The letter lay on the desk. It was thin. It was white. It breathed.

Silas Ashworth stared at it. The ink was wet. It glistened. It was black.

He was a soldier. He had been a soldier for forty years. His hands were hard. His hands were still. The room was small. The room was cold. The air was thick.

A mirror stood in the corner. It was tall. It was dark. It watched him. Silas watched it. His face was old. His face was grey. His eyes were young. His eyes were bright.

He reached for the letter. His hand trembled. It was a small tremor. It was a deep tremor. The letter did not move. The letter waited.

He touched the paper. It was warm. It was soft. It felt like skin.

He had written it. He knew he had written it. He did not remember writing it. The words were his. The words were not his. They were strange. They were familiar.

Dear Silas, the letter began.

The voice was his. The tone was flat. The tone was cold.

You must break the glass, it said. You must break the glass now. Do not hesitate. Do not think. Break it.

Silas looked at the mirror. The mirror looked at him. In the glass, a figure stood behind him. The figure was him. The figure was not him. The figure was younger. The figure was angry.

The figure raised a fist. Silas felt the wind of the blow. He did not move. He did not flinch. He felt the pain. The pain was old. The pain was new.

He picked up a heavy book. The book was leather. The book was thick. The book was a weapon.

He walked to the mirror. The floor was cold. The floor was hard. His steps were heavy. His steps were silent.

He raised the book. The book was heavy. The book was full. It was full of words. It was full of lies.

He swung.

The impact was sharp. The sound was loud. The sound was dead. The glass cracked. A line of white cut the face. The face was his. The face was broken.

He swung again.

The glass shattered. It fell in shards. It fell like snow. It fell like ice. It cut his hand. He did not care. The blood was red. The blood was warm. The blood flowed.

The mirror was gone. The reflection was gone. The room was empty. The room was full.

Silas stood in the shards. He was bleeding. He was alive. He was alone.

He looked at the letter. The letter was gone. The desk was bare. The ink was dry. The ink was gone.

He felt a pull. It was in his chest. It was in his bones. It was in his mind.

He remembered.

He was a boy. He was a soldier. He was a boy again. He was in a trench. The mud was thick. The mud was black. The mud was cold. He was freezing. He was dying.

A voice spoke. It was a deep voice. It was a kind voice.

Hold the line, Silas. Hold the line. Do not break. Do not fall.

The voice was his father. The voice was his command. The voice was his self.

He held the line. He held the line for years. He held the line for decades. He held the line until the line broke him.

He was here. He was in the room. He was in the mirror. He was in the glass.

He had never left.

The room began to change. The walls moved. The walls breathed. The light dimmed. The light died. The dark came. The dark was thick. The dark was heavy.

Silas felt the weight. It was on his shoulders. It was on his spine. It was on his soul.

He was the guard. He was the prisoner. He was the key. He was the lock.

He had fought the enemy. The enemy was him. The enemy was the past. The enemy was the self.

He had won. He had lost. He had won. He had lost.

He swung the book again. The book was gone. The book was dust. The dust was in his hand. The dust was in his heart.

He threw the dust. The dust flew. The dust settled. The dust was everywhere.

The room was white. The room was bright. The light was pure. The light was cold.

Silas looked at his hand. The hand was clean. The hand was white. The hand was young. The hand was still.

He looked at the desk. The desk was gone. The desk was wood. The wood was old. The wood was dead.

He looked at the door. The door was open. The door was black. The door was a hole.

He walked to the door. The floor was soft. The floor was grass. The grass was green. The grass was wet.

He stepped out.

The world was vast. The world was quiet. The world was new. The world was old.

He saw a field. The field was golden. The field was tall. The wind blew. The wind was cold. The wind was warm.

He saw a house. The house was small. The house was white. The house was home.

He saw a woman. The woman was young. The woman was beautiful. The woman was him. The woman was her.

She was waiting. She was always waiting. She was the mirror. She was the letter. She was the glass.

She smiled. The smile was sad. The smile was sweet. The smile was real.

Silas walked to her. His steps were light. His steps were free. His steps were his.

She opened her arms. The arms were open. The arms were empty. The arms were full.

He entered the arms. He was held. He was safe. He was known. He was seen.

The pain was gone. The pain was here. The pain was part of him. The pain was part of her.

They stood together. The sun set. The sun rose. The sun set. The sun rose.

The cycle continued. The cycle was endless. The cycle was theirs.

Silas closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. He was in the room. The room was small. The room was cold. The letter was on the desk. The letter was wet. The letter was white.

The mirror stood in the corner. It was tall. It was dark. It watched him.

Silas stared at it. His face was old. His face was grey. His eyes were young. His eyes were bright.

He reached for the letter. His hand trembled. It was a small tremor. It was a deep tremor.

He knew what he had to do. He had done it before. He would do it again. He would do it forever.

He was the soldier. He was the guard. He was the prisoner.

He picked up the heavy book. The book was leather. The book was thick. The book was a weapon.

