"You're late."

The voice was thin. It cut through the humidity of the kitchen. My father sat at the table. He did not look up. He held a small glass of milk. The liquid was white. It was thick. It clung to the glass. He watched it swirl. He did not drink.

I closed the door. The lock clicked. The sound was loud. It was sharp. It echoed in the small room. The walls were damp. The wallpaper was peeling. It peeled in long, brown strips. They looked like old skin. I dropped my bag. It hit the floor. It made a dull thud.

I walked to the counter. I opened the fridge. The light was yellow. It was sickly. It buzzed. A low, angry hum. I took out the carton. I poured the milk into the glass. I poured it into the bowl. I poured it into the jar. I filled them. They were full. They were brimming.

"Is it cold?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Good."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were red. They were wet. They were dry. There was no tears. There was only pain. It was a deep, structural pain. It sat in his bones. He looked at me. He looked through me. He saw the uniform I wore. He saw the rank on my sleeve. He saw the dirt under my fingernails.

I sat down. The chair creaked. It groaned under my weight. I was heavy. I was tired. My body was a machine. It was broken. The gears were stripped. I reached for the milk. I lifted the glass. I drank. It was sweet. It was cold. It went down my throat. It burned. It soothed. It was life.

"Did you find him?" he asked.

I stopped. I held the glass. My hand shook. The milk sloshed. It spilled over the rim. It dripped onto the table. It made a dark spot. It stained the wood.

"No," I said.

He nodded. He nodded slowly. He knew. He always knew. He knew before I spoke. He knew before I walked in. He knew before I left. He knew because he had been there. He had been there for twenty years. He had waited. He had watched. He had aged. He had wasted away.

The war was over. The guns had stopped. The sirens had stopped. The city was quiet. The silence was loud. It pressed against our ears. It pressed against our minds. We were alone. We were in the city. The city was a beast. It ate us. It chewed us. It swallowed us. It spat us out.

I looked at the milk. It was a white path. It was a pale path. It led nowhere. It led everywhere. It was the only thing that was clean. The only thing that was pure. The only thing that was real.

"Drink," he said.

I drank. I drank until the glass was empty. I drank until my stomach hurt. I drank until I felt full. I felt light. I felt empty. I felt nothing.

The milk was gone. The glass was empty. The table was stained. The stain was brown. The stain was dark. It looked like blood. It looked like death. It looked like time.

I stood up. I walked to the window. I pulled the curtain. The light came in. It was gray. It was cold. It was the light of a winter afternoon. It was the light of a dead day.

Outside, the street was empty. The cars were still. The people were gone. They had gone to their homes. They had gone to their beds. They had gone to sleep. They did not know about us. They did not know about the milk. They did not know about the stain. They did not know about the war.

I turned back. My father was still sitting. He was watching me. His face was still. His hands were still. He was a statue. He was a ghost. He was a memory.

"I have to go," I said.

"Where?" he asked.

"Work," I said.

"You are not working," he said.

"I am," I said.

He smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. It did not reach his soul. It was a mask. It was a lie.

"I am proud of you," he said.

I felt a pang. It was sharp. It was quick. It faded. I did not feel it. I could not feel it. I was numb. I was dead. I was gone.

I put on my coat. I put on my hat. I put on my shoes. I tied the laces. I tightened them. I made sure they were tight. I made sure they were secure. I made sure they would not come loose.

I walked to the door. I opened it. The air came in. It was cold. It was damp. It smelled of rain. It smelled of concrete. It smelled of decay.

I stepped out. I closed the door. The lock clicked. The sound was loud. The sound was sharp. The sound was final.

I walked down the street. The street was long. The street was gray. The street was empty. I walked fast. I walked hard. I walked like a dog. I walked like a machine. I walked like a ghost.

The city was waking up. The buses were moving. The trains were moving. The people were moving. The world was turning. The world was spinning. The world was indifferent. The world did not care. The world did not know.

