The glass was warm. I held it in my left hand. My right hand was empty.

It was a vase. Blue. Cracked.

I stood in the garden.

The grass was black.

Not dead. Black. Like soil.

I looked at the vase.

I looked at the sky.

The sky was the color of old teeth.

There were no clouds.

There were no birds.

There was only the silence.

And the wind.

The wind smelled of iron.

I was a soldier.

Or I had been.

I don’t remember the war.

I remember the uniform.

Grey wool.

It itched.

I remember the orders.

They came in a whisper.

*Bring the object.*

*Do not speak.*

*Do not look.*

I followed.

I always follow.

That is the nature of the rank.

I stood up.

My legs shook.

The vase was heavy.

It felt like a limb.

I walked toward the house.

The house was white.

It was rotting.

The wood peeled like skin.

I kicked the door.

It did not open.

I kicked it again.

The wood splintered.

A face looked out.

It was Margaret.

Or the shape of her.

Her eyes were wide.

White.

No pupils.

“Thomas,” she said.

Her voice was wet.

Like a cough.

“You are late.”

“I had to break the door,” I said.

My voice was small.

It sounded like gravel.

“I know,” she said.

“Come in.”

I stepped over the threshold.

The air was cold.

It bit my lungs.

I walked into the hall.

The walls were bare.

There were no pictures.

There was no dust.

It was too clean.

Cleaner than a hospital.

Cleaner than a grave.

Margaret walked ahead of me.

Her dress was grey.

Like my uniform.

We stopped in the room at the end of the hall.

The room was empty.

Except for the chair.

And the light.

The light was yellow.

It fell from the window.

It made a square on the floor.

“Sit,” she said.

I sat.

The chair was hard.

It felt like bone.

I placed the vase on the table.

The blue crack caught the light.

It glowed.

A faint pulse.

Like a heartbeat.

Margaret sat opposite me.

She did not touch it.

She watched me.

“Is it ready?” she asked.

I nodded.

I could not speak.

My throat was tight.

I thought of the march.

The miles.

The silence.

I thought of the others.

They were gone.

Dissolved.

Like smoke.

Only I remained.

Only the vase remained.

“Why?” I asked.

The word came out sharp.

A shard.

Margaret smiled.

It was not a smile.

It was a crack.

“Because it is yours,” she said.

“I am not yours,” I said.

“You are the vessel,” she said.

“I am the soldier,” I said.

“Soldiers die,” she said.

“Vessels remain.”

I looked at the vase.

The blue deepened.

The crack widened.

A sound came from it.

A hum.

Low.

Deep.

It vibrated in my chest.

In my teeth.

In my blood.

I pulled my hand back.

The heat was gone.

It was cold now.

Ice cold.

I looked at Margaret.

Her face was changing.

The skin tightened.

The eyes blinked.

Once.

Twice.

They turned black.

Like the grass.

“Thomas,” she said.

Her voice was different.

It was not hers.

It was the hum.

It was the wind.

It was the order.

*Bring the object.*

I stood up.

My legs did not shake.

I felt solid.

I felt heavy.

I felt full.

The vase was calling to me.

It wanted to be held.

It wanted to be filled.

I reached for it.

My fingers touched the glass.

It was warm again.

I lifted it.

It was light.

Feather light.

I held it in both hands.

I looked at Margaret.

She was standing now.

She was tall.

She was thin.

She was wearing my uniform.

The grey wool.

The buttons.

The insignia.

She touched her chest.

She looked at me.

“You have done well,” she said.

“I did not choose this,” I said.

“No one chooses,” she said.

“Is it over?” I asked.

“It is beginning,” she said.

She took the vase from me.

I let her.

I wanted to let her.

I had to let her.

She held it up.

The light hit the crack.

It burst.

Not the glass.

The light.

It shot out.

A beam.

White.

Blinding.

It hit the wall.

The wall dissolved.

It hit the floor.

The floor dissolved.

It hit the ceiling.

The ceiling dissolved.

I was falling.

Or rising.

I could not tell.

The air was thick.

It was the smell of iron.

I saw the garden.

The black grass.

The white house.

The sky of old teeth.

I saw myself.

Small.

Standing in the grass.

Holding the vase.

I saw another me.

Standing in the house.

Holding the vase.

I saw another me.

Walking.

Marching.

Following.

Infinite.

I was the one who follows.

I am the one who follows.

The vase was not a vase.

It was a mirror.

It reflected the duty.

It reflected the end.

I closed my eyes.

The pain was gone.

The fear was gone.

There was only the weight.

The steady weight.

I opened my eyes.

I was in the garden.

The grass was green.

Not black.

Green.

The sky was blue.

Real blue.

The house was gone.

Margaret was gone.

The vase was in my hand.

It was whole.

No crack.

No blue.

It was clear.

Empty.

I looked at my hands.

They were shaking.

I was cold.

I was alone.

I walked to the edge of the garden.

There was a fence.

Wood.

Picket.

I climbed over.

