The hall is gold. Not the bright, screaming gold of new coins, but the dull, tallow-yellow of old fat. It sits in the middle of the room like a rotting tooth. You stand at the door. Your boots are heavy. The wood floor groans under your weight. You are a soldier. Or you were. The uniform fits tight across the shoulders. The brass buttons are cold. They bite into your skin.

The air smells of wax and decay. A thick, sweet rot. It clings to the back of your throat. You swallow. It tastes like rust. The room is large. Too large. The ceiling is high. Painted with angels. Their wings are chipped. The paint flakes off like dead skin. It falls in the dust. It settles on the floor. It settles on you.

You walk forward. One step. Then another. The floor is uneven. Your center of gravity shifts. You lean. You correct. You are old. Your knees ache. The pain is a dull throb. It lives in your bones. It has been there for years. It does not leave. It waits. It watches.

The crowd is there. They sit in rows. The chairs are high-backed. They are red velvet. The velvet is worn. The color is faded. It looks like dried blood. The people sit stiffly. They are young. Some are old. Their faces are pale. They do not blink. They watch you. Their eyes are flat. Empty. Like stones in a river.

You know them. You do not know them. You served with them. Or you watched them serve. They are the children of the powerful. The sons of the men who built this hall. The men who made the gold. The men who made the laws. The laws that break you. The laws that break us all.

You reach the center. The gold is there. It is a chair. A throne, they call it. It is not a throne. It is a cage. It is made of metal. Gilded metal. The arms are curved. They look like claws. The back is high. It blocks the view. It blocks the light. It blocks the truth.

You sit.

The wood creaks. It is a sound like a bone snapping. You wince. You do not move. You keep your back straight. You are a soldier. You hold the line. The line is here. The line is this chair. The line is this moment.

A man stands. He is tall. He wears a suit. The suit is black. It is cut sharp. It fits like armor. He has a face like a knife. Thin. Cold. He is the judge. Or the master. Or the god. It does not matter. He is the one who decides. He is the one who breaks.

He speaks. His voice is low. It carries. It fills the room. It hits you in the chest. It is a physical blow. You brace for it. You do not flinch. You stare at the floor. The dust is thick. It is gray. It is soft. It covers everything. It covers the gold. It covers the wood. It covers the truth.

"You are here," he says. "To be judged."

You do not answer. You do not need to. Your silence is your answer. Your silence is your weapon. You have used it before. In the field. In the mud. In the rain. You have used it when they asked you to fire. You have used it when they asked you to look away. You have used it when they asked you to be a man. You were not a man. You were a tool. A tool that broke.

He continues. He speaks of laws. He speaks of order. He speaks of duty. The words are heavy. They are like stones. They drop into your mind. They sink. They settle in the dark. You let them fall. You do not catch them. You let them bury you.

The room is quiet. The only sound is your breathing. It is shallow. It is quick. It is a bird trapped in a cage. It beats against your ribs. It wants out. It cannot. You hold it in. You hold it down. You hold it like a secret. Like a sin.

The gold chair is hot. It burns through your uniform. It burns your skin. It is a brand. It is a mark. It says you are here. It says you are seen. It says you are nothing. It says you are everything.

You look at the people. Their eyes are still. They are afraid. They are angry. They are hungry. They want blood. They want spectacle. They want to see you break. They want to see the soldier fall. They want to see the mask slip. They want to see the man beneath. The man who is tired. The man who is old. The man who is alone.

You stand up.

The chair scrapes against the floor. It is a harsh sound. It cuts the air. It cuts the silence. The people gasp. They lean forward. They lean in. They want to see. They want to know.

You walk away. You walk toward the door. The gold is behind you. It glows. It pulses. It is alive. It is hungry. It wants more. It wants your soul. It wants your blood. It wants your life.

You do not stop. You walk. Your boots hit the floor. One step. Two steps. Three steps. The rhythm is steady. It is the rhythm of your heart. It is the rhythm of your past. It is the rhythm of your end.

The judge speaks again. "Stop."

You do not stop.

"Stop!" he shouts. His voice cracks. It is raw. It is broken. He is afraid. He is angry. He is afraid of you. He is afraid of your silence. He is afraid of your freedom.

You reach the door. The wood is cold. It is hard. It is real. It is the only real thing in this hall. The gold is a lie. The people are a lie. The laws are a lie. The door is real. You push it. It opens.

Light floods in. It is white. It is blinding. It is pure. It is the light of the outside world. The world without gold. The world without walls. The world without rules.

You step out.

The air is cool. It hits your face. It is clean. It is fresh. It tastes like rain. It tastes like freedom. It tastes like death.

Behind you, the hall is dark. The gold is gone. The people are gone. The judge is gone. They are shadows. They are ghosts. They are nothing.

You walk into the light. Your feet hit the pavement. It is cold. It is hard. It is real. You walk. You do not look back. You do not turn. You do not stop.

The pain in your knees is gone. The ache in your bones is gone. The weight on your shoulders is gone. You are light. You are empty. You are free.

You walk down the street. The buildings are tall. They are gray. They are old. They are broken. They are like you. They stand. They endure. They wait. They watch.

You pass a shop. The window is broken. The glass is shattered. It lies on the floor. It glitters. It is beautiful. It is sharp. It is dangerous. You do not look. You keep walking.

You pass a park. The grass is green. It is wet. It is alive. It is growing. It is fighting. It is winning. You do not look. You keep walking.

You pass a fountain. The water is clear. It flows. It never stops. It never dies. It is eternal. It is pure. It is true. You do not look. You keep walking.

You reach the end of the street. It is a cliff. It is high. It is steep. It drops into the sea. The sea is dark. It is deep. It is cold. It is full. It is waiting.

You stand at the edge. You look down. The water is far away. It is a mirror. It reflects the sky. It reflects the clouds. It reflects you.

You see yourself. You see the uniform. You see the brass buttons. You see the face. It is old. It is tired. It is empty. It is full.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a true smile.

You step forward.

The wind pushes you. It is strong. It is cold. It is alive. It takes you. It carries you. It holds you.

You fall.

The air is silent. The world is still. The gold is gone. The pain is gone. The fear is gone.

You are falling.

You are flying.

You are free.

The water hits you. It is cold. It is hard. It is real. It takes you. It holds you. It drowns you.

You are gone.

The hall is empty. The gold is dull. The people are gone. The judge is gone. The truth is gone. The lie remains. The lie is gold. The lie is light. The lie is life.

The hall stands. It waits. It watches. It remembers. It forgets.

The gold shines.

The gold shines.

The gold shines.