The rain in the capital does not wash things clean, it just makes the grime slicker, harder to hold onto, and you are standing in the middle of a corridor that smells of wet wool and old coffee, watching your brother’s reflection in the darkened window pane, seeing the way his shoulders have collapsed inward, like a house after a storm has taken the roof, and you think about how strange it is that you are the one who has to walk into the office of the Minister of Continuity, that you are the one who has to speak the words that will end the cycle, even though you are the one who has always run, always tried to be the one who steps aside, who lets the machinery keep turning, who believes that if you just stay quiet, if you just keep your head down, the violence will pass you by, but it never does, does it, it always finds you, it always finds the softest place in your family, and now that place is him, or maybe it is you, maybe it is the love you have for him, that terrible, consuming thing that has eaten away all your self-preservation, all your sense of safety, until you are nothing but a vessel for his pain, a mirror that reflects only his fear.

You knock. The sound is small, barely a whisper against the heavy oak door, but inside, the silence is so thick it feels like a physical weight pressing against your eardrums.

"Enter," says the voice, dry and flat, like paper tearing.

You push the door open. The room is large, circular, with a single desk made of polished black stone, and behind it sits the Minister, a woman who is so thin it looks like her bones are trying to pierce her skin, her eyes fixed on a document that she is not actually reading, her face a mask of such profound, boring indifference that it makes you want to scream, to throw something, to shatter the perfect, sterile order of the room.

"Sit," she says, not looking up.

You sit. The chair is cold, hard, unforgiving. You look at your hands, they are trembling, you realize, and you try to still them, to make them look calm, to look like the hands of someone who has come here for a routine appointment, to discuss a minor adjustment in the resource allocation for the outer districts, but you are not here for that, you are here because you have seen the truth, the one that everyone else is too afraid to name, the one that the state has built its entire identity upon, the idea that the past is a wound that must be kept open, that the pain of the last war must be constantly renewed, constantly fed, to keep the people united in their fear, in their obedience, and you know that you can stop it, you know that you have the power to stop it, but only by giving up something so fundamental that you are not sure you will survive the giving.

"You are here," the Minister says, finally looking up, her eyes cold and bright, like chips of ice, "to confess."

"I am here," you say, your voice steady, surprising you, "to negotiate."

A smile touches her lips, it is not a happy smile, it is the smile of a cat watching a mouse trap, "Negotiate? With whom?"

"With the truth," you say.

She laughs, a short, sharp sound, "The truth is a luxury we can no longer afford. We are in a time of necessity. The people need to feel the weight of what was lost. If we forget, we are weak. If we forget, the enemy will return. And they will return, you know that, they are always coming, they are always there, waiting in the dark, waiting for us to lower our guard."

"I know they are coming," you say, "but I also know that we are the ones who are keeping them coming. We are feeding the cycle. We are the wound that will not heal."

The room goes quiet. The clock on the wall ticks, a steady, rhythmic sound that seems to fill the space, to push against the walls, to press against your chest.

"You are speaking nonsense," she says, her voice low, dangerous.

"Am I?" you ask. "Or are you just afraid of the answer?"

She leans back in her chair, studying you, her eyes searching your face for some sign of deception, some crack in the armor, but you are giving her nothing, you are holding your ground, you are standing in the center of the room, in the center of the power, and you feel the shift, you feel the weight of the moment, the way the air changes, the way the history of the place, the history of the violence, the history of the lies, all comes down on your shoulders, and you know that this is the moment, this is the turning point, this is where you either break or you break the cycle.

"I have a proposal," you say.

The Minister raises an eyebrow, "Do go on."

"We stop the renewal," you say. "We stop the annual memorial. We stop the compulsory re-enactments. We stop the education that teaches children to hate their own ancestors. We stop it all. We let the wound close."

She stares at you, her face impassive, "And what will you gain from that?"

"I will gain peace," you say.

"And what will you lose?"

"Everything," you say, and the word hangs in the air, heavy and real, "I will lose my brother. I will lose my family. I will lose the only thing that has kept me alive, the only thing that has made this world bearable."

She tilts her head, "You are offering your brother as a sacrifice?"

"I am offering the system that demands a sacrifice," you say. "Every year, someone has to be the one who carries the pain, someone has to be the one who is broken, so that the rest of us can pretend that we are whole. It is time we stopped pretending."

The Minister stands up, she moves slowly, deliberately, to the window, and she looks out at the city, the grey, rain-slicked city, the city of fear and obedience, the city of the wound.

"You think you are brave," she says, "but you are just a child playing with fire. You do not understand what you are asking. You do not understand the depth of the rot. If you pull out the nail, the infection will spread. If you stop the pain, the body will die."

"Maybe," you say. "But I would rather die free than live in chains."

She turns back to you, her eyes hard, "Very well. I will consider it."

You know it is a lie. You know she will not consider it. You know that she will send the guards, she will send the agents, she will crush you, just as she has crushed everyone else who has dared to speak the truth, just as she has crushed your brother, just as she has crushed everyone you have ever loved.

And that is when you realize the final truth, the one that has been hiding in the shadows, the one that you have been running from, the one that you have been denying, the one that is the core of your being, the one that is the mirror of the state, that you are not the one who is going to save the world, you are the one who is going to be saved by the world, or rather, you are the one who is going to be consumed by it, and that is what you have always wanted, that is what you have been running toward, not away from, you have wanted to be part of the wound, you have wanted to be the pain, you have wanted to be the thing that breaks, because if you break, then maybe, just maybe, the cycle will break with you.

"I will wait for your decision," you say, and you stand up, and you walk to the door, and you open it, and you step out into the corridor, and the rain is still falling, and the air is still wet, and the smell of wet wool is still there, and you know that you are going home, you know that you are going to see your brother, you know that you are going to tell him that you have made your choice, you know that you are going to say goodbye, not to him, but to the life you have lived, the life of fear, the life of silence, the life of the wound.

You walk to the elevator, you press the button, and you wait, and you think about the lightness, the strange, terrible lightness that has settled into your bones, the lightness of letting go, the lightness of dropping the weight, the lightness of finally, finally, being free, even if it is only for a moment, even if it is only before the end.

The doors open. You step in. You press the button for the ground floor. The elevator descends, a smooth, silent motion, a descent into the dark, a descent into the heart of the city, a descent into the heart of yourself, and you close your eyes, and you let go, and you let go, and you let go.