The other side was a road.

A quiet road.

Trees on both sides.

Leaves turning red.

Autumn.

I walked to the town.

The town was small.

Brick houses.

Smoke from chimneys.

I walked to the square.

There was a statue.

Stone.

A soldier.

I looked at the face.

It was mine.

Not my face.

The face of the soldier.

The face of the rank.

I touched the stone.

It was cold.

I pulled my hand back.

I looked at the vase.

I held it out.

I wanted to give it to someone.

To anyone.

I wanted to be free of the weight.

A man stopped me.

He was old.

Grey hair.

Kind eyes.

He looked at the vase.

He looked at me.

“What is that?” he asked.

My voice was gone.

I could not speak.

I handed it to him.

He took it.

He held it gently.

He looked at me.

He nodded.

He walked away.

I stood in the square.

The wind blew.

It smelled of rain.

I watched him go.

He disappeared around the corner.

I felt light.

I felt empty.

I felt nothing.

I turned.

I walked back to the garden.

The fence was there.

I climbed over.

The grass was green.

The sky was blue.

I sat down.

I put my head in my hands.

I waited.

For what?

For the end.

For the order.

For the next war.

The silence came back.

It was not empty.

It was full.

Full of the hum.

Full of the memory.

Full of the duty.

I was still a soldier.

The vase was gone.

But the weight remained.

It was in my bones.

It was in my blood.

It was in the space where my heart was.

I closed my eyes.

I listened.

The wind.

The birds.

The rain.

It began to fall.

Small drops.

On my skin.

Cold.

Clean.

I opened my eyes.

The world was wet.

The world was clear.

I stood up.

I brushed the dirt from my pants.

I walked away from the garden.

I did not look back.

I walked into the rain.

I walked into the town.

I walked into the life.

The one I had left.

The one that was waiting.

The one that was real.

I was Thomas.

I was not the soldier.

I was not the vessel.

I was a man.

Walking in the rain.

Holding nothing.

Carrying nothing.

Free.

Or so I thought.

I walked to the café.

The door was open.

Warm light.

Smell of coffee.

I went in.

I sat by the window.

I ordered a coffee.

The girl brought it.

She smiled.

I smiled back.

It was a small smile.

It did not reach my eyes.

I drank the coffee.

It was hot.

It burned my tongue.

I liked the pain.

It was real.

It was mine.

I looked out the window.

The rain was falling.

The people were walking.

Umbrellas.

Red.

Blue.

Black.

I saw a vase.

In a shop window.

Blue.

Cracked.

I froze.

I looked closer.

It was the same.

The same blue.

The same crack.

The same pulse.

I stood up.

I left the café.

I did not pay.

I ran to the shop.

The door was locked.

I knocked.

No one answered.

I looked through the glass.

The vase was there.

Waiting.

I touched the glass.

It was cold.

I pulled my hand back.

I turned.

I walked away.

My legs were steady.

My mind was clear.

I knew the truth.

The vase was not an object.

It was a seed.

It planted itself.

It grew.

It spread.

I was not free.

I was the soil.

I was the ground.

I was the garden.

The rain fell harder.

I did not care.

I walked home.

I opened my door.

I went to the kitchen.

I looked in the cupboard.

It was empty.

I opened the fridge.

It was empty.

I opened the pantry.

It was empty.

I looked at the floor.

There was a crack.

In the tile.

Blue.

I stared at it.

It pulsed.

I stared at it.

I did not move.

I did not breathe.

The hum started.

Low.

Deep.

In my chest.

In my teeth.

In my blood.

I looked at my hands.

They were trembling.

I looked at the crack.

It was growing.

It was spreading.

It was alive.

I was alive.

I was the vessel.

I was the soldier.

I was the one who follows.

The end was not the end.

The end was the beginning.

The order was eternal.

The duty was absolute.

The fate was unbreakable.

I stood in the kitchen.

I stood in the garden.

I stood in the world.

I was nowhere.

I was everywhere.

I was the silence.

I was the wind.

I was the rain.

I was the vase.

I was the crack.

I was the blue.

I was the light.

I was the dark.

I was the end.

I was the start.

I was the one.

I was the many.

I was the nothing.

I was the everything.

The hum stopped.

The silence returned.

I was alone.

I was safe.

I was lost.

I was found.

I was home.

I was away.

I was here.

I was there.

I was now.

I was then.

I was always.

I was never.

The story ends.

The story begins.

The vase is full.

The vase is empty.

The soldier stands.

The soldier falls.

The garden grows.

The garden dies.

The light shines.

The light fades.

The wind blows.

The wind stops.

The rain falls.

The rain stops.

The heart beats.

The heart stops.

The soul flies.

The soul stays.

The truth is this.

We are bound.

We are free.

We are the same.

We are different.

We are one.

We are many.

We are the crack.

We are the blue.

We are the light.

We are the dark.

We are the end.

We are the start.

We are the nothing.

We are the everything.

The story is over.

The story is never over.