You wake in the mud.

The smell is thick. Iron and rot. It coats your tongue. You spit.

It is black.

You are in a trench. The rain has stopped. The air is cold. It bites your skin. You are a soldier. You know this. You do not know your name.

You look down.

Your hands are shaking. They are white. The nails are broken. You pull a object from your belt.

It is a pouch. Leather. Old.

Inside is a seed.

It is large. It is brown. It looks like a nut, but wrong. It is dry. It has no moisture. It is dead.

You hold it tight. The shell cracks under your thumb. You do not mean to break it. Your hand moves on its own. The instinct is strong. It is primal. You need to know what is inside.

You peel it back.

It is empty.

There is nothing there. Just dust. You stare at the hollow shell. You feel a hollow feeling in your chest. It matches.

You stand up.

The trench is empty. The other men are gone. Or they are dead. You cannot tell. The fog is rising. It swallows the barbed wire. It swallows the no man’s land.

You must move.

You walk forward. Your boots sink into the slime. Each step is heavy. You fight the earth. The earth fights back. It pulls at your ankles. It wants to keep you.

You climb out.

The field is a graveyard. Trees are broken. They look like bones. The sky is grey. It has no color. It is the color of old ash.

You walk.

You do not know where you are going. You know you must walk. The seed is in your pocket. It rubs against your leg. It is a constant reminder. It is a promise.

You see a house.

It is far away. It sits on a hill. The roof is gone. The walls are cracked. It looks like a mouth. It is open. It is screaming.

You go toward it.

The walk is long. Your legs burn. Your breath is short. You taste blood. You do not know if it is yours.

You reach the house.

The door is broken. You step inside.

The room is dark. The floor is covered in glass. It crunches under your feet. It sounds like teeth.

You see a table.

On the table is a book.

It is a ledger. The cover is black. It is thick. The pages are yellow. They are brittle.

You pick it up.

It is heavy.

You open it.

The writing is small. It is neat. It is in ink. The ink is faded. It is turning brown.

You read.

It is a list of names.

You do not know the language. But you know the format. It is a record. It is a count.

You turn the pages.

Page after page. Name after name.

You feel a weight. It presses on your shoulders. The air in the room is still. It is thick with silence.

You find a page that is marked.

There is a red line. It is drawn across one name.

You look at the name.

It is your name.

You do not remember writing it. You do not remember knowing it. But it is there. It is clear. It is undeniable.

You turn to the next page.

There is another name. It is crossed out.

You turn again.

Another name. Crossed out.

The list goes on. It does not stop. It fills the book. It fills the room. It fills your mind.

You are not a man.

You are a marker.

You are the pen.

You are the ink.

You drop the book.

It falls on the floor. It makes a dull thud. The sound is loud. It echoes.

You back away.

You run.

You run out of the house. The door slams behind you. The sound is final.

The fog is thicker now. It is white. It is blinding. You cannot see. You cannot feel. You are alone.

You keep running.

Your lungs burn. Your heart hammers. It is a drum. It is a war drum.

You stumble.

You fall.

The ground is soft. It is warm. It is wet.

You look up.

The sky is clear.

It is blue.

It is the most blue you have ever seen. It hurts your eyes. It is too bright. It is too real.

You lie there.

You do not move.

You do not want to move.

The pain is gone.

The fear is gone.

The name is gone.

You look at your hands.

They are clean.

The dirt is gone. The blood is gone. The cracks are gone. They are smooth. They are young.

You look at your pocket.

The pouch is gone.

You touch your chest.

It is empty.

You close your eyes.

You dream.

You are in a field.

The field is green.

It is endless.

The grass is tall. It sways in the wind. It is soft. It is alive.

You are a seed.

You are buried in the earth.

The earth is warm. It is dark. It is safe.

You wait.

You wait for the rain.

You wait for the sun.

You wait to grow.

You do not know what you will become.

You do not care.

You are part of it.

You are the cause.

You are the reason.

You open your eyes.

You are in a room.

It is white.

The walls are white. The floor is white. The bed is white.

You are in a bed.

You are wearing a hospital gown.

The fabric is thin. It is cold.

You sit up.

Your head hurts.

A woman is standing by the door.

She is old.

