The train groaned. Steel on steel. It shook the floorboards. I sat. My hands were still. They were not my own hands. They were iron. They were bone.

"Look at him," said Thomas. His voice was dry. Like dust. "He looks like a statue."

I did not answer. I could not. My mouth was a lock.

We were moving. Fast. The world blurred outside. Grey. Black. Rain.

This was not a train. Or it was. The lines were smudged. The windows showed no landscape. Only fog. Thick. White. Eternal.

Thomas leaned in. He smelled of tobacco. And old sweat. And fear.

"Are you awake, James?"

I nodded. Slowly. The movement cost me.

"Good," he whispered. "Stay with me."

I looked at him. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. Dark circles. He looked tired. So tired. He looked like me.

I looked down at my hands. I flexed them. The knuckles popped. A sound like dry twigs.

"What do you see?" I asked. My voice was a rasp. A stone in a gutter.

Thomas blinked. "Nothing. Just the dark."

"No," I said. "Look closer."

He squinted. He frowned.

"I see... myself," he said. His voice cracked.

"Exactly," I said.

The train lurched. We jerked forward. The air grew cold. Cold as ice.

"Who is driving?" Thomas asked.

"No one," I said. "The track decides."

He stared at me. His lips trembled.

"I don't understand," he said. "We are soldiers. We fight. We win. We lose. But we do not ride ghosts."

"We are not ghosts," I said. "We are the memory of the ghost."

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then they died.

Darkness.

Total.

I could hear my own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was loud. It was too loud.

"James?" Thomas called out. His voice was small. A child’s voice.

"I am here."

"Where is the light?"

"Gone."

A scream. Not human. High. Sharp. It tore through the dark.

Thomas grabbed my arm. His grip was tight. Desperate.

"Did you hear that?"

"I heard it."

"Is it coming for us?"

"Yes."

We sat in the dark. The silence was heavy. It pressed on my chest. It pressed on his.

Then, a sound. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Metal on metal.

Light returned. Faint. Blue. Sickly.

We were not on the train anymore.

We stood in a field.

Grass. Tall. Wet. It smelled of rot. Of earth. Of rain.

The sky was above us. It was not blue. It was grey. A sheet of lead. It hung low. It touched the tops of the grass.

"Where are we?" Thomas whispered.

"Nowhere," I said.

"Then where is the war?"

"Gone."

He looked around. He spun. His boots sank into the mud. He looked at his hands. He looked at me.

"I have my gun," he said. He patted his side. He found nothing. "Where is my gun?"

"Gone," I said. "You are empty."

"Then what am I?"

He asked the question. He waited.

I looked at him. I saw his fear. I saw his anger. I saw his love.

It was all there. In his eyes. In the set of his jaw.

"You are the man who could not let go," I said.

He stepped back. He stumbled.

"Let go of what?"

"Of her," I said.

The name hung in the air. Margaret.

He did not know that name. Not here. Not in this place. But his face changed. A shadow crossed it. A bruise.

"I do not know her," he said.

"You do," I said. "You loved her. With your blood. With your bone. With your soul."

"I loved my duty," he said. "I loved the flag."

"Did you?" I asked. "Or did you love the idea of her? The idea of the war?"

He shook his head. No. No.

"I loved my wife," he said. The words were small. Broken. "I loved her more than the flag. More than the men. More than the life."

"Then why did you fight?"

"Because I had to."

"Because you were told to."

"Yes."

"And now?"

"Now I am here."

"We are all here," I said. "Every man. Every woman. Every child. We are all in this field. We are all in this dark."

Thomas looked at the grass. He knelt. He touched a blade. It was cold. It was wet. It cut his finger.

Blood. Red. Bright.

It dripped. Drop. Drop. Drop.

It fell into the mud. It vanished.

"It is real," he said. "The pain is real."

"Yes," I said. "Pain is the only truth."

He stood up. He wiped the blood on his trousers. He looked at me.

"What do we do?"

"We walk," I said.

"Where?"

"Forward. Always forward."

We began to walk.

The grass was high. It swallowed our legs. It pulled at us. It wanted us to stop. It wanted us to lie down. It wanted us to sleep.

But we walked.

Thomas kept close to me. He did not speak. He did not need to. I felt his presence. It was warm. It was solid.

The sky did not change. The grey did not lift.

Hours passed. Or minutes. Time was a loop. A circle.

We walked.

Then, we saw it.

A wall.

It rose from the ground. It stretched into the mist. It was made of stone. Old stone. Black stone. It was high. It was wide.

At the top, there was no gate. There was no door.

We stopped.

Thomas leaned against me. He was exhausted. His legs shook.

"We cannot go over," he said. "We cannot go through."

"No," I said.

"Then we turn back?"

"There is no back."

He looked at me. His eyes were wet.

"Then we die here," he said.

"No," I said. "We do not die. We change."

"Change into what?"

"I do not know."

He laughed. A dry, bitter sound.

"You do not know," he said. "You are the captain. You are the leader. You do not know."

"I am no one," I said. "I am just a man. Like you."

He looked at the wall. He looked at me.

"James," he said. "I am afraid."

"I know," I said.

"I am afraid of the silence. I am afraid of the forgetting."

"I know."

"If I go into that wall," he said. "If I become part of it. Will I remember her?"

I looked at him. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to lie.

But I could not.

"I do not know," I said.

His face crumbled. He sank to his knees.

"Why?" he cried. "Why must it be so hard? Why must it be so cold?"

"Because it is true," I said.

"True?"

"True."

He wept. Silent tears. They fell into the mud.

I knelt beside him. I put my hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas," I said. "Look at me."

He looked up. His eyes were red. Swollen.

"Listen to me," I said. "The war is over. The battle is over. The blood is dry. The guns are silent."

"But we are here," he said.

"Yes."

"And we are alone."

"No," I said. "We are together."

He stared at me.

"Is that enough?" he asked.

"It is all we have."

He nodded. Slowly.

"Then let us go," he said.

We stood up.

We walked to the wall.

The stone was cold. It was rough. It scraped our clothes. It scraped our skin.

We stood before it.

The mist swirled around our feet. It touched our ankles. It rose. It climbed our legs. It was cold. It was wet.

It touched our faces.

It touched our eyes.

It touched our mouths.

We could not breathe.

We could not see.

We could not think.

There was only the stone.

There was only the cold.

There was only the dark.

I felt Thomas beside me. I felt his heat. I felt his fear.

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

I let go of the name. I let go of the rank. I let go of the history.

I let go of the pain.

I let go of the love.

Not because it was not there. But because it was too heavy. It was too much. It would crush us. It would break us.

I let it go.

I felt the wall. I felt the stone.

It was not a wall.

It was a door.

It was a mouth.

It opened.

Not with a sound. Not with a force.

With a sigh.

A long, deep sigh.

The mist parted.

Light.

White.

Blinding.

Pure.

It filled my eyes. It filled my ears. It filled my mind.

I felt Thomas. I felt him pull at me.

"James!" he shouted. "James!"

I did not answer.

I could not.

I was falling.

I was rising.

I was nothing.

I was everything.

The light took me.

The light took him.

We were gone.

The field was empty.

The grass stood still.

The rain stopped.

The sky cleared.

The grey lifted.

Blue.

Deep.

Endless.

Blue.

The train passed.

Steel on steel.

Groan.

Shake.

The windows showed the landscape.

Green.

Bright.

Alive.

A child looked out.

She smiled.

She waved.

No one waved back.

The train moved on.

Fast.

Fast.

Gone.