The dream was a wall of white.

Thomas stood before it.

It was not a wall of stone.

It was a wall of bone.

Smooth. Cold.

It stretched up into a dark that had no stars.

It stretched down into a floor that had no end.

He pressed his hand against it.

The surface was warm.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

Like his own.

He was a soldier.

He wore the red coat of the Crown.

The buttons were silver.

They were cold against his chest.

His name was Thomas Ashworth.

He was a sergeant.

He had served for forty years.

He had not slept in a bed for forty years.

He slept in tents.

He slept in the mud.

He slept in the dark.

But this was a wall.

This was a prison.

The door was behind him.

It was made of iron.

It was locked.

He turned.

He saw the lock.

It was a keyhole.

But it was not a hole.

It was an eye.

The eye was black.

The eye was open.

It watched him.

Thomas did not blink.

He knew it was watching.

He had always known.

He was not afraid.

Fear was for boys.

He was a man.

He was a soldier.

Soldiers do not feel fear.

They feel duty.

He turned back to the wall.

He placed his palm flat.

The wall shuddered.

A sound rose.

Low.

Deep.

It was a hum.

It was a song.

It was the sound of roots growing.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the roots.

They were in the earth.

They were in the stone.

They were in the bone.

They were in him.

He was the root.

The root was the wall.

The wall was the prison.

He was the prisoner.

He was the jailer.

He was the key.

He opened his eyes.

The wall was gone.

He was in a room.

The room was small.

The room was square.

The walls were stone.

The floor was stone.

There was a door.

The door was iron.

The door was open.

Beyond the door was a corridor.

The corridor was dark.

He stepped forward.

His boots clacked.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

He walked.

He walked until the light changed.

The light was blue.

The light was cold.

He reached a second door.

This door was wood.

It was old.

It was rotting.

He pushed it.

It did not move.

He pushed harder.

His muscles strained.

His breath came short.

The door creaked.

It opened.

Inside was a garden.

The garden was dead.

The soil was black.

The plants were gray.

There was no wind.

There was no sound.

There was a figure.

It stood in the center.

It was a man.

It was wearing a red coat.

The coat was torn.

The buttons were missing.

The man had no face.

Where the face should be, there was only smooth skin.

No eyes.

No nose.

No mouth.

Thomas stopped.

He drew his sword.

The steel was bright.

The steel was clean.

He raised it.

The figure did not move.

It did not breathe.

It was waiting.

Thomas lowered the sword.

He sheathed it.

He walked toward the figure.

The ground was soft.

It gave way under his feet.

It felt like flesh.

He stopped three feet away.

He looked at the faceless man.

He knew him.

He had always known him.

It was his friend.

It was Edward.

Edward Bradshaw.

They had been friends for forty years.

They had marched together.

They had eaten together.

They had bled together.

Edward had died at the Battle of Culloden.

Thomas had held his head.

Thomas had watched his eyes go dark.

But here, Edward was alive.

Or something like alive.

"Thomas."

The voice came from the air.

It came from the ground.

It came from the sky.

It was Edward’s voice.

It was soft.

It was sad.

"Thomas."

"I see you, Edward."

Thomas’s voice was steady.

"I see you."

"You have come."

"I have come."

"Why?"

"To end it."

"End what?"

"The dream."

"The wall."

"The prison."

Edward did not answer.

The gray plants swayed.

There was no wind.

They swayed because they wanted to.

They swayed because they were alive.

They were not dead.

They were waiting.

Thomas looked at his hands.

They were trembling.

He clenched them into fists.

He was a soldier.

He did not tremble.

He stepped forward.

He placed his hand on the faceless man’s shoulder.

The skin was warm.

It was soft.

It was real.

"Edward."

"Yes."

"I must kill you."

"Yes."

"I am sorry."

"Do not be sorry."

"Why are you here?"

"I am the root."

"I am the wall."

"I am the lock."

"I am the key."

Thomas nodded.

He understood.

He had always understood.

He was not the hero.

He was the victim.

He was the disease.

He was the cancer.

He had to cut it out.

He drew his sword.

The steel sang.

The sound was sharp.

The sound was clear.

It cut the air.

It cut the silence.

It cut the time.

He raised the sword.

He aimed for the neck.

The neck was bare.

The neck was smooth.

He swung.

The blade hit the flesh.

There was no blood.

There was no bone.

There was only light.

White light.

Blinding light.

It filled the room.

It filled the corridor.

It filled the dark.

Thomas screamed.

The scream was not his.

The scream was the wall’s.

The scream was the root’s.

The scream was the world’s.

He fell to his knees.

The sword fell from his hand.

It clattered on the stone.

The light faded.

The room was dark again.

The figure was gone.

The garden was gone.

The door was gone.

Thomas was alone.

He was in the room.

The room was small.

The room was square.

The walls were stone.

The floor was stone.

There was a door.

The door was iron.

The door was locked.

He was back.

He was in the prison.

He was in the dream.

He was in the wall.

He pressed his hand against the wall.

It was warm.

It pulsed.

He heard the hum.

He heard the song.

He heard the roots.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the roots.

He was the root.

The root was the wall.

The wall was the prison.

He was the prisoner.

He was the jailer.

He was the key.

He opened his eyes.

He saw the lock.

The lock was an eye.

The eye was black.

The eye was open.

It watched him.

It saw him.

It knew him.

It loved him.

It was his friend.

It was Edward.

Edward had not died.

Edward had become the wall.

Edward had become the prison.

Edward had become the fate.

Thomas could not escape.

He had tried.

He had always tried.

He had fought.

He had bled.

He had broken bones.

He had broken walls.

But the wall always returned.

The wall was stronger.

The wall was older.

The wall was eternal.

He was not a soldier.

He was a ghost.

He was a memory.

He was a mistake.

He was a flaw in the pattern.

He had to be removed.

He had to be erased.

He had to be forgotten.

He looked at his hands.

They were fading.

The skin was turning to ash.

The fingers were crumbling.

The bones were dust.

He was disappearing.

He was becoming the wall.

He was becoming the root.

He was becoming the fate.

He did not fight.

He did not struggle.

He did not scream.

He accepted it.

He had always accepted it.

Duty is duty.

Fate is fate.

Love is love.

Friendship is friendship.

Even in death.

Even in the dark.

Even in the wall.

He smiled.

The smile was sad.

The smile was beautiful.

He closed his eyes.

He let go.

He let go of the sword.

He let go of the name.

He let go of the past.

He let go of the self.

He became the white.

He became the hum.

He became the root.

The wall pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it was still.

The room was empty.

The floor was stone.

The walls were stone.

The door was iron.

The door was locked.

No one was there.

No one had ever been there.

The dust settled.

The dust settled on the stone.

The dust settled on the silence.

The dust settled on the time.

The dust settled on the fate.

The dust settled on the love.

The dust settled on the end.

The end was not an end.

It was a beginning.

It was a root.

It was a wall.

It was a prison.

It was a dream.

It was a truth.

The truth was simple.

The truth was hard.

The truth was cold.

The truth was warm.

The truth was here.

The truth was now.

The truth was always.

The truth was never.

The truth was us.

The truth was you.

The truth was me.

The truth was the wall.

The wall remained.

The wall endured.

The wall waited.

The wall watched.

The wall knew.

The wall loved.

The wall was.