The road is mud. The rain is cold. My boots are heavy. I walk. The forest is dark. The trees are old. They watch me. I carry my sword. It is dull. It is not sharp. I do not care.

I am a soldier. I was a soldier. I am not. I am a man. I walk. My brother is gone. He is dead. I know. I saw him. He fell. The mud took him. The mud is hungry.

I stop. A house stands there. It is wood. It is stone. It is old. The walls are thin. The roof sags. The windows are broken. Glass shines in the rain. It looks like eyes. I look at the house. The house looks at me.

I knock. No sound. I knock again. Loud. Hard. A door opens. A face appears. It is my face. It is older. It is tired. It is not me. It is him.

"Who goes there?" the voice asks. It is my voice.

"It is I," I say. "I am the brother. I am the survivor."

"Come in," the voice says. "The fire is low. The tea is cold."

I enter. The room is small. A table. Two chairs. A stove. The stove is dead. Ashes are cold. There is no fire. There is no tea. There is only dust.

The man sits. He wears my clothes. They fit him. They fit me. They fit the man. We are the same. We are different.

"You came far," the man says. He pours water from a jug. It is brown. It is muddy. He drinks. I watch. I do not drink.

"I walked," I say. "The road is long."

"The road is short," the man says. "The road is a circle. You walk and walk. You return. You are always here."

I look at my hands. They are red. The blood is dry. It is brown. It looks like the water. It looks like the mud.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"Who?" the man asks.

"Thomas," I say. "My brother."

The man smiles. It is a sad smile. It is my smile.

"Thomas is here," the man says. "Thomas is there. Thomas is in the mud. Thomas is in the wall. Thomas is in the air. He is everywhere. He is nowhere."

I feel a pain. It is in my chest. It is in my head. It is in my sword. The sword is heavy. I put it on the table. It makes a sound. It is a clink. It is a bell.

"Show me," I say.

"Look," the man says. He points to the window.

I look. The rain falls. The trees bend. In the mud, a shape moves. It is small. It is dark. It is a figure. It stands up. It turns. It looks at me. It is Thomas.

"No," I say. "He is dead. I killed him. Or the mud killed him. I do not know. I do not remember."

"You do not remember," the man says. "That is the problem. You do not remember. So you must remember. You must see."

I look at the figure. The figure is still. The figure is watching.

"I did it," I say. "I struck him. I struck him hard. He fell. He did not get up. I left. I walked. I walked until I came here."

"Yes," the man says. "You walked. You walked to find the end. But there is no end. There is only the start. There is only the choice."

"What choice?" I ask.

"To stay," the man says. "Or to leave. To be the killer. Or to be the dead. You cannot be both. You cannot be the sword and the wound. You must choose one. You must define yourself."

I look at the sword. It is dull. It is useless. I did not kill him with it. I killed him with my fear. I killed him with my duty. I killed him because I was a soldier. Soldiers kill. That is what they do. That is what I am.

Am I?

I look at the man. He is not me. He is my shadow. He is my mistake. He is the thing I do not want to be.

"I will leave," I say.

"No," the man says. "You cannot leave. The door is gone. The road is gone. You are in the house. You are in the mud. You are in the wall."

I stand. I go to the door. I push it. It does not move. It is wood. It is stone. It is solid.

I push harder. My arms shake. My muscles burn. I am strong. I am a warrior. I can break anything. I break the wood. I break the stone. I break the wall.

I fall. I fall into the dark. I fall into the mud. I fall into the rain.

I am on my knees. I am in the forest. The trees are dark. The rain is cold. I am alone.

I look up. The house is gone. The trees are gone. The rain is gone. The world is white. It is silent. It is empty.

I am not alone.

Thomas is there. He stands in the white. He is not dead. He is not a ghost. He is a man. He is wet. He is shivering. He looks at me.

"Edward," he says. His voice is clear. It is not an echo. It is not a memory. It is real.

"Thomas," I say. I do not know why I am speaking. My mouth is dry. My tongue is thick.

"I waited," he says. "I waited for you to come back."

"I came back," I say. "I am here."

"You are here," he says. "But you are not you. You are the soldier. You are the killer. You are the man who left me in the mud. You are the man who chose duty over love. You are the man who chose the sword over the hand."

I look at my hands. They are clean. The blood is gone. The mud is gone. They are pale. They are weak.

"I did not choose," I say. "It was war. It was command. I had to follow. I had to obey."

"No," Thomas says. "You had to choose. You could have said no. You could have dropped the sword. You could have held me. You did not. You chose the uniform. You chose the title. You chose the role. You chose to be the thing that kills."

I feel a crack. It is in my mind. It is in my heart. It is in the white space around us.

"I am sorry," I say. The words are small. They are tiny. They are nothing.

"Sorry is not enough," Thomas says. "Sorry is a word. Words are tools. You used them to hide. You used them to justify. You used them to be safe. You are not safe. You are not hidden. You are here. You are seen."

I look at him. He is not angry. He is not sad. He is calm. He is still. He is the mirror.

"What do I do?" I ask.

"You do nothing," Thomas says. "You stop doing. You stop fighting. You stop killing. You stop running. You sit down. You wait. You let it end."

"How?" I ask.

"You let go," he says. "You let go of the sword. You let go of the name. You let go of the story. You are not a soldier. You are not a killer. You are not a survivor. You are a man. You are my brother. You are nothing else."

I look at the sword. It is on the ground. It is white. It is light. It is not a sword. It is a stick. It is a branch. It is a piece of wood.

I pick it up. It is light. I throw it away. It flies. It disappears. It is gone.

I sit down. The white ground is soft. It is like snow. It is like ash. I sit. I breathe. I watch Thomas.

He sits too. We are together. We are still.

The white begins to fade. The gray comes back. The rain comes back. The trees come back. The mud comes back.

I am in the forest. I am in the rain. I am on my knees.

Thomas is not there. He is gone. He was a dream. He was a memory. He was a ghost.

But I am not a soldier.

I look at my hands. They are open. They are empty.

I stand up. I do not look back. I do not look for the sword. I do not look for the house.

I walk.

The road is mud. The rain is cold. My boots are heavy.

I walk.

I am not a warrior. I am not a killer. I am a man.

I walk.

The trees are dark. The forest is deep.

I walk.

The rain stops. The sun comes out. It is weak. It is pale. It is gray.

I walk.

I find a river. The water is clear. It is cold.

I stop. I look at the water. I see my face. It is old. It is tired. It is not a soldier. It is a man.

I touch the water. It is cold. It is real.

I wash my hands. The mud goes away. The dirt goes away.

I am clean.

I walk on.

The road is long. The road is hard.

I do not run. I do not fight. I do not kill.

I walk.

The sun sets. The stars come out.

I walk.

I am alone. I am not alone.

I am with me.

I walk.

The morning comes. The light is bright.

I stop. I look at the horizon. It is empty. It is open.

I breathe. I am alive.

I am not a soldier.

I am a man.

I walk.

The end is not a place. The end is a choice.

I choose to walk.

I walk.

The world is quiet. The world is still.

I am still.

I am here.

I am home.

The rain falls again.

I do not care.

I walk.