I stopped. I stopped at the corner. I looked up. The sky was gray. The clouds were low. The clouds were heavy. They were ready to break. They were ready to fall.

I thought of the milk. I thought of the white path. I thought of the stain. I thought of my father. I thought of the war. I thought of the death.

I realized something. I realized it was too late. I realized it had always been too late. I realized I was the prisoner. I realized I was the sinner. I realized I was the one who had caused it. I had caused the war. I had caused the pain. I had caused the death.

I was the enemy. I was the monster. I was the beast.

I started to walk again. I walked faster. I ran. I ran down the street. I ran past the shops. I ran past the offices. I ran past the homes. I ran into the dark.

The rain started. It was light. It was cold. It hit my face. It hit my eyes. It blurred my vision. It washed the dust. It washed the dirt. It washed the blood.

I kept running. I ran until I could not run anymore. I ran until my lungs burned. I ran until my legs gave out. I fell. I fell on the wet pavement. I lay there. I lay in the rain.

I looked at the ground. The water was pooling. It was forming a puddle. The puddle was white. The puddle was gray. The puddle was black.

I saw the milk. I saw the white path. I saw it in the water. It was spreading. It was expanding. It was covering the ground. It was covering the world.

It was beautiful. It was pure. It was clean.

I closed my eyes. I let the rain fall. I let the cold take me. I let the pain take me. I let the guilt take me.

I was free. I was gone. I was home.

The rain kept falling. The city kept turning. The world kept spinning. Nothing changed. Everything changed.

I was the milk. I was the stain. I was the path.

I was the end.

The light faded. The sound faded. The feeling faded.

Only the white remained.

Only the silence remained.

Only the truth remained.

It was too late.

It was always too late.

I was the one who had to pay.

I was the one who had to bleed.

I was the one who had to break.

I broke.

I bled.

I paid.

The rain stopped.

The sun came out.

It was a pale sun.

It was a weak sun.

It was a dying sun.

I opened my eyes.

I was still there.

I was still alive.

I was still here.

I stood up.

I brushed the dirt off my clothes.

I wiped the water from my face.

I walked back.

I walked to the house.

I walked to the door.

I opened the door.

The kitchen was dark.

The table was empty.

The glass was empty.

The stain was dry.

My father was gone.

He was gone.

He was gone.

I stood in the door. I stood in the dark. I stood in the silence.

I walked in. I walked to the table. I touched the wood. It was cold. It was hard. It was real.

I touched the stain. It was dry. It was brown. It was part of the wood. It was part of the table. It was part of the house.

It was part of me.

I sat down. I sat in the chair. It creaked. It groaned.

I waited.

I waited for him.

I waited for the milk.

I waited for the path.

I waited for the end.

But the end did not come.

The day did not end.

The light did not fade.

The silence did not break.

I was alone.

I was alive.

I was here.

And I had to live.

I had to live with the stain.

I had to live with the guilt.

I had to live with the truth.

I looked at the empty glass.

I looked at the dry stain.

I looked at the window.

The light was gray.

The light was cold.

The light was real.

I drank the air.

I breathed the dust.

I lived the pain.

I was the prisoner.

I was the sinner.

I was the man.

And I was alone.

The milk was gone.

The path was gone.

The father was gone.

Only I remained.

Only the stain remained.

Only the truth remained.

It was a pale path.

It was a white stain.

It was a dark truth.

And it was mine.

It was all mine.

I picked up the glass.

I held it to my lips.

It was empty.

I drank nothing.

I tasted only air.

I tasted only dust.

I tasted only myself.

I put the glass down.

I stood up.

I walked out.

I closed the door.

The lock clicked.

The sound was final.

The sound was loud.

The sound was sharp.

I walked into the city.

I walked into the light.

I walked into the life.

I was the milk.

I was the stain.

I was the path.

And I was free.

I was free.

I was free.