The feast is over.

The plates are empty.

The wine is gone.

You stand in the center of the hall.

It is a hall of white stone.

The air is cold.

It smells of ozone and old blood.

You remember the sound of the shelling.

It was a rhythm.

A drum.

It broke the windows.

It broke the silence.

It broke you.

Now you are here.

In the white room.

You do not know how you arrived.

You do not know how long you have been here.

Time is a loop.

A circle.

You look at your hands.

They are pale.

They are trembling.

You are an exile.

You left the world of smoke.

You entered the world of light.

But the light is harsh.

It burns.

It reveals.

There is a door at the end of the hall.

It is made of iron.

It is black.

It is the only dark thing in the room.

You walk toward it.

Your feet make no sound.

The floor is glass.

You see your reflection.

It is distorted.

Stretched.

Long.

Like a shadow at noon.

You are not alone.

There is a figure in the corner.

Sitting.

Still.

It wears a gray coat.

It does not move.

You stop.

Your breath catches.

You know the coat.

You know the shape of the shoulders.

You know the way the head tilts.

It is her.

Eleanor.

Your wife.

She is dead.

You buried her.

You watched the earth fall.

You heard the thud.

You closed the lid.

But she is here.

Sitting in the corner.

Waiting.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

But you cannot.

Your legs are lead.

Your voice is dust.

You approach.

Slowly.

Step by step.

The air grows thicker.

Heavier.

You are close.

You can see her face.

It is peaceful.

It is pale.

It is unchanged.

She looks up.

Her eyes are gray.

Like the sky before the storm.

She smiles.

It is a small smile.

A sad smile.

She says nothing.

But you hear her.

Not with your ears.

With your bones.

She says, You are late.

You shake your head.

You do not understand.

She stands.

She is tall.

She is thin.

She walks toward you.

Her feet do not touch the ground.

She floats.

She is a ghost.

A memory.

A fragment.

She reaches out.

She touches your cheek.

Her hand is cold.

It burns.

It freezes.

It is everything.

You close your eyes.

You remember.

You remember the night.

The explosion.

The dust.

The silence.

You held her.

Her body was warm.

Then it was cold.

You held her.

You waited.

For the ambulance.

For the light.

For the end.

You waited.

You did not let go.

You never let go.

That is why you are here.

In the white room.

In the loop.

You are the keeper.

The warden.

The prisoner.

She pulls back.

She looks at the door.

The black door.

She looks at you.

Her eyes are sharp.

She points to the door.

You understand.

You must open it.

You must leave.

You must release her.

You walk to the door.

Your hand shakes.

You reach for the handle.

It is cold iron.

You grip it.

You pull.

It does not move.

You pull harder.

Your muscles scream.

Your mind breaks.

You remember the war.

The bullets.

The fire.

The screams.

You were brave.

You were strong.

You were nothing.

You are a man who lost.

You are a man who stayed.

You pull.

The handle turns.

The door creaks.

It opens.

Darkness.

Total darkness.

There is no light beyond the door.

There is no sound.

There is nothing.

You look back at Eleanor.

She is watching.

Her face is stern.

She nods.

Once.

You step forward.

One foot.

Then the other.

You cross the threshold.

The darkness takes you.

It is not empty.

It is full.

Full of memory.

Full of pain.

Full of love.

You are falling.

Up.

Down.

Inside.

Outside.

You are the door.

You are the key.

You are the lock.

You are the exile.

You are home.

You wake.

You are in a hospital bed.

The sheets are white.

The air is stale.

It smells of antiseptic.

You look at your hands.

They are pale.

They are shaking.

You are alive.

You are in the world.

The world of smoke.

The world of noise.

You remember the dream.

The white hall.

The black door.

Eleanor.

You think it was a dream.

A fever dream.

A hallucination.

You close your eyes.

You wait for the pain.

The pain is there.

In your chest.

In your bones.

It is real.

You open your eyes.

There is a woman in the chair.

She is old.

Her hair is white.

She is reading a book.

She looks up.

Her eyes are kind.

She is the nurse.

She smiles.

You ask a question.

You do not know what you ask.

Your voice is a whisper.

Who is she?

The nurse tilts her head.

She looks confused.

She looks at the empty chair.

There is no one there.

You are alone.

You are in the room.

The walls are white.

The window is dark.

It is night.

You look at the chair.

The fabric is wrinkled.

It is cold.

No one has sat there.

You look at your hands.

They are still.

You are calm.

You are still.

You are the man who lost.

You are the man who stayed.

You are the man who let go.

You get up.

Your legs are weak.

You walk to the window.

You open it.

The air is cold.

It is crisp.

It smells of rain.

It smells of earth.

It smells of life.

You look out.

The city is dark.

The streetlights are on.

They are yellow.

They are warm.

You see a car.

It passes.

Its headlights sweep across the glass.

They fade.

The dark returns.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The rhythm is steady.

It is the rhythm of the heart.

It is the rhythm of the breath.

It is the rhythm of the world.

You are part of it.

You are not the ghost.

You are not the warden.

You are the man.

The man who loved.

The man who lost.

The man who survived.

You close the window.

You go back to the bed.

You lie down.

The pillow is soft.

The sheets are warm.

You close your eyes.

You do not dream.

You sleep.

It is a deep sleep.

A dark sleep.

A peaceful sleep.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are both.

You are the threshold.

You are the door.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the space between.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the memory.

You are the forgetfulness.

You are the man.

You are the exile.

You are home.

The morning comes.

The sun rises.

The light enters the room.

It is gold.

It is soft.

It touches your face.

You wake.

You are alive.

You are here.

You sit up.

The pain is gone.

The fear is gone.

The weight is gone.

You are light.

You are free.

You look at the chair.

It is empty.

It is just a chair.

Wood.

Fabric.

Nothing.

You smile.

It is a small smile.

A sad smile.

A true smile.

You stand.

You walk to the door.

The door is white.

It is open.

The hall is bright.

The air is fresh.

You step out.

You walk down the hall.

The tiles are cold.

The walls are white.

The lights are on.

You walk.

Step by step.

You do not look back.

You do not look down.

You look forward.

The end of the hall is a door.

It is open.

It leads to the outside.

The garden.

The sky.

The world.

You walk toward it.

Your feet are light.

Your heart is light.

You are the man.

You are the exile.

You are home.

You open the door.

You step out.

The sun is bright.

The air is cold.

The grass is green.

The trees are tall.

The sky is blue.

You are here.

You are now.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are you.

The past is past.

The future is open.

The present is here.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You are the man who lost.

You are the man who stayed.

You are the man who let go.

You are the threshold.

You are the door.

You are the light.

You are the dark.

You are the space between.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the memory.

You are the forgetfulness.

You are the man.

You are the exile.

You are home.

You walk.

Into the light.

Into the world.

Into the life.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are here.