He walked to the mirror. The floor was cold. The floor was hard. His steps were heavy. His steps were silent.

He raised the book. The book was heavy. The book was full. It was full of words. It was full of lies.

He swung.

The impact was sharp. The sound was loud. The sound was dead. The glass cracked. A line of white cut the face. The face was his. The face was broken.

He swung again.

The glass shattered. It fell in shards. It fell like snow. It fell like ice. It cut his hand. He did not care. The blood was red. The blood was warm. The blood flowed.

The mirror was gone. The reflection was gone. The room was empty. The room was full.

Silas stood in the shards. He was bleeding. He was alive. He was alone.

He looked at the letter. The letter was gone. The desk was bare. The ink was dry. The ink was gone.

He felt the pull. It was in his chest. It was in his bones. It was in his mind.

He remembered. He was a boy. He was a soldier. He was a boy again. He was in the trench. The mud was thick. The mud was black. The mud was cold. He was freezing. He was dying.

A voice spoke. It was a deep voice. It was a kind voice.

Hold the line, Silas. Hold the line. Do not break. Do not fall.

The voice was his father. The voice was his command. The voice was his self.

He held the line. He held the line for years. He held the line for decades. He held the line until the line broke him.

He was here. He was in the room. He was in the mirror. He was in the glass.

He had never left.

The room began to change. The walls moved. The walls breathed. The light dimmed. The light died. The dark came. The dark was thick. The dark was heavy.

Silas felt the weight. It was on his shoulders. It was on his spine. It was on his soul.

He was the guard. He was the prisoner. He was the key. He was the lock.

He had fought the enemy. The enemy was him. The enemy was the past. The enemy was the self.

He had won. He had lost. He had won. He had lost.

He swung the book again. The book was gone. The book was dust. The dust was in his hand. The dust was in his heart.

He threw the dust. The dust flew. The dust settled. The dust was everywhere.

The room was white. The room was bright. The light was pure. The light was cold.

Silas looked at his hand. The hand was clean. The hand was white. The hand was young. The hand was still.

He looked at the desk. The desk was gone. The desk was wood. The wood was old. The wood was dead.

He looked at the door. The door was open. The door was black. The door was a hole.

He walked to the door. The floor was soft. The floor was grass. The grass was green. The grass was wet.

He stepped out.

The world was vast. The world was quiet. The world was new. The world was old.

He saw a field. The field was golden. The field was tall. The wind blew. The wind was cold. The wind was warm.

He saw a house. The house was small. The house was white. The house was home.

He saw a woman. The woman was young. The woman was beautiful. The woman was him. The woman was her.

She was waiting. She was always waiting. She was the mirror. She was the letter. She was the glass.

She smiled. The smile was sad. The smile was sweet. The smile was real.

Silas walked to her. His steps were light. His steps were free. His steps were his.

She opened her arms. The arms were open. The arms were empty. The arms were full.

He entered the arms. He was held. He was safe. He was known. He was seen.

The pain was gone. The pain was here. The pain was part of him. The pain was part of her.

They stood together. The sun set. The sun rose. The sun set. The sun rose.

The cycle continued. The cycle was endless. The cycle was theirs.

Silas closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. He was in the room. The room was small. The room was cold. The letter was on the desk. The letter was wet. The letter was white.

The mirror stood in the corner. It was tall. It was dark. It watched him.

Silas stared at it. His face was old. His face was grey. His eyes were young. His eyes were bright.

He reached for the letter. His hand trembled. It was a small tremor. It was a deep tremor.

He knew what he had to do. He had done it before. He would do it again. He would do it forever.

He was the soldier. He was the guard. He was the prisoner.

He picked up the heavy book. The book was leather. The book was thick. The book was a weapon.

He walked to the mirror. The floor was cold. The floor was hard. His steps were heavy. His steps were silent.

He raised the book. The book was heavy. The book was full. It was full of words. It was full of lies.

He swung.

The impact was sharp. The sound was loud. The sound was dead. The glass cracked. A line of white cut the face. The face was his. The face was broken.

He swung again.

The glass shattered. It fell in shards. It fell like snow. It fell like ice. It cut his hand. He did not care. The blood was red. The blood was warm. The blood flowed.

The mirror was gone. The reflection was gone. The room was empty. The room was full.

Silas stood in the shards. He was bleeding. He was alive. He was alone.

He looked at the letter. The letter was gone. The desk was bare. The ink was dry. The ink was gone.

He felt the pull. It was in his chest. It was in his bones. It was in his mind.

He remembered. He was a boy. He was a soldier. He was a boy again. He was in the trench. The mud was thick. The mud was black. The mud was cold. He was freezing. He was dying.

A voice spoke. It was a deep voice. It was a kind voice.

Hold the line, Silas. Hold the line. Do not break. Do not fall.

The voice was his father. The voice was his command. The voice was his self.

He held the line. He held the line for years. He held the line for decades. He held the line until the line broke him.

He was here. He was in the room. He was in the mirror. He was in the glass.

He had never left.