He wakes in a dream of salt.

The air is thick. It tastes of iron. He is on his knees. The ground is cold. It is stone. It is not stone. It is skin.

He looks down.

His hands are red.

They are not his hands.

They are wet. They are shaking. The light is gray. It has no source. It is everywhere. It is nowhere. He is in a room. The walls are white. They are clean. They are too clean.

He is in a hospital.

He is in a station.

He is in a place that has no name.

The door opens.

It does not creak. It does not slam. It simply becomes open.

A woman stands there.

She is old. Her face is a map of lines. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. They hold a sorrow that is older than him.

It is his mother.

But it is not his mother.

It is a mirror.

"Thomas," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is dry. It is the sound of leaves falling in a yard that no one visits.

"Get up," she says.

He cannot move.

His legs are heavy. They are made of lead. They are made of grief. He tries to stand. His body refuses. His body remembers the fall. His body remembers the weight of the world.

"Up," she says again.

It is not a request.

It is a command.

It is the law.

He stands.

His knees buckle. She catches him. Her arms are thin. They are strong. They are like wire. They are like roots. She pulls him to his feet. He is taller than her. He is heavier than her. Yet she holds him.

They walk.

The hallway is long. It is white. The light is harsh. It strips away shadow. It strips away comfort. It leaves only the bone.

They walk toward a door.

There is a sign above it.

It is green. It is bright. It says EXIT.

But the door is locked.

Thomas tries the handle. It does not move. It is fused. It is part of the wall.

"It is not real," his mother says.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"Here," she says.

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only answer."

They turn around.

The hallway is empty. The other doors have closed. The light has changed. It is no longer gray. It is blue. It is the color of bruises. It is the color of dawn that never comes.

They are in a cell.

The walls are low. The floor is dirt. The air is stale. It smells of dust. It smells of time.

Thomas looks at his hands.

They are clean now.

The red is gone.

But the skin is cracked.

It is peeling.

It falls away in small flakes. Like snow. Like ash. Underneath, the flesh is raw. It is pink. It is vulnerable. It is exposed.

He looks at his mother.

Her face is the same.

Her hands are the same.

They are bare.

They are open.

She looks at him.

There is no fear in her eyes.

There is no pity.

There is only recognition.

She knows what he is.

She knows what he has done.

She knows what he must do.

"Sit," she says.

He sits.

The dirt is cold. It bites into his skin. He does not flinch. He has learned to feel pain. He has learned to let it stay.

They sit in silence.

The silence is heavy. It presses against his ears. It presses against his chest. It is a physical thing. It has weight. It has texture.

He remembers the war.

He remembers the mud.

He remembers the rain.

He remembers the sound of the gun.

It was not a bang.

It was a crack.

It was the sound of a branch breaking.

It was the sound of a bone snapping.

He remembers the boy.

The boy was not a boy.

He was a mirror.

He looked at Thomas.

He did not scream.

He did not beg.

He looked at Thomas with eyes that were wide. They were empty. They were full.

Thomas had fired.

The gun had kicked.

The boy had fallen.

The ground had turned red.

The red had spread.

It had soaked into the earth.

It had soaked into Thomas.

It had never washed out.

Now, in this place, the red is gone.

But the stain remains.

It is in his hands.

It is in his mind.

It is in his soul.

His mother reaches out.

She touches his hand.

Her finger is cold. It is dry. It traces the cracks in his skin. She does not say anything. She does not need to. Her touch is a language. It is a history. It is a verdict.

"You are not the first," she says.

Her voice is faint. It is like a whisper in a wind.

"Nor the last," she adds.

Thomas looks at her.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am the keeper," she says.

"Of what?"

"Of the loop."

The word hangs in the air.

It is heavy. It is solid. It is a stone dropped into a well. It sinks. It sinks deeper. It hits the bottom. It does not make a sound. But the water ripples. The ripples spread. They touch the walls. They touch Thomas. They touch his mother.

He feels a shiver. It runs down his spine. It is not cold. It is fear. It is the fear of the known. It is the fear of the inevitable.

"Break it," he says.

He wants it to be simple. He wants it to be a door that opens. He wants it to be a key that turns. He wants it to be a gun that misfires. He wants it to be a mistake that can be undone.

But there is no key.

There is no door.

There is only the loop.

His mother shakes her head.

It is a slow motion. It is a denial. It is a confirmation.

"You cannot break what is woven," she says.

"Then what do I do?"

"You endure."

He hates the word.

It is passive. It is weak. It is the word of the defeated. He is a soldier. He is a protector. He is a man of action. He does not endure. He strikes. He fights. He wins.

Or he dies.

But this is not death.

This is life.

This is the life after the death.

This is the life that refuses to end.

He looks at his hands again.

The skin is peeling faster now. It is falling in sheets. The flesh underneath is shining. It is wet. It is new. It is old. It is both.

He feels a pain. It is sharp. It is bright. It is like a needle in the eye. It is like a spike in the heart. He does not close his eyes. He keeps them open. He stares at the peeling. He watches the loss. He watches the self being stripped away.

It is terrifying.

It is beautiful.

It is true.

His mother stands up.

She moves to the wall.

She puts her hand against the dirt.

She presses it hard.

The dirt cracks.

It splits.

It is not a wall.

It is a crust.

Underneath, there is light.

It is white.

It is blinding.

It is pure.

"Go," she says.

"I don't understand."

"You do."

He looks at the light.

He looks at his mother.

She is fading.

Her edges are soft. Her color is draining. She is becoming part of the wall. She is becoming part of the loop.

"Mother," he says.

The word is a plea. It is a prayer. It is a chain.

He cannot let her go.

He wants to hold her. He wants to keep her. He wants to freeze time. He wants to stop the peeling. He wants to stop the bleeding. He wants to stop the war.

But the war is inside him.

And it is not over.

It will never be over.

He steps forward.

The light pulls him. It is a gravity. It is a hunger. It wants him. It wants his pain. It wants his guilt. It wants his memory. It wants his self.

He steps into the light.

The pain vanishes.

The cold vanishes.

The smell of dirt vanishes.

He is alone.

He is nowhere.

He is everywhere.

He is waking up.

He is in a hospital bed.

The air is sterile. It smells of antiseptic. It smells of plastic. It smells of nothing.

His heart monitor beeps.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

It is a steady rhythm. It is a metronome. It is a clock.

He looks at his hands.

They are bandaged.

The bandages are white. They are clean. They are tight.

He cannot see his skin.

He cannot see the cracks.

He cannot see the peeling.

But he knows they are there.

He knows the pain.

He knows the loop.

He closes his eyes.

He waits.

The monitor beeps.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The light from the window is pale. It is thin. It is weak. It falls across the bed. It falls across his hands.

It does not warm him.

It does not heal him.

It only shows him what he is.

He is a man.

He is a soldier.

He is a son.

He is a ghost.

He is a stone in a river.

The water flows.

The stone remains.

The stone is worn.

The stone is smooth.

The stone is part of the bed.

The bed is part of the river.

The river is part of the sea.

The sea is part of the sky.

The sky is part of the void.

The void is part of the dream.

The dream is part of the wake.

He wakes.

He closes his eyes.

He wakes.

He closes his eyes.

He wakes.

The beep continues.

It is a promise.

It is a threat.

It is a truth.

He accepts it.

He lets it in.

He lets it stay.

He is still here.

He is still here.

He is still here.