The rain hits the cobblestones with a sound like breaking bones. You stand on the bridge. Below you, the river is black and still. It holds the city’s reflection, a jagged mouth of stone and iron. You are not afraid. You are only tired.

Your name is Thomas. You were a soldier once, in the wars that ended before you were born. Now you are a keeper of the peace. A constable. You wear the blue coat. It is heavy. It smells of wet wool and old sweat. You have worn it for ten years. It has become part of your skin.

You are holding the lantern.

It is not a normal lantern. It is made of brass. The glass is thick. Inside, a candle burns. It does not flicker. The flame is blue. It is cold. It does not give off heat. It gives off silence. When you hold it, you cannot hear your own heartbeat. You cannot hear the rain. You can only see.

You were given this lantern by Sergeant Miller. He was your friend. He was your brother in arms. He died in the war. Or so they said. He was found in the mud. His face was gone. They buried him in a field outside the city. You went to the grave. You did not cry. You did not speak. You just stood there. The rain washed the dirt from your boots.

Miller had a secret. He told you on the last night before he left. He was sitting by the fire in the barracks. The other men were asleep. His eyes were bright. They were not human eyes. They were like the lantern.

"You will be the keeper," he said. His voice was low. It was the voice of the wind in the trees. "You will hold the light. You will see the truth."

"Truth," you said. "What truth?"

He did not answer. He looked at you. He looked through you. He looked at the thing inside you that you had never named. He handed you the lantern. It was warm then. It felt like a living thing. It pulsed in your hand.

"Keep it safe," he said. "Do not let it go out. Do not let it see what it should not see."

You took it. You did not understand. You thought he was mad. You thought the war had broken his mind. You left him. You went back to the city. You became a constable. You forgot the lantern. It sat in your drawer for three days. On the fourth day, you opened the drawer. It was gone. It was in your hand. You did not remember putting it there.

That was ten years ago.

Now you are on the bridge. The city is waking up. The baker is opening his shop. The smell of bread drifts up from the street. It is a good smell. It is the smell of life. You close your eyes. You try to smell it. You cannot. The silence from the lantern eats the air.

You open your eyes. You look down.

The river is not water.

It is ink. It is black and thick. It moves slowly. It moves like oil. In the ink, there are shapes. They are not fish. They are not leaves. They are people. They are floating. They are dead. They are the ones who died in the war. They are the ones who died in the street. They are the ones who died in their beds. They are all here. They are all looking up.

You see Miller.

He is there. He is not dead. He is not in the field. He is in the ink. He is looking at you. His face is whole. He is smiling. It is not a kind smile. It is a hungry smile.

You want to throw the lantern into the ink. You want to let it go. You want to be free. You want to hear the rain. You want to feel the cold.

You do not throw it.

You are a constable. You are a keeper. You hold the light.

You walk across the bridge. Your steps are heavy. The cobblestones are wet. Your boots slip. You steady yourself. You look at the ink. The faces in the ink are closer now. They are reaching for you. Their hands are long. Their fingers are black.

You see a woman. She is wearing a red dress. She is holding a child. The child is crying. The woman is screaming. Her mouth is open. There is no sound.

You see a man. He is wearing a uniform. It is your uniform. It is the blue coat. He is holding a sword. The sword is stuck in the ink. He is pulling it out. He is bleeding. The blood is black. It mixes with the ink.

You know who he is. It is you. It is the you that will be. It is the you that will die.

You stop walking. You stand still. The rain falls on your face. You feel the drops. They are cold. They are real. The silence from the lantern is fading. You can hear your own breath. You can hear your own heart. It is beating fast. It is beating hard.

You look at the lantern. The flame is still blue. It is still cold. But it is smaller now. It is dying.

You understand.

The lantern is not a tool. It is a mirror. It shows you what you are. It shows you what you have done. It shows you the war. It shows you the death. It shows you the guilt. It is the curse of knowing. To know is to suffer. To see is to be bound.

You are bound to the dead. You are bound to the ink. You are bound to the silence.

You can break the bond. You can let the lantern go. You can let the flame die. You can let the ink take you. You can join them. You can join Miller. You can join the woman and the child. You can join the man with the sword.

You look at the ink. You look at Miller. He is smiling. He is waiting.

You look at the city. You look at the baker. You look at the street. You look at the life.

You want to live. You want to feel the rain. You want to smell the bread. You want to be human.

You raise the lantern. You hold it high. The blue flame burns bright. It lights up the bridge. It lights up the ink. The faces in the ink turn away. They do not want to be seen. They want to be hidden. They want to be forgotten.

You do not let them forget.

You are the witness. You are the keeper. You hold the truth.

You walk on. You leave the bridge. You walk into the city. The rain is still falling. The baker is still opening his shop. The smell of bread is still in the air. You can smell it. You can hear the rain. You can feel the cold.

You are free.

No.

You are not free. You are just alone.

The lantern is in your hand. It is warm. It is alive. It is your heart. It is your curse. It is your friend.

You walk down the street. People are looking at you. They see the blue light. They step back. They cross the street. They do not want to be near you. They do not want to see what you see.

You do not care. You are used to being alone. You are used to being feared. You are used to being the keeper.

You walk to the station. You walk to your desk. You sit down. You open your drawer. You take out a piece of paper. You take out a pen. You write.

You write the names. You write the names of the dead. You write the names of the ones who are in the ink. You write the name of Miller. You write the name of the woman in the red dress. You write the name of the child.

You write until your hand hurts. You write until the ink runs out. You write until the paper is full.

You fold the paper. You put it in your pocket. You put the lantern on the desk. The blue flame burns. The silence spreads.

You close your eyes. You listen to the rain. You listen to the city. You listen to the life.

You are not afraid. You are only tired.

You are the witness. You are the keeper. You hold the light.

The rain hits the cobblestones. It sounds like breaking bones.

You are still there.

You will always be there.