The rain hits the windshield. Hard. You grip the wheel. Your knuckles are white. The wipers thrash. Left. Right. Left. Right.

You are in the car. It is midnight. The streets of Washington are slick black mirrors. Your uniform is stiff. The badge feels heavy on your chest. It presses into your ribs. You check your watch. Three minutes. You do not breathe. You count the seconds. One. Two. Three.

The building looms. The Capitol. It glows under the floodlights. White stone. Cold. Silent. You kill the engine. The silence is loud. You step out. The air is wet. It smells of wet asphalt and old stone. You walk to the entrance. Your boots crunch on the gravel.

You are not here to arrest. You are not here to observe. You are here to give. You hold the box in your left hand. It is small. Brown cardboard. Taped shut. Inside is the watch. Your brother’s watch. The one he left on the nightstand. The one you stole from the evidence locker. The one that stopped at 4:17 a.m.

You know what they said. You remember the words. They called it a hallucination. A stress response. A break. They said you were sick. They said you had to rest. They said the watch was a metaphor. A symbol of guilt. They did not believe it was real. They did not believe the glass had cracked. They did not believe the face had burned away.

You believe it. You have always believed it. You believe in the things that do not fit. You believe in the static on the radio. You believe in the cold spots in the hallway. You believe in the weight of the air before a storm.

You walk up the steps. The marble is cold under your feet. You pass the guards. They look away. They know you. They fear you. They think you are dangerous. They are right. You are dangerous because you are certain. You do not doubt. Doubt is for the weak. Doubt is for those who accept the world as it is. You do not accept it. You push against it.

You enter the rotunda. The dome stretches up. It is vast. It is empty. The light is dim. You walk to the center. There is a pedestal. It is bare. It is waiting. You place the box on it. You open it. You take out the watch.

The watch is black. The glass is gone. The face is gone. Only the metal remains. A twisted band. A broken case. It looks like a claw. It looks like a wound.

You hold it up. You look at it. You wait.

Nothing happens.

The silence stretches. It pulls. It snaps. You feel the air change. The hair on your arms stands up. The lights flicker. Once. Twice. The hum of the building drops. It becomes a low moan. A sound in your teeth.

You are not afraid. You are ready. You have prepared for this. You have practiced this. You have dreamed of this.

The watch begins to vibrate. It shakes in your hand. It gets hot. It burns. You do not let go. You squeeze it. The metal bites into your palm. You see the heat. You see the light. It is not light. It is absence. It is a hole in the air.

The hole grows. It opens.

You see him.

He is standing in the hole. He is wearing his coat. The grey coat. He is looking at you. His face is calm. His eyes are closed. He is smiling. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile.

You want to speak. You cannot. Your throat is tight. Your mouth is dry. You try to say his name. David. David. David.

The name does not come out. Only a gasp.

He raises his hand. He waves. It is a small wave. A goodbye. A release.

The hole closes. The watch stops vibrating. It cools. It is just metal again. Just broken metal.

You are alone.

The lights come back on. The hum returns. The world is solid again. The stone is hard. The air is cold.

You stand there. You hold the watch. It is dead. It is only a thing. It is only a piece of junk.

You realize something. You realize the truth.

It was never him. It was never a ghost. It was never a spirit. It was never a sign.

It was you.

It was always you.

The watch did not crack. The glass did not break. The face did not burn. You broke it. You smashed it against the wall that night. You did it in a fit of rage. You did it because you hated him. You hated him for leaving. You hated him for dying. You hated him for being gone. You hated him for being perfect. You hated him for being loved.

You smashed it. Then you reassembled it. You glued the pieces. You lied to yourself. You told yourself it was magic. You told yourself it was a message. You told yourself it was real.

It was a lie.

You are not a soldier of the supernatural. You are not a hunter of the unknown. You are a man with a broken heart and a broken watch.

You feel the shame. It rises. It drowns you. You are not special. You are not chosen. You are just a man. A flawed man. A liar.

You look at the watch. You look at the twisted metal. You see your own face in the broken glass. It is distorted. It is ugly. It is human.

You are not defined by the quest. You are not defined by the search. You are defined by the release.

You close your hand. You crush the watch. The metal groans. It bends. It breaks further. You feel the pain in your fingers. It is good. It is real.

You drop it. It clatters on the marble floor. A small sound. A final sound.

You turn around. You walk to the door. Your steps are heavy. Your back is straight. You are not running. You are walking.

You pass the guards again. They look at you. Their eyes are wide. They see your face. They see the emptiness in it. They see the peace.

You walk out into the rain. The water soaks your uniform. It runs down your face. You do not wipe it away. You let it fall.

You get back in the car. You sit in the driver’s seat. You do not start the engine. You sit in the dark. You breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

The rain hits the roof. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You think of David. You think of his laugh. You think of his voice. You think of the way he tied his shoes. You think of the way he hummed when he cooked.

You do not cry. Crying is for the past. You are in the present. The present is here. The present is the rain. The present is the cold. The present is the silence.

You start the car. The engine roars. It is loud. It is alive. You drive away. You drive into the night.

You do not look back. You do not need to. The building is behind you. The pedestal is empty. The watch is on the floor.

You are free.

You are not free. You are free.

You drive for miles. The city fades. The lights blur. The road is straight. You drive until the sun begins to rise. The sky turns grey. Then pink. Then gold.

You stop at a rest area. You park the car. You step out. The air is clear. The smell of coffee from the station. The smell of wet grass.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are whole.

You buy a coffee. It is hot. You hold the cup. You feel the warmth. You drink it. It is bitter. It is good.

You think about what you will do now. You will go home. You will sleep. You will wake up. You will live.

You are not a hero. You are not a victim. You are a man.

You get back in the car. You drive home.

The road is quiet. The sun is high. The world is bright.

You are alive.

That is enough.

You pull into your driveway. The house is dark. The windows are black. You park the car. You step out.

You walk to the door. You unlock it. You enter.

The house is silent. It is empty. It is yours.

You take off your boots. You hang up your coat. You walk to the kitchen. You turn on the light.

The light is warm. It is yellow. It is soft.

You sit at the table. You put your hands on the wood. It is smooth. It is solid.

You close your eyes.

You open them.

You are here.

You are home.

The nightmare is over.

The dawn is here.

You breathe.

You live.