"Cut it out."

The voice is not yours. It belongs to the man in the grey uniform. He stands in the doorway. His face is a mask of stone. Behind him, the corridor stretches into a fog that smells of rust and wet wool.

"Cut it out," you say. Your voice cracks. You spit on the floor. The liquid hits the metal grating with a soft hiss. It does not spread. It sits there, trembling.

"Who are you?" the man asks.

"I am the guard," you say. "I am the wall."

"Then hold the line."

You hold the line. Your hands are shaking. You grip your rifle. The wood is cold. It burns your palms. You are in the tower. The tower is old. The bricks are weeping. Water runs down the face of the building like tears. It is a Victorian structure, but it does not look like any building you have ever seen. The windows are too high. The doors are too low. The air is thick. It presses against your skin. It tastes of iron.

You look up. The sky is not blue. It is a bruised purple. Clouds hang low. They do not move. They hover. They watch.

"Is my father here?" you ask.

The man in grey does not answer. He looks at your hands. He looks at your eyes. He sees the fear. He sees the rage. He sees the love.

"Your father is in the basement," he says. "He is sick."

"Sick?"

"The rot," he says. "It took him."

You know what he means. The rot is everywhere. It is in the walls. It is in the pipes. It is in the air. It is a disease. It is a war. It is a god. It eats the stone. It eats the flesh. It eats the memory.

"I will save him," you say.

"You cannot," the man says. "It is too late."

"Watch me."

You turn away. You walk down the stairs. The stairs spiral down. The steps are worn. They are smooth. They are dangerous. You slip. You catch yourself. Your heart hammers in your chest. It beats like a drum. It beats like a machine.

The basement is dark. You light a match. The flame flickers. It is weak. It is afraid. The light reveals the shadows. The shadows move. They have shapes. They have limbs. They have faces.

You see your father.

He sits in a chair. He is small. He is thin. His skin is grey. His eyes are closed. He is breathing. The breath is shallow. It is wet. It rattles in his chest.

"Father," you say.

He does not open his eyes.

"Father, wake up."

He does not move.

You kneel beside him. You take his hand. It is cold. It is heavy. It is dead. But it is not dead. It is waiting.

"Tell me what to do," you whisper.

The shadows in the corner move. They coalesce. They form a shape. It is a man. It is tall. It wears a uniform. It is the same uniform as the man in the doorway. But this one is older. This one is broken.

"Run," the shadow says.

"No."

"Run," the shadow repeats. "He is gone. Only the vessel remains. If you stay, you will become part of the wall. You will become stone. You will become the rot."

"I am not stone," you say. "I am flesh. I am blood. I am his son."

"You are nothing," the shadow says. "You are a mistake. A flaw in the design. The tower does not need sons. The tower needs bricks."

You stand up. Your legs are weak. You sway. You look at your father. You look at the shadow.

"I will not run," you say.

"You are foolish," the shadow says.

"Fools build the world," you say.

You reach for your rifle. You raise it. You aim at the shadow. You pull the trigger. The gun does not fire. There is no sound. There is no smoke. There is only silence. The gun is empty. It has always been empty. You have been holding an empty gun for years. You have been protecting an empty house.

The shadow smiles. Its teeth are jagged. Its eyes are black holes.

"Look at the wall," the shadow says.

You turn. You look at the wall. The bricks are moving. They are sliding. They are grinding. They are coming apart. The mortar is crumbling. The dust falls like snow.

The wall is falling.

You run. You run to your father. You grab him. You lift him. He is light. He is like a bundle of bones. You carry him. You run up the stairs. The stairs are collapsing behind you. Debris rains down. You do not stop. You run. You run faster. Your lungs burn. Your legs scream.

You burst through the door. The man in grey is still there. He stands in the doorway. He does not move. He does not blink.

"Put him down," the man says.

"I will not."

"Put him down, or I will shoot you."

The man raises his hand. He holds a pistol. It is a small gun. It is black. It is shiny.

"Shoot me," you say. "Shoot my father. It will not matter. We are already dead."

The man hesitates. His finger hovers over the trigger. The air grows thick. The fog presses in. The clouds above groan.

"Why?" the man asks. His voice is soft. It is sad.

"Because he is my father," you say. "Because I love him. Because it is the only thing that is real."

The man lowers the gun. He looks at you. He looks at your father. He sees the tears on your face. He sees the blood on your hands. He sees the truth.

"Let us pass," you say.

The man steps aside. He moves to the side. He opens the door. The door swings wide. Beyond the door, there is no hallway. There is no corridor. There is a field. The field is green. The grass is tall. The wind blows. It is warm. It is alive.

You step out. You leave the tower behind. The tower stands there, crumbling. It is silent. It is empty. It is a ghost.

You walk into the field. The sun rises. It is red. It is bright. It burns your eyes. You close them. You feel the heat. You feel the life.

Your father coughs. It is a wet sound. It is a painful sound. You stop. You look at him. He is opening his eyes. They are clear. They are blue. They are human.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"I don't know," you say.

"Is it over?"

"I don't know."

He looks at you. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is a tired smile. But it is real.

"Thank you," he says.

You do not answer. You cannot answer. You hold him tighter. You walk. You walk into the light. The light swallows you. The light swallows the tower. The light swallows the fog.

There is no more rot. There is no more stone. There is only the wind. There is only the grass. There is only the breath.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The end is not an end. It is a beginning. It is a breath. It is a beat. It is a life.

You are alive.

He is alive.

The world is real.

The tower is gone.

The war is over.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.

The wind blows.

The sun shines.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The end.

The end.

The end.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Darkness.

Darkness.

Darkness.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.