You are walking. The boots are heavy. They are wet. The mud is deep. It sucks at the heels. You do not look down. You look forward. The road is straight. It cuts through the grey fields. The air is cold. It bites the nose. It stings the eyes. You are a soldier. You are in uniform. The grey wool is damp. It clings to the skin. You carry a box. It is wooden. It is small. It fits in two hands. You hold it tight. You guard it. It is your life.

The town is ahead. The smoke rises from the chimneys. It is black. It drifts low. The buildings are brick. They are old. The windows are dark. There is no light inside. You see the gate. It is iron. It is rusted. You stop. You breathe. The breath is white. It fogs in the air. You knock. No one answers. You knock again. Harder. The sound is dull. It echoes.

A door opens. It is small. It is high. A face appears. It is old. It is lined. It is grey. It is the face of the warden. He does not smile. He does not frown. He looks at you. He looks at the box. He does not ask. He knows. He steps back. He holds the door. You enter.

The courtyard is paved. The stones are slick. They are covered in frost. You walk fast. The box is heavy. Your arms ache. The warden walks ahead. He leads you to the gatehouse. It is a tower. It is stone. The windows are barred. You climb the stairs. They are narrow. They are steep. Your knees hurt. You reach the top. The room is small. It is dark. There is a desk. There is a chair. There is a lamp. The light is yellow. It is weak.

The warden sits. He pulls out a ledger. It is thick. It is bound in leather. He opens it. The pages are yellowed. The ink is faded. He looks at you. He waits. You place the box on the desk. You do not open it. You keep your hands on it. You feel the wood. It is smooth. It is warm from your touch. The warden picks up a pen. He dips it in the ink. He writes. The scratch of the nib is loud. It fills the silence.

You wait. You think of the road. You think of the mud. You think of the cold. You think of the town. You think of the people. They are gone. They are buried. You are alone. You were not alone before. You had a son. He was young. He was bright. He had your eyes. He had your voice. He is gone. You brought his name. You brought his record. You brought his fate. You are the vessel. You are the carrier. You are the empty shell.

The warden stops writing. He looks at the page. He frowns. He turns the page. He looks again. He looks at you. His eyes are hard. He taps the paper. He speaks.

"The file is missing," he says.

You do not move. You do not blink. Your heart beats. It is slow. It is heavy. You open the box. You take out the papers. They are folded. They are white. They are clean. You unfold them. You hold them up. The light catches the ink. The words are clear. The name is there. The date is there. The signature is there. It is all there.

The warden looks at the papers. He looks at the ledger. He looks at the papers again. He shakes his head. He pushes the papers back. He points to the ledger. He points to a line. The line is blank.

"There is no entry," he says. "No record. No name. No death. You are not on the list."

You stare at him. The words do not make sense. They are wrong. They are false. You know the truth. You know the cost. You paid the price. You walked the road. You carried the weight. You are here. You are real. The box is real. The papers are real. He is wrong. He is the system. The system is broken. The system is blind.

You speak. Your voice is rough. It is dry.

"I walked for three days," you say. "I found him in the ditch. I carried him home. I buried him. I wrote the letter. I sent the letter. I am here to close the file."

The warden looks at you. His face is hard. He does not doubt you. He does not believe you. He does not care. He is a machine. He is a gear. He turns. He clicks. He does not feel. He does not see. He sees the blank page. He sees the absence. He sees nothing.

"The war is over," he says. "The books are closed. There is no room for new names. The budget is cut. The records are full. You must leave."

You do not leave. You stand. You grip the box. Your hands are shaking. The wood is cold now. It is hard. It is a tomb. You look at the warden. You look at his hands. They are still. They are clean. They have not touched the mud. They have not held the dead. They have only held the pen.

"I will stay," you say. "I will wait. I will wait until you write it."

The warden stands. He walks to the door. He turns. He looks at you. His eyes are cold. They are empty.

"You cannot stay. The gate closes at dusk. The night is cold. You will die here. Or you will go. Choose."

He leaves. The door slams. The sound is sharp. It echoes. You are alone. The light is yellow. It is fading. The room is dark. The shadows grow. They creep. They touch you. They are cold. They are hungry.

You sit down. You put the box on your lap. You open it again. You take out the papers. You read them. The words are the same. The name is the same. The date is the same. You read them again. And again. The ink blurs. The page tears. You rip it. You tear the paper. You crumple it. You throw it on the floor. You pick it up. You smooth it out. You hold it.

You wait. The darkness comes. The cold comes. It seeps into the walls. It seeps into the floor. It seeps into you. Your teeth chatter. Your hands freeze. You pull the coat tighter. It does not help. The fire is out. The coal is ash. You are cold. You are hungry. You are thirsty. You are tired.

You think of the field. You think of the rain. You think of the blood. It was red. It was wet. It was warm. You think of the face. It was your son. It was your blood. It was your life. You gave it up. You gave it for the country. You gave it for the war. You gave it for the flag. You gave it for the cause. Now the cause is gone. The flag is furled. The cause is silent. You are the echo. You are the ghost. You are the error.

The night passes. The dark is long. It is endless. You do not sleep. You sit. You hold the box. You watch the door. You wait for the light. You wait for the dawn. You wait for the warden. You wait for the truth.

The sun rises. The light comes through the bars. It is white. It is pale. It is cold. The warden comes. He brings a tray. He brings bread. He brings water. He does not speak. He puts the tray on the desk. He looks at you. You are alive. You are still there. You are still holding the box.

He frowns. He is confused. He is angry. He opens the ledger. He looks at the page. The page is blank. He looks at you. He looks at the box.

"Go," he says. "Leave. Now."

You stand. Your legs are weak. They are stiff. You pick up the box. You walk to the door. The warden follows. He watches you. He does not stop you. He does not help you. He is the wall. You are the stone. You are the obstacle.

You walk out. The air is crisp. The sky is blue. The town is quiet. The smoke is gone. The streets are empty. You walk. You walk fast. You do not look back. You do not think. You only walk.

You reach the edge of town. The road opens. The fields stretch. The horizon is flat. You stop. You look at the box. You look at the wood. It is smooth. It is plain. It is just a box. You open it. You take out the papers. They are the only things you have. They are the only proof. You hold them. You look at the wind. The wind blows. It pulls at the paper. It pulls at your coat. It pulls at your hair.

You tear the paper. You tear it again. You tear it into pieces. Small pieces. Tiny pieces. You let go. The wind takes them. They fly. They dance. They swirl. They disappear. They are gone. The wind carries them away. To the fields. To the dirt. To the roots. To the earth.

You close the box. You hold it. It is empty. It is light. You set it down. You set it on the stone. You step back. You look at it. It is just a box. It is just wood. It is just an object. It is not your son. It is not your memory. It is not your grief. It is nothing.

You turn away. You walk. The road is long. The road is straight. The road is yours. You do not look back. You do not carry the box. You do not carry the weight. You are light. You are free. You are alone.

The sun is warm. It touches your face. It feels good. It feels real. You breathe. The air is sweet. It is clean. It is new. You walk. You walk. You walk.

The road ends. The town is behind you. The war is behind you. The name is gone. The record is gone. The file is closed. Not by the warden. By you. By the wind. By the earth. By the silence.

You are a soldier. You are a man. You are alive. You are here. You are now.

You keep walking. The boots are heavy. They are dry. The road is clear. The sky is wide. The world is vast. You are small. You are part of it. You are one breath. You are one step. You are one life.

You do not stop. You do not look. You do not remember. You forget. You let go. You let go. You let go.

The road goes on. The road goes on. The road goes on.