The oak tree stands in the center of the room. It is not a painting. It is not a carving. It is wood. Dark, dense, and cold. It has roots that grip the stone floor. It has leaves that do not fall. It has a trunk that does not bend. I am sitting in the chair opposite it. The room is small. The walls are thick. The air is still. I am a soldier. I am alone.

The oak is my companion. It is my judge. It is my mirror.

I remember the day I planted it. I was twenty years old. I was strong. I was certain. I carried a sapling in my hands. It was fragile. It was green. I dug a hole in the yard behind the barracks. I put the sapling in the earth. I covered it with soil. I watered it. I watched it grow. It grew fast. It grew tall. It became a shield. It became a wall.

Years passed. I was not twenty anymore. I was older. I was tired. I was a lieutenant. I commanded men. I made decisions. I sent men to die. I did not sleep well. I drank too much. I forgot my dreams. The oak grew with me. It became part of my body. When I was angry, its branches seemed to tighten. When I was sad, its leaves seemed to darken. I believed it was alive. I believed it was watching. I believed it was judging.

The incident happened on a Tuesday. The rain was heavy. The sky was low. I was in the field. We were holding a line. The enemy was pressing. My men were afraid. I was not afraid. I was cold. I was empty. I gave the order. I told them to hold. I told them to fight. I told them to die if they had to. They did. They died. I lived. I walked away. I did not look back. I could not look back. If I looked back, I would see their faces. I would see their fear. I would see my own cowardice. I walked away. I returned to the base. I sat in my office. I looked at the window. I saw the oak. It was swaying in the wind. It was mocking me. I knew it was mocking me. I knew it was right.

I went to the commander. His name was General Halloway. He was old. He was cruel. He was a man who did not feel. He did not feel for the dead. He did not feel for the living. He only felt for power. He sat in his chair. He looked at me. His eyes were flat. He did not blink.

"You lost men," he said. His voice was soft. It was like the sound of a snake moving over grass.

"I followed orders," I said. My voice was steady. I had to be steady. I had to be strong.

"Orders," he repeated. He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes. "Orders are easy. Conscience is hard. You have a conscience, Lieutenant. It is a weakness."

"I am a soldier," I said. "I do a duty."

"You are a tool," he said. "Tools do not have feelings. Tools do not have doubts. You have doubts. You are broken."

He stood up. He was tall. He was large. He looked like a monument. He looked like the oak. He walked around the desk. He stood in front of me. He leaned down. He was close. I could smell his cologne. It was sharp. It was chemical. It was like death.

"You will be reassigned," he said. "You are no longer fit for command. You are a liability. You are a ghost. Ghosts haunt. You will haunt others. We cannot allow that."

He turned his back. He walked to the door. He opened it. The rain was still falling. The light was gray.

"Leave," he said.

I left. I walked out. I walked into the rain. I did not care. I did not feel anything. I was numb. I was empty. I was a shell.

I returned to my room. I locked the door. I sat on the bed. I looked at the wall. I saw a shadow. It was the shape of the oak. It was there. It was always there. I could not escape it. I could not escape him. I could not escape myself.

I was transferred. I was sent to a remote outpost. It was a small building. It was in the woods. It was isolated. There were no other soldiers. There were no civilians. There was only me. And the trees. And the silence.

I stayed there for three days. I did not sleep. I did not eat. I sat in the chair. I stared at the window. The rain was constant. It was a curtain. It was a wall. It was a prison.

On the third night, I heard a sound. It was a knock. It was soft. It was rhythmic. It was like a heartbeat. It was like a pulse. I did not move. I did not breathe. I was afraid. I was not afraid of the sound. I was afraid of what the sound meant. I was afraid of the truth.

I stood up. I walked to the door. I did not open it. I listened. The sound stopped. The silence returned. It was heavy. It was thick. It was suffocating.

I realized then. The oak was not outside. The oak was inside. It was in my mind. It was in my blood. It was in my bones. It was me. I was the oak. I was the tree that stood in the center of the room. I was the tree that did not bend. I was the tree that did not fall. I was the tree that judged. I was the tree that mocked. I was the tree that haunted.

I was not a victim. I was not a tool. I was not a ghost. I was the cause. I was the source. I was the root.

I remembered the men. I remembered their faces. I remembered their fear. I remembered my own fear. I had not been brave. I had been cold. I had been empty. I had been dead. I had been dead for a long time. I had been dead since I was twenty years old. I had been dead since I planted the sapling. I had been dead since I chose to be strong. I had been dead since I chose to be certain.

I chose to be an oak. I chose to be unyielding. I chose to be rigid. I chose to be alone. I chose to be powerful. I chose to be cruel. I chose to be Halloway.

I looked at my hands. They were steady. They were strong. They were cold. They were like bark. They were like wood. They were hard. They were dry. They were dead.

I realized I had no choice. I had made my choice. I had made my choice years ago. I had made my choice in the dirt. I had made my choice in the rain. I had made my choice in the field. I had made my choice in the office. I had made my choice in the silence.

I could not unmake it. I could not undo it. I could not become soft. I could not become fragile. I could not become green. I could not become alive.

I was the oak. I was the tree that stands. I was the tree that does not fall. I was the tree that holds.

I sat down in the chair. I closed my eyes. I listened to the rain. I listened to the wind. I listened to the silence. I felt the weight of the wood. I felt the strength of the root. I felt the cold of the leaf.

I was alone. I was with me. I was with the oak. I was with the ghost.

I was not sorry. I was not angry. I was not afraid. I was only still. I was only solid. I was only real.

The rain stopped. The light came. It was gray. It was soft. It was pale. It fell on the floor. It fell on my hands. It fell on the wood.

I opened my eyes. I looked at the door. It was closed. It was locked. It was solid.

I did not open it. I did not move. I did not speak.

I was the tree. I was the center. I was the root.

I stayed. I stayed in the chair. I stayed in the room. I stayed in the woods. I stayed in the silence.

I am still here. I am still sitting. I am still watching. I am still waiting.

The oak is tall. The oak is dark. The oak is cold.

I am the oak.