Her hair is grey.

Her face is lined.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are sad.

She does not speak.

She looks at your hands.

She looks at the floor.

She sees the book.

It is on the floor.

It is open.

The pages are fluttering.

The wind is coming in.

The door is open.

The fog is outside.

The woman walks toward the book.

She picks it up.

She looks at you.

She does not ask your name.

She does not ask what happened.

She holds the book against her chest.

She walks out the door.

She does not look back.

You are alone.

The room is quiet.

The silence is heavy.

It presses on you.

You look at the window.

The sky is grey again.

The fog is back.

It is waiting.

It is patient.

It knows you.

You get out of bed.

Your legs are weak.

They tremble.

You walk to the window.

You look out.

You see the field.

It is there.

It is real.

It is dead.

The grass is brown.

The trees are broken.

The mud is black.

You look at your hands.

They are shaking again.

You clench them.

You make fists.

You feel the strength.

It is there.

It is under the skin.

It is in the bone.

You are not a seed.

You are not a marker.

You are a man.

You are a soldier.

You are alive.

You open the window.

The air comes in.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It is real.

You breathe it in.

You breathe it out.

You step out.

The stairs are slippery.

You grip the rail.

You go down.

The hall is long.

It is dark.

You walk.

Your feet make no sound.

You reach the door.

You open it.

The world is there.

It is waiting.

It is not forgiving.

It is not kind.

It is just.

You walk into the fog.

You do not look back.

You do not look down.

You look forward.

You walk.

The fog swallows you.

You disappear.

But you are there.

You are moving.

You are fighting.

You are alive.

The justice is not in the book.

The justice is not in the name.

The justice is in the step.

The next step.

The next breath.

The next day.

You take it.

You take it.

You take it.

The fog is thick.

But you see.

You see the path.

It is narrow.

It is hard.

It is yours.

You walk.

The earth is cold.

The sky is high.

You are small.

You are strong.

You are here.

The seed is gone.

But the root remains.

It is deep.

It is hidden.

It is waiting.

For the sun.

For the rain.

For the light.

You will bring it.

You will bring the light.

You will bring the end.

You will bring the truth.

It is not a gift.

It is a burden.

It is a duty.

You carry it.

You carry it.

You carry it.

The fog lifts.

The sun rises.

It is pale.

It is weak.

But it is there.

It touches your face.

It warms your skin.

You close your eyes.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

It is a sad smile.

It is a true smile.

You open your eyes.

You walk on.

The road is long.

The road is hard.

The road is yours.

You do not stop.

You do not look back.

You do not forget.

You remember.

You remember the mud.

You remember the book.

You remember the name.

You remember the empty shell.

You remember the green field.

You remember the dream.

You carry it all.

It is heavy.

It is real.

It is yours.

You walk.

The world turns.

The days pass.

The years go by.

The fog changes.

The sun changes.

You change.

But the core remains.

The duty remains.

The fight remains.

You are the soldier.

You are the guard.

You are the wall.

You stand.

You hold.

You wait.

For the end.

For the justice.

For the light.

It is coming.

It is slow.

It is sure.

It is coming.

You do not fear it.

You do not hate it.

You accept it.

You embrace it.

You are ready.

You are ready.

You are ready.

The end is near.

The truth is here.

The justice is done.

Not by law.

Not by man.

By time.

By life.

By you.

You are the answer.

You are the question.

You are the bridge.

You cross.

You cross.

You cross.

The other side is bright.

The other side is clear.

The other side is free.

You arrive.

You stop.

You breathe.

It is over.

It is done.

It is complete.

You rest.

You rest.

You rest.

The seed grows.

The flower blooms.

The fruit falls.

The cycle ends.

The cycle begins.

You are part of it.

You are the cause.

You are the love.

You are the life.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are everything.

You are nothing.

You are here.

You are now.

You are real.

The story ends.

But you do not.

You keep walking.

You keep living.

You keep fighting.

For the light.

For the truth.

For the justice.

It is yours.

It is ours.

It is the world.

It is the way.

It is the path.

You walk it.

You walk it.

You walk it.

The fog is gone.

The sun is high.

The air is clear.

The earth is green.

The grass is tall.

The wind is warm.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.