"You look tired, Sergeant."

The voice was soft. It came from the dark.

He didn't answer. He just stood there. The sword in his hand was heavy. It was heavier than it had been yesterday. It was heavier than it had been a month ago. It was heavier than the man who held it.

"Sit down, Thomas."

He sat. The floor was cold stone. It bit into his knees. He didn't care. He looked at the man in the chair. The man was old. He had a long beard. It was white. It looked like wool. It looked like snow.

"Did you find it?" the old man asked.

Thomas shook his head.

"Then you are still lost."

"Am I?"

"You are a soldier. Soldiers find things. They kill things. They take things. You are here to take the Heart."

The Heart.

Thomas looked at the sword. The steel was dark. It was not shiny. It was dull. It was like a bruise.

"I am not here to take it," Thomas said. His voice was rough. It was like gravel. "I am here to guard it."

The old man smiled. It was a sad smile. It was a tired smile. It was the smile of a man who had seen too much.

"Guarding is taking," the old man said. "Every second you hold it, you own it. And every second you own it, it owns you."

Thomas looked away. He looked at the wall. The wall was made of stone. It was smooth. It was cold. It had no windows. It had no doors. It was just a wall.

"How long have I been here?" Thomas asked.

"Long enough."

"Long enough to forget?"

"Long enough to remember."

Thomas closed his eyes. He tried to remember. He tried to remember his name. He remembered it. Thomas Bradshaw. He tried to remember his face. He could not. He tried to remember his wife. He remembered her name. Eleanor. He tried to remember her face. He could not. He only remembered her hands. They were soft. They were warm. They were gentle.

"Who is that?" Thomas asked.

The old man did not answer.

"Who is she?"

"She is the cost," the old man said.

"I don't pay that price."

"Everyone pays that price. The only difference is who collects."

Thomas opened his eyes. He felt a pain in his chest. It was a sharp pain. It was a hot pain. It burned. It hurt. It was real.

"I have a son," Thomas said.

"Did you?"

"His name is James."

"I don't know any James."

"He is seven."

"He is dead."

Thomas stared at him. The air in the room was still. It was thick. It was hard to breathe.

"That's a lie," Thomas said.

"Is it?"

"My son is alive. I know he is alive. I can feel him."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you here?"

Thomas did not have an answer. He looked at his hands. They were strong. They were scarred. They were stained with blood. He did not remember the blood. He did not remember the fight. He only remembered the weight of the sword. He only remembered the sound of the metal hitting the stone.

"The Heart is not a thing," the old man said.

"Then what is it?"

"It is a choice."

"What choice?"

"To let go."

Thomas stood up. His knees cracked. The sword fell to the floor. It made a loud clang. The sound echoed. It rang in his ears. It rang in his head. It rang in his bones.

"I will not let go," Thomas said.

"Then you will break."

"Let me break."

"You are a good soldier, Thomas."

"I am a man."

"You are a tool."

Thomas felt a surge of anger. It was hot. It was red. It was wild. He grabbed the sword. He lifted it. He raised it high.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me the truth."

The old man closed his eyes. He leaned back in his chair. He looked peaceful. He looked dead.

"The truth is simple," the old man said. "You are not the guard. You are the lock."

Thomas lowered the sword. His hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you are the barrier. You are the wall. You are the stone. Without you, the Heart is free. With you, the Heart is trapped."

"Trapped?"

"Yes. It is in pain. It is screaming. It is dying."

Thomas looked at the floor. He looked at the shadows. He saw something. He saw a shape. It was small. It was dark. It was moving. It was crawling. It was coming towards him.

He saw a face. It was a child's face. It was pale. It was thin. It was hollow. It was James.

"James?" Thomas whispered.

The face did not answer. It just looked at him. Its eyes were black. Its eyes were deep. Its eyes were hungry.

"James, it's me. It's Papa."

The face tilted. It smiled. It was a cruel smile. It was a hungry smile.

"Let me go," the face said.

"No," Thomas said. "I won't."

"Then I will stay."

"Stay with me."

"Stay with the pain."

Thomas felt the pain again. It was worse. It was sharp. It was hot. It was burning. He fell to his knees. He clutched his chest. He gasped for air. He could not breathe.

"Who are you?" he asked the old man.

The old man opened his eyes. They were bright. They were clear. They were cold.

"I am the memory," the old man said. "I am the past. I am the thing you left behind."

"I didn't leave behind anything."

"You left behind your soul."

