The fog did not lift. It thickened.

I sat on the edge of the cot in the white room. The walls were not stone. They were not wood. They were a pale, shifting mist that breathed against my skin. I am a sergeant. I have served in the trenches of Ypres and the mud of Passchendaele. I know the smell of cordite and rot. I do not know this place.

There is no door. There is no window. There is only the gray. And a small, brass pocket watch lying on the floor near my boot.

I pick it up. The glass is cracked. The hands are frozen at four o’ clock. My hands shake. I do not remember being here. I remember the whistle. I remember the charge. I remember Thomas.

Thomas was my brother. We were not brothers by blood, only by the mess tent and the shared misery. He was lighter than me. He laughed when the shells screamed. He said the war was a joke the devil was telling to see if we would cry.

I look at the watch. The crack runs through the face like a vein. I try to wind it. The spring resists. It is cold. Cold like the river at the Somme.

"Who are you?" I ask the room.

The mist ripples. No answer. Only the sound of my own breathing.

I stand up. My legs feel heavy. The uniform is still on. Muddy. Tattered. I am a soldier in a dream, or in hell, or in the space between one breath and the next. I do not care which. I need to find a way out.

I walk. The floor is soft, like damp wool. I walk for an hour. Or a day. Time has no shape here. The mist remains. I see a shape ahead. It is a tree. But it is made of iron. A twisted, rusted tree, like the wreckage of a shipwreck standing in the sky.

I approach it. The branches are barbed wire. The leaves are shards of broken glass. I reach out to touch the trunk. It is warm.

"Stop," I say to myself.

I pull my hand back. I am not a fool. I have seen men touch the enemy’s barbed wire and die. I know the danger of the unknown. But the warmth calls to me. It feels like the sun on my face before the first battle.

I look at the watch again. The hands have moved. One minute. It is not a miracle. It is a trap.

I decide to go toward the iron tree. I must understand this place. I must find the source of the warmth.

As I walk, the mist parts. I see a figure sitting at the base of the iron tree. It is a woman. She is young. She wears a dress of white silk. Her hair is dark. She is holding a spade.

"Hello, Sergeant," she says. Her voice is clear. It cuts through the fog.

"I am not a sergeant," I say. "I am James."

"James Whitmore," she says. "You are dead, James."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stagger. I look at my hands. They are transparent. I can see the gray mist through my skin.

"No," I say. "I am alive. I was at the front. I remember the mud."

"Memory is a liar," she says. She does not look up from her digging. "This is the In-Between. You are waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the choice."

I look around. The world is still empty. Just the mist and the iron tree and the girl with the spade.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"I am the Keeper," she says. "I tend to the lost things."

"Lost things?"

"Souls. Memories. Hopes." She digs a hole in the soft ground. "You have something lost, James. You are here to find it."

I think of Thomas. I think of his laugh. I think of the moment the shell hit. I closed my eyes. I heard a scream. It was not mine.

"I lost my brother," I say.

The girl stops digging. She looks at me. Her eyes are gray, like the fog.

"Thomas is not here," she says.

I feel a pain in my chest. It is sharp. It is real.

"Where is he?"

"He is gone. He did not wait. He moved on."

"He should have waited for me."

"Choice defines self, James," she says. "He chose to go. You chose to stay. Or rather, you were left behind."

I look at the pocket watch. The hands are moving now. Faster.

"Can I go?" I ask.

"You can try," she says. "But you must leave something behind. Something that anchors you to this place."

I look at the watch. It is the only thing I have. The only thing that connects me to the time I was alive. The time I was James Whitmore.

"I will not give it up," I say.

"Then you cannot go," she says.

I feel anger. It is hot. It burns through the cold fog. I have earned this life. I have bled for it. I will not be trapped in a white room with a ghost of a girl.

I walk toward her. I take the spade from her hand. It is heavy. It is made of iron, like the tree.

"Give me another chance," I say.

"I cannot," she says.

I strike the ground with the spade. The mist recoils. A crack appears in the air. It looks like a wound.

Through the crack, I see it. A field. Green grass. Blue sky. And there, standing in the distance, is Thomas. He is waving. He is smiling. He is alive.

I want to run to him. I want to grab his arm. I want to pull him back into this white room so we can be together. So we can be safe.

But I see his face. He is not looking at me. He is looking past me. He is looking at something else. He is leaving.

If I run to him, I will catch him. I will stop him. I will keep him here with me in this void.

But he does not want to be here. He is gone.

I look at the spade. I look at the watch.

The truth is simple. I am not waiting for Thomas. I am hiding from the fact that he is gone. I am holding onto the watch because it holds the moment of his death. I am staying in this mist because if I leave, I have to face the world without him.

I am not a soldier anymore. I am a coward. I am a man who cannot let go.

The girl watches me. She does not move. She does not speak. She knows. I know.

I look at Thomas in the crack of the air. He is walking away. His figure is getting smaller. He is becoming part of the blue sky.

I have a choice. I can throw the spade at the crack. I can try to tear it open. I can try to drag him back. I can stay here, in the mist, in the pain, forever.

Or I can let him go.

The pain in my chest is unbearable. It is the pain of loss. It is the pain of love. It is the primal, instinctual tie that binds a brother to a brother. It is stronger than fear. It is stronger than death.

I close my eyes. I think of his laugh. I think of the mess tent. I think of the sun.

I open my eyes.

I drop the spade. It hits the ground with a clang. The sound is loud. It echoes in the white room.

I hold the pocket watch. I look at the crack in the air. Thomas is almost gone.

"I let you go, Thomas," I say.

The crack closes. The blue sky vanishes. The mist rushes in to fill the space.

The girl stands up. She looks at me. Her face is soft.

"You have chosen," she says.

"I have," I say.

"The watch," she says.

I look at it. The hands have stopped. It is dead.

I drop it on the ground. It shatters. The glass flies into the mist. The brass casing breaks. The spring snaps.

The room begins to fade. The white walls dissolve. The fog thins. I feel light. I feel free.

I am not James Whitmore anymore. I am just a memory. A story. A brother who let his brother go.

The pain does not go away. It stays with me. It is part of me now. It is the weight of my love. It is the anchor that keeps me human.

I close my eyes. The world is dark. Then, it is bright.

I am gone.

The girl picks up the pieces of the watch. She puts them in her pocket. She looks at the spot where I stood. It is empty.

The mist settles. The iron tree stands alone.

She smiles. It is a sad smile. A triumphant smile.

"Goodbye, James," she says to the air.

The room is silent. The fog is still.

The story ends.