The mud is cold. It seeps into your boots, into the soles of your feet, and then into the bone. You are not in the trench. You are in the kitchen. But the smell is the same. Copper and wet earth. You stand still. Your hands are at your sides. You do not move.

Thomas is on the floor. His face is turned away. The blood pools beneath him, dark and thick. It spreads across the white tiles. It looks like ink. It looks like a map. You know this place. You know every crack in the grout. You know the weight of the silence. It is heavier than the body.

You look at your hands. They are clean. That is the problem. They are too clean. You scrubbed them for hours. You scrubbed until the skin was red and raw. But the redness faded. The dirt did not. You cannot wash out the truth.

The house is quiet. The wind knocks against the windowpane. It rattles the glass. It sounds like a finger tapping. It sounds like a warning. You do not want to be here. You want to be gone. You want to be anywhere but this kitchen. But you are rooted. Your feet are planted. You cannot run. Not anymore.

You remember the orders. You remember the map. The red line. The sector. You marked it with a pencil. You drew the circle. You decided who stayed and who went. You were the judge. You were the executioner. You wore the uniform. You wore the authority. You thought you were saving them. You thought you were saving the country. You thought you were saving yourself.

But the body on the floor is not a stranger. It is a mirror. It is you. It is the part of you that you buried. The part that wanted to bleed. The part that wanted to break. Thomas was your friend. He was your brother in arms. He trusted you. He looked at you with those bright, trusting eyes. He did not see the monster. He did not see the man who signed the orders. He saw a hero. You let him believe that. You let him die believing that.

Now he is dead. And you are alive. That is the cruelty of it. That is the joke. The universe laughs. It laughs with a dry, rattling cough. It laughs in the wind. It laughs in the silence. You are the survivor. You are the one who remembers. You are the curse.

You sit down. Your legs give way. You slide to the floor. The tile is cold against your cheek. You close your eyes. You see the war. You see the fire. You see the faces. They are screaming. They are begging. They are dying. And you are watching. You are taking notes. You are calculating. You are alive.

You open your eyes. The blood has stopped moving. It is still. It is permanent. It is a stain. It will never come out. You know this. You have tried. You have bleached it. You have scrubbed it. It remains. It is part of the house. It is part of you.

You stand up. Your knees crack. You are old. You are tired. You are done. You walk to the door. You lock it. The sound is sharp. It echoes. You go to the cellar. You take out the bottle. The whiskey is amber. It catches the light. It looks like liquid gold. It looks like life.

You pour a glass. Your hand shakes. The liquid sloshes over the rim. It spills onto the floor. You do not wipe it up. You drink. The burn is good. It is hot. It is real. It clears the fog. It sharpens the edges. You see the kitchen again. You see the body. You see the truth.

Thomas was right. He was always right. He knew. He suspected. He saw the way you looked at him. He saw the way you hesitated. He saw the distance. He tried to tell you. He tried to save you. But you did not listen. You were too busy saving the world. You were too busy being the man in charge. You were too busy being the hero.

You drink again. The glass is empty. You pour more. The bottle is half full. It will last. You have time. You have all the time in the world. You have the silence. You have the guilt. You have the memory.

You think of the others. The ones you sent to their deaths. You think of their mothers. You think of their wives. You think of their children. They are alive. They are waiting. They are hoping. They are praying. They believe you were right. They believe you were good. They do not know. They cannot know. The truth is too heavy. The truth is a stone. It crushes. It buries.

You are the stone. You are the weight. You are the burden. You carry it. You carry it every day. You carry it in your bones. You carry it in your breath. You carry it in your sleep. You dream of the mud. You dream of the blood. You dream of the faces. They are watching you. They are judging you. They are waiting for you to pay.

You will not pay. Not yet. Not today. You are still here. You are still breathing. You are still alive. That is the offense. That is the sin. To live when they died. To eat when they starved. To sleep when they bled. To love when they were forgotten.

You go back to the kitchen. The body is still there. It has not moved. It has not changed. It is a statue. It is a monument. It is a reminder. You look at it. You do not feel anything. You are numb. You are hollow. You are empty. The feeling has left you. It moved out. It took its things. It left the house. It left you.

You pick up the phone. The dial tone is long. It is endless. You dial the number. You do not know why. You do not know who to call. You call the office. You call the commander. You call the men. You call the ghosts.

The phone rings. It rings once. Twice. Three times. No one answers. The line is dead. The line is silent. The world is silent. You hang up. You put the phone down. You sit on the table. Your legs dangle. You swing them back and forth. It is a rhythm. It is a lullaby. It is a song.

You sing. You hum. You whisper. You say their names. You say them softly. You say them gently. You say them like a prayer. You say them like a curse. They are the same. They are the same thing. Love and hate. Memory and forgetting. Life and death. They are the same.

The sun rises. The light comes through the window. It hits the blood. It makes it shine. It makes it beautiful. It makes it real. You look at it. You do not look away. You accept it. You accept the pain. You accept the loss. You accept the truth.

You are the man who knew. You are the man who saw. You are the man who survived. You are the curse. You are the memory. You are the scar. It will never heal. It will never fade. It will stay. It will mark you. It will define you. It will be you.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You unlock it. The handle is cold. You push it open. The air is fresh. It is cold. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of life. You step out. You step into the morning. You step into the world. You step into the silence.

You do not go back. You do not look back. You walk away. You walk into the distance. You walk into the fog. You walk into the unknown. You are alone. You are free. You are damned. You are saved. You are the same.

The house stands behind you. The door closes. The lock clicks. The sound is final. The sound is absolute. The sound is death. The sound is life. The sound is the end. The sound is the beginning. The sound is the truth.

You keep walking. Your feet hit the pavement. The rhythm is steady. The rhythm is strong. The rhythm is yours. You breathe. You live. You remember. You forget. You are the man. You are the story. You are the end.