"I gave it to the duty."

"You gave it to the system. And the system does not care about your soul. It only cares about the function."

Thomas looked at the sword. It was still on the floor. It was still dark. It was still dull. It was still like a bruise.

"I can't go back," Thomas said.

"No."

"I can't stay."

"You can."

"How?"

"By becoming the wall."

Thomas looked at the shadow. He looked at James's face. He saw the fear in the eyes. He saw the pain in the mouth. He saw the love in the soul.

He understood.

He understood everything.

He understood that the Heart was not a prize. It was a burden. It was a weight. It was a chain. And he was the one who held the chain.

He stood up. He picked up the sword. It was lighter now. It was so light. It was like air. It was like nothing.

He turned to the old man.

"Will it stop?" Thomas asked.

"The pain? No."

"Will it end?"

"No."

"Then why do it?"

"Because it is right."

Thomas laughed. It was a short laugh. It was a dry laugh. It was a sad laugh.

"Right," he said. "Yes. It is right."

He walked to the wall. He put his hand on the stone. It was cold. It was hard. It was unyielding. He pushed. He pushed with all his might. He pushed with all his strength. He pushed with all his soul.

The stone did not move.

The stone did not break.

The stone did not care.

He pushed again.

And again.

And again.

He did not stop. He would not stop. He was the wall. He was the barrier. He was the lock.

He was the machine.

He was the distant machine.

He was the thing that held the pain.

He was the thing that kept the heart safe.

He was the thing that sacrificed itself for the greater good.

He was the thing that was never seen.

He was the thing that was never thanked.

He was the thing that was forgotten.

He was Thomas.

He was no one.

He was the wall.

He pushed.

The shadow watched.

The old man watched.

The sword lay on the floor.

The silence was loud.

The pain was quiet.

The end was close.

The end was far.

The end was now.

Thomas pushed.

He pushed until he broke.

He pushed until he fell.

He pushed until he was gone.

The wall remained.

The wall stood.

The wall held.

The heart beat.

The heart lived.

The heart dreamed.

The dream was dark.

The dream was deep.

The dream was endless.

Thomas was in the dream.

Thomas was in the wall.

Thomas was in the stone.

Thomas was in the silence.

Thomas was in the pain.

Thomas was in the love.

Thomas was in the void.

Thomas was in the all.

He was the distant machine.

He was the thing that worked.

He was the thing that never stopped.

He was the thing that never asked.

He was the thing that never answered.

He was the thing that just was.

He was the thing that endured.

He was the thing that survived.

He was the thing that lived.

He was the thing that died.

He was the thing that rose.

He was the thing that fell.

He was the thing that stayed.

He was the thing that went.

He was the thing that was.

He was the thing that is.

He was the thing that will be.

He was the distant machine.

He was the heart.

He was the wall.

He was the sword.

He was the stone.

He was the silence.

He was the pain.

He was the love.

He was the void.

He was the all.

He was the nothing.

He was the everything.

He was the end.

He was the beginning.

He was the middle.

He was the space between.

He was the breath.

He was the pause.

He was the word.

He was the sound.

He was the voice.

He was the name.

He was the face.

He was the hand.

He was the eye.

He was the soul.

He was the body.

He was the spirit.

He was the ghost.

He was the memory.

He was the dream.

He was the nightmare.

He was the truth.

He was the lie.

He was the fact.

He was the fiction.

He was the reality.

He was the illusion.

He was the world.

He was the universe.

He was the god.

He was the devil.

He was the angel.

He was the demon.

He was the hero.

He was the villain.

He was the victim.

He was the savior.

He was the judge.

He was the jury.

He was the executioner.

He was the condemned.

He was the prisoner.

He was the warden.

He was the key.

He was the lock.

He was the door.

He was the room.

He was the house.

He was the city.

He was the country.

He was the world.

He was the universe.

He was the infinite.

He was the finite.

He was the eternal.

He was the moment.

He was the now.

He was the then.

He was the before.

He was the after.

He was the during.

He was the while.

He was the when.

He was the where.

He was the why.

He was the how.

He was the what.

He was the who.

He was the which.

He was the that.

He was the this.

He was the these.

He was the those.

He was the there.

He was the here.

He was the everywhere.

He was the nowhere.

He was the somewhere.

He was the anywhere.

He was the everywhere.

He was the nowhere.

He was the somewhere.

He was the anywhere.

He was the nowhere.

He was the nowhere.

He was the nowhere.

He was the nowhere.