The train hissed. Steam curled. We left.

The platform was wet. Cold bit. I shook my hand. It hurt. The knuckles were swollen. The skin was tight. It looked wrong. It looked like a bruise. It looked like a lie.

"Ready, Silas?" I asked.

He nodded. He did not speak. He held his bag. The bag was heavy. The strap cut into his shoulder. He did not flinch. He never flinched.

We walked. The gravel crunched. The air smelled of coal and rust. The town was gray. The sky was gray. Everything was gray.

I was a sergeant. That was the title. The badge was heavy. The uniform was stiff. It chafed at the neck. I adjusted the collar. I checked my watch. The hands moved. Slow. Steady.

"Stop," I said.

Silas stopped. He looked at me. His eyes were dark. Deep. Like wells.

"Where are we going?" he asked. His voice was low. Rough. Like gravel in a tin cup.

"Forward," I said.

"Forward is a direction," he said. "Not a place."

I did not answer. I turned. I walked. He followed. The distance between us was small. Two paces. Three. I counted. I always counted. It was a habit. A way to keep the fear away.

The road was long. The fields were brown. The crops were dead. The wind blew. It whistled through the dry stalks. It sounded like a warning.

We passed a house. The door was open. The windows were broken. Glass glittered on the floor. Like teeth.

"Empty," Silas said.

"Always empty," I said.

We kept walking. The sun set. The shadows grew long. They stretched out like fingers. They reached for us. We did not look down.

Night fell. The stars came out. They were cold. Bright. Indifferent.

We found a barn. It was old. The wood was rotting. The roof was patched with tar. It smelled of wet straw.

We sat. I lit a fire. The flames jumped. They danced. They gave light. They gave heat.

Silas pulled his coat tighter. He shivered. I saw it. I saw the tremor in his hands.

"Are you cold?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"Liar," I said.

He smiled. It was a small smile. Sad. Tired.

"I am cold, Silas," I said. I did not say my name. I did not need to. He knew who I was. He knew what I was.

He looked at me. He looked at my hand. The hand was still swollen. The skin was tight.

"It hurts," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I hit it," I said. "Because I had to."

"Who did you hit?"

"Nobody," I said. "It was a mistake."

He nodded. He did not believe me. I knew he did not. But he did not press. He never pressed. He just listened. He just watched.

We slept. The fire died. The dark came. It was thick. It was heavy. It pressed against our chests.

I dreamed. I dreamed of the office. The walls were white. The desk was wood. The man behind the desk was tall. He wore a suit. He had no face. Just a shadow.

"Sign here," the shadow said.

I signed. The pen was wet. The ink was black. It bled into the paper. It spread. Like a stain. Like a wound.

"Wake up," a voice said.

I opened my eyes. The sky was gray again. The sun was rising. The light was pale. Weak.

Silas was awake. He was staring at the barn wall. His eyes were wide.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Listen," he said.

I listened. I heard nothing. Just the wind. Just the birds. Just the silence.

"Nothing," I said.

"There is something," he said. "A sound. Low. Humming."

I frowned. I listened again. I heard it. A hum. A vibration. It came from the ground. It came from the earth.

"It is the train," I said. "The line is close."

"No," he said. "It is not the train."

"What is it?"

"I do not know," he said. "It sounds like a heart."

I looked at him. He was serious. His face was pale. His lips were white.

I stood up. I stretched. My back cracked. I felt the pain in my hand. It throbbed. It beat. In time.

With the hum.

I looked at my hand. I turned it over. The skin was red. Swollen. The veins were dark. They pulsed.

"It is just blood," I said.

"Is it?" he asked.

I did not answer. I packed the fire. I put the coals in the tin. I checked my gear. The rifle was clean. The cartridges were dry.

"Let's go," I said.

We walked. The road was muddy. The boots squelched. The mud was cold. It soaked through the soles.

We reached the town. The streets were empty. The shops were closed. The doors were locked. The locks were rusted.

The square was in the center. The fountain was dry. The water had evaporated. The stones were cracked.

We stopped. We looked around. There were no people. There were no cars. There were no sounds.

"Where are they?" Silas asked.

"Gone," I said.

"Gone where?"

"I do not know."

I looked at the buildings. The windows were dark. The doors were shut. It was as if the town had died. As if the breath had left it.

I felt a chill. It was not from the air. It was from within. From the pit of my stomach.

"This is wrong," Silas said.

"Yes," I said.

"Something happened here."

"Yes."

"What?"

I did not answer. I walked to the fountain. I touched the stone. It was cold. Hard. Dead.

I looked at my hand. The pain was worse. It burned. It stung. I flexed my fingers. They moved. They were stiff.

"It is going to pop," I said.

"What?"

"The skin. It is too tight."

Silas looked at me. He stepped closer. He reached out. He did not touch me. He just hovered his hand near mine.

"Let me help," he said.

"No," I said.

"Silas. Please."

I looked at him. I saw the fear in his eyes. I saw the care. It was raw. Open.

I nodded.

He took my hand. His grip was firm. Gentle. He held my wrist. He looked at the swelling.

"It is bad," he said.

"Yes."

"We need to cut it," he said.

"No."

"We have to let the blood out. Otherwise, it will die."

"It is just a hand," I said. "It is not me."

"It is part of you," he said. "If it dies, you die. A little."

I looked at him. I looked at his face. His jaw was tight. His eyes were fixed on my hand.

"Do it," I said.

He pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade was small. Sharp. Clean.

He held it up. He caught the light. It flashed. White.

"Ready?" he asked.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out.

"Cut," I said.

I felt the cold. The sharp sting. The pressure. I did not cry out. I did not move.

I felt the blood. It ran. Warm. Wet. It dripped onto the stone.

Red. Bright. Alive.

I opened my eyes. Silas was watching me. His face was calm. His eyes were soft.

"It is done," he said.

I looked at my hand. The swelling was gone. The skin was loose. The pain was gone.

I felt light. I felt empty.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded. He wiped the blade on his sleeve. He put it away.

We stood there. The town was silent. The wind blew. The leaves stirred.

I looked at my hand. It was clean. It was normal.

But it felt wrong. It felt light. Too light.

I looked at Silas. He looked at me.

"What did we lose?" he asked.

I did not know. I looked at the fountain. The stones were dry.

"I do not know," I said.

We walked out of the square. We walked down the street. The houses passed by. The doors were still closed.

We reached the edge of the town. The road continued. It went into the woods. The trees were dark. Dense.

We stopped.

"Which way?" Silas asked.

"North," I said.

"Is there anything there?"

"I do not know."

"Then why go there?"

"Because we have to," I said.

Silas looked at me. He looked at the road. He looked at the woods.

"Come on," he said.

We walked. The trees closed in. The light faded. The shadows grew.

I looked at my hand. It was still. It was quiet.

I thought of the office. The shadow. The signature.

I thought of the hit. The mistake.

I thought of the blood. The cut.

I thought of Silas. The care. The fear.

I realized something. The pain was not in the hand. The pain was in the memory. The hand was just a vessel. A container.

I had cut it open. I had let the blood out. I had let the guilt out.

It was gone.

I felt free. I felt light.

But I was alone.

Silas was still there. He was walking beside me. He was breathing. He was alive.

But he was not me.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"Silas," I said.

"Yes?"

"Stay with me."

He nodded.

We walked into the dark. The trees swallowed us. The world faded.

Only the sound of our steps remained.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Steady. Sure.

Alive.