The gray wool of my uniform is the only thing that has not changed. It is the same shade of storm-cloud, the same coarse weave that chafes the neck when the air turns cold. I have worn it for thirty years. I have washed it until the threads are soft as old skin, but the color remains. It is the anchor of my identity, the weight that keeps me from drifting into the white noise of my own mind. They call it the Drab. We call it the skin we are born in.

I am alone in the chamber now. It is a small room, no larger than a closet, with a single window barred by iron. The light is thin and gray, filtering through the glass like a rumor. I sit on the edge of the cot. The springs creak under my weight, a sound I have come to know as well as my own heartbeat.

There is no one else here. Not anymore. The guards are in the corridor, their boots scuffing against the stone floor. They are waiting for the bell. I am waiting for the bell. We have all been waiting for this bell for a long time.

I look at my hands. They are large, knuckled, scarred. The skin is tight over the bones. These are the hands of a soldier. They are the hands that held the rifle. They are the hands that pulled the trigger. Or perhaps they did not. Perhaps I am only the vessel. The body. The meat. The mind is somewhere else, far away, in a place where the air is clean and the water is sweet.

I remember the day I was captured. I do not remember the battles before that. I remember the mud. I remember the cold. I remember the face of the man who shot me in the shoulder. He looked at me with a kind of pity, or maybe just boredom. He did not kill me. He walked away. I lay in the trench for three days. I did not die. I should have died.

When they took me, they took my rifle. They took my boots. They left me with my uniform. They said it was for my comfort. They said I could keep it. I did not ask why. I was too tired to ask.

Now, in this room, the uniform is all I have. It is the only thing that connects me to the world I left behind. It is the only thing that reminds me that I was a person. That I had a name. That I had a history.

The door opens. A guard steps in. He is young. He has a face like a doll, smooth and unlined. He holds a tray. On the tray is a cup of tea and a piece of bread. He sets it on the small table. He does not speak. He does not look at me. He turns and leaves. The door closes. The lock clicks.

I do not drink the tea. I do not eat the bread. I have not eaten in two days. My body is a hollow thing. A shell. The uniform hangs on my shoulders, loose and empty. It is a ghost of a garment. A memory of shape.

I close my eyes. I try to remember my mother’s face. I try to remember the smell of her kitchen. I try to remember the sound of her voice. But the memories are gone. They have been washed away, like the dirt from my uniform. All that is left is the wool. The gray, coarse, unyielding wool.

I open my eyes. The light has changed. It is darker now. The shadows in the corners of the room are longer. They seem to reach out for me. They seem to want to pull me in.

I stand up. My legs are weak. I lean against the wall. The stone is cold. It bites into my back. I feel a chill that goes to my bones.

I look at the mirror. It is cracked, running from the top left corner to the bottom right. My reflection is split in two. One half is young, fierce, alive. The other half is old, tired, dead. I look into the eyes of the young man. He looks back at me. He does not know what is coming. He does not know that he is a fool. He does not know that he is a ghost.

I touch the crack in the glass. It is smooth. It is cold. It is real.

The bell rings.

It is a small sound. A clear, bright note. It cuts through the silence like a knife. I hear the boots in the corridor. They are coming.

I walk to the door. I do not knock. I do not call out. I wait.

The door opens. Three men enter. They are wearing the same gray uniform. They are tall, broad-shouldered. Their faces are hidden behind masks. They carry a long box.

They do not speak. They do not look at me. They set the box on the floor. One of them opens it. Inside is a rifle. It is a new rifle. Shiny. Clean. It looks like a toy.

They look at me. I look at them.

I know what this is. I have seen it before. In the dreams. In the memories. In the spaces between the seconds.

This is the sacrifice. This is the way out. This is the end.

They hand me the rifle. I take it. It is heavier than I expected. It is cold. It is real.

I feel a surge of power. A surge of clarity. The fog in my mind lifts. I see everything. I see the room. I see the men. I see the mirror. I see the crack in the glass. I see the gray wool of my uniform.

I understand now. I have always understood. But I was afraid. I was afraid of the truth. I was afraid of the end.

I look at the men. They are waiting. They are watching. They are judging.

I look at the rifle. I look at my hands. I look at the gray wool.

I do not fire.

I drop the rifle.

It hits the floor with a loud clang. The men flinch. They step back.

I do not move. I do not speak. I just stand there. In my gray wool. In my silence.

They look at me. They look at the rifle. They look at each other.

One of them takes out a pistol. He aims it at my head.

I close my eyes. I wait for the shot. I wait for the end. I wait for the release.

But the shot does not come.

I hear a voice. It is a woman’s voice. It is soft. It is gentle. It is familiar.

"Thomas," she says. "Thomas, wake up."

I open my eyes.

I am not in the room. I am not in the uniform. I am in a bed. A white bed. In a white room. In a white world.

I am in a hospital.

A woman is sitting next to me. She is holding my hand. She is crying.

"Thomas," she says again. "You’ve been in a coma for six months. The doctors said you weren’t coming back. But you are here. You are here."

I look at her. I do not know her. I do not know who she is. But I feel a pull. A connection. A bond.

I look at my hands. They are clean. They are smooth. They are not the hands of a soldier. They are the hands of a man.

I look at my body. I am not wearing the gray wool. I am wearing a white gown.

I am free.

I am out.

I am alive.

I look at the woman. I look at her face. I look at her eyes.

I see myself in her eyes.

I see the gray wool.

I see the crack in the glass.

I see the end.

I squeeze her hand.

"I’m here," I say.

But I know I am not. I am still in the room. I am still in the uniform. I am still waiting for the bell.

The woman smiles. She thinks I am awake. She thinks I am back.

She is wrong.

I am not back.

I am gone.

I am in the gray wool.

I am in the silence.

I am in the end.

And it is not over.

It is never over.