torn. The eyes are empty.

I raise the rifle. My hands do not shake. I have learned stillness. It is a gift. A curse.

"Shoot," Thomas says.

I aim. The trigger is cold. I pull. The sound is a crack. The figure does not fall. It dissolves. It becomes smoke. The smoke tastes of ash.

"Another one," Thomas whispers.

They come in waves. The bias is a weapon. It is sharper than a bayonet. The Council believes we are monsters. They believe we changed. They believe the fog changed us. They do not know that we were changed long before the fog.

We are the shield. We are the wall. And walls do not move.

I think of Margaret. She was my wife. She is gone. She left. Or she died. I cannot remember. The memory is worn. It is a stone in my pocket. It is smooth. It has no edges.

Thomas sees my face. He knows. He knows what I think.

"Do not drift," he says. "Focus on the task."

The task is to stand. The task is to wait. The task is to endure.

The fog thickens. It presses against my skin. It is cold. It is wet. It is heavy. I feel a pain in my chest. It is a dull ache. It is the ache of old wounds. It is the ache of guilt.

I am guilty. I do not know for what. The guilt has no object. It is a shadow. It follows me. It is part of me.

The Council sent a messenger. Yesterday. Or last week. The messenger was a boy. He was pale. He was shaking. He carried a letter. The letter was sealed with black wax.

Thomas took the letter. He did not open it. He looked at me. His eyes were hard.

"We will not read it," Thomas said. "It is a trap."

The trap is the truth. The truth is that we are not soldiers. We are ghosts. We are echoes. We are the things that remain when the war is done.

I look at the mirror-figure. It is gone. The fog is clear for a moment. I see the trees. They are black. They are tall. They have no leaves. They are bones.

The wind blows. It howls. It sounds like a child crying. I know the sound. I have heard it in dreams. I have heard it in the trenches. I have heard it in the hospital wards.

It is the sound of loss.

Thomas moves. He steps forward. He raises his hand. His hand is steady. His hand is old. His hand is strong.

"Elias," he says. "Look at me."

I look at him. His face is calm. There is no fear. There is no anger. There is only peace.

"I am leaving," he says.

"Where?" I ask.

"Beyond the fog," he says. "Where it is quiet."

I want to stop him. I want to say no. But my voice is gone. My throat is tight. I can only watch.

Thomas walks into the mist. His form fades. It is like a drawing in water. It is like a dream upon waking.

He is gone.

I am alone.

The silence is loud. It roars. It screams. It is a physical thing. It presses against my eardrums. It presses against my mind.

I am the last. I am the one who remains. I am the one who must choose.

The Council is watching. I can feel their eyes. They are waiting for me to break. They are waiting for me to surrender. They are waiting for me to admit that I am wrong.

I am not wrong. I am right. I am the truth. I am the memory. I am the conscience.

I look at the rifle. It is heavy. It is dead. The wood is rotting. The metal is rusting. It is a relic. It is a symbol. It is a chain.

I think of the choice. The choice defines me.

If I keep the rifle, I am a soldier. I am a killer. I am a tool. I am part of the machine. The machine is broken. The machine is evil.

If I drop the rifle, I am a man. I am free. I am lost. I am human.

The fog swirls. It dances. It invites me.

I feel a surge of anger. It is hot. It is bright. It is primal. It is the anger of the bear. It is the anger of the lion. It is the anger of the storm.

I will not be a tool. I will not be a ghost. I will be a man.

I lift the rifle. I raise it high. I see the sky. The sky is dark. The sky is infinite.

I throw it.

The rifle flies. It arcs through the air. It is a black bird. It is a falling star. It disappears into the mist.

The sound is soft. It is a whisper. It is a sigh.

I am empty. My hands are empty. My heart is empty.

The fog clears.

I see the path. It is narrow. It is straight. It leads up the hill. The hill is covered in snow. The snow is white. The snow is pure.

I walk. My feet are bare. The ground is cold. The cold is good. The cold is real.

I climb. The air is thin. The air is clean. I breathe. I breathe deep. I breathe in. I breathe out.

I reach the top.

The view is vast. The world is small. The world is quiet.

I see the Council’s tower. It is far away. It is a speck. It is a dot. It is nothing.

I see the hollow. It is below me. It is a pit. It is a grave.

I am above it. I am free.

But freedom is a burden. Freedom is a pain. Freedom is a loss.

I think of Thomas. I think of Margaret. I think of the war. I think of the blood. I think of the mud.

I close my eyes. I let the memories go. I let the anger go. I let the guilt go.

I am here. I am now. I am Elias.

The sun rises. The light is gold. The light is warm. It touches my face. It touches my soul.

I open my eyes. I see the path down. It leads back to the village. It leads back to the people. It leads back to life.

I take the first step.

The step is heavy. The step is light.

I am walking. I am alive. I am free.

The fog is gone. The world is clear. The world is new.

I am a man.

I am a man.

I am a man.