The rain did not fall. It pressed.

A grey, heavy hand against the glass.

Thomas stood.

He waited.

The door was heavy. Oak. Iron-bound.

He pushed.

It opened.

The hall was empty.

Cold stone.

Dust.

The air tasted of metal.

Old blood.

Or rust.

He walked in.

His boots made no sound.

The floor was soft.

Moss?

No.

Ash.

Fine, white ash.

It covered everything.

The chairs.

The tables.

The floor.

He walked deeper.

The room was vast.

Vaulted ceilings.

High windows.

Stained glass.

Colors bled.

Red.

Blue.

Black.

The light was wrong.

Dim.

Sickly.

He stopped.

In the center.

An altar.

Pale.

White stone.

Smooth.

It rose from the ash.

Like a bone.

Like a tooth.

Thomas touched it.

Cold.

Smooth.

It hummed.

A low vibration.

In his hands.

In his chest.

He knew it.

He had seen it before.

In a dream.

A recurring dream.

The same altar.

The same ash.

The same silence.

He had been a boy.

He had been a soldier.

He had been a man.

He was all of them now.

The door behind him closed.

With a click.

Soft.

Final.

He turned.

The door was gone.

Only wall.

Stone.

Sealed.

He was alone.

With the altar.

He sat.

On the floor.

The ash crunched.

He looked up.

The windows.

They were changing.

The glass was moving.

Like water.

Like smoke.

Faces formed.

Then dissolved.

He saw his mother.

She was young.

Her hair was wet.

She smiled.

Then she screamed.

Then she was gone.

He saw his brother.

Edward.

He was wearing his uniform.

The medal on his chest.

The blood on his lip.

He looked at Thomas.

His eyes were empty.

Then he fell.

Into the ash.

Gone.

Thomas felt a pain.

Sharp.

Hot.

In his gut.

He reached for it.

His hand closed on nothing.

But the pain remained.

It was a wire.

Tight.

Pulling.

He looked at the altar.

It pulsed.

Red.

Then white.

Then red.

It was a heart.

Beating.

Slow.

Heavy.

He stood.

He walked to the altar.

He placed his hand on it.

The vibration stopped.

The air grew still.

A voice spoke.

Not from the room.

From inside his head.

You are here.

It was his own voice.

But older.

Weaker.

Tired.

Why am I here?

To choose.

Choose what?

Who you are.

Thomas laughed.

A dry, cracking sound.

I am a soldier.

I am a man.

I am a brother.

No.

You are a wall.

The voice was gentle.

Cruel.

You have built a wall.

To keep them out.

To keep you in.

The wall is the altar.

The altar is you.

Thomas pulled his hand back.

The stone was warm.

He looked around.

The room was shrinking.

The walls were closing in.

The ash was rising.

Swirling.

Like snow.

Like ghosts.

He saw them.

The faces from the windows.

They were here.

Standing in the ash.

His mother.

His brother.

His comrades.

Dead.

Gone.

But present.

They watched.

They waited.

Thomas looked at the altar.

It was smaller.

Closer.

He could feel its breath.

Hot.

Moist.

He had to do something.

He had to break it.

He pulled a knife from his belt.

Steel.

Sharp.

He raised it.

The faces screamed.

Silent.

Mouths open.

No sound.

He swung.

The blade hit the stone.

It shattered.

Not the stone.

The blade.

The steel bent.

Twisted.

Like wet paper.

Thomas stared.

He had never seen steel bend.

Not like this.

The altar was unharmed.

Smooth.

Pale.

He dropped the broken knife.

It clattered on the floor.

He fell to his knees.

The ash was up to his waist.

Cold.

It seeped into his clothes.

Into his skin.

He was sinking.

The altar was rising.

It was taller than him now.

It loomed.

A mountain.

A tomb.

He could not breathe.

The air was thick.

Heavy.

With memory.

With guilt.

With love.

Destructive love.

The love that eats.

The love that binds.

He thought of Edward.

The medal.

The blood.

He had not saved him.

He had not been fast enough.

He had been too strong.

Too proud.

Too much of a soldier.

He had been a wall.

And the wall had fallen.

And Edward had died.

And Thomas had lived.

And he had built a new wall.

Higher.

Stronger.

To hide the rot.

To hide the shame.

To hide the pain.

The altar pulsed.

Red.

White.

Red.

It was his heart.

Beating.

Slow.

Heavy.

He realized the truth.

The altar was not a test.

It was a mirror.

It showed him what he was.

Not what he wanted to be.

Not what they wanted him to be.

What he was.

A man who loved too much.

And let that love destroy him.

He looked at the faces.

His mother.

His brother.

They were not judging.

They were waiting.

For him to stop.

To let go.

To break the wall.

Not with a knife.

With his soul.

Thomas closed his eyes.

He felt the ash.

He felt the cold.

He felt the pulse.

He opened his arms.

He embraced the altar.

He did not push.

He did not pull.

He held it.

Like a child.

Like a lover.

Like a ghost.

The stone was soft.

It melted.

Into his skin.

Into his bones.

Into his blood.

The pain was gone.

The pressure was gone.

The silence was gone.

There was only the sound.

A hum.

A song.

A lullaby.

He was dissolving.

Into the ash.

Into the light.

Into the dark.

The walls stopped moving.

The room expanded.

Infinite.

Empty.

Clean.

The altar was gone.

The faces were gone.

The ash was gone.

There was only Thomas.

Standing.

Alone.

But not alone.

He was part of it.

He was the stone.

He was the ash.

He was the silence.

He was the choice.

He had chosen to be the wall.

Now he chose to be the door.

He opened his eyes.

He was in the field.

The rain was falling.

Soft.

Clean.

The ground was wet.

The sky was grey.

He was on his knees.

His uniform was torn.

His hands were empty.

No knife.

No weapon.

No wall.

Just hands.

Open.

Empty.

He looked up.

The sky was clear.

A single star.

Bright.

White.

It was Edward.

Or maybe it was his mother.

Or maybe it was himself.

It did not matter.

It was there.

Shining.

Thomas stood.

His legs were weak.

But they held.

He walked.

Toward the star.

Toward the light.

Toward the end.

He did not run.

He did not fight.

He walked.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

He felt the rain.

It was warm.

It washed the ash from his skin.

It washed the blood from his soul.

It washed the past from his mind.

He was new.

Clean.

Free.

He smiled.

A small, quiet smile.

A sad smile.

A happy smile.

He knew what came next.

He did not fear it.

He accepted it.

He was a soldier.

He had done his duty.

He had broken the wall.

He had let the light in.

He had let the pain out.

He had let the love go.

He walked into the rain.

The rain took him.

The dark took him.

The light took him.

He was gone.

But not gone.

He was everywhere.

In the rain.

In the earth.

In the sky.

In the star.

In the ash.

In the silence.

In the choice.

In the end.

He was the pale altar.

He was the path.

He was the boundary.

He was the crossing.

He was the peace.

He was the rest.

He was the love.

Destructive.

Consuming.

Complete.

He was Thomas.

He was free.

The rain continued.

Soft.

Steady.

Clean.

The world turned.

The star shone.

The dark held.

The light waited.

And the story ended.

Not with a bang.

But with a whisper.

A breath.

A sigh.

A release.

A letting go.

A falling.

A rising.

A being.

A nothing.

A everything.

A peace.

A rest.

A home.

A end.

A beginning.

A life.

A death.

A choice.

A self.

A truth.

A lie.

A dream.

A wake.

A sleep.

A death.

A life.

A peace.

A rest.

A home.

A end.