The rain hammered the tin roof.

Elias sat on a crate.

He held a coat.

It was wool.

Heavy.

Blue.

Faded to grey.

He rubbed the sleeve.

The fabric pilled.

It wore thin.

"Put it down," said Thomas.

Thomas stood by the fire.

He held a glass.

The amber liquid trembled.

"Elias. Put it down."

"It is his," Elias said.

His voice was low.

Rough.

Like gravel.

"The Colonel’s coat."

"Who?" Thomas asked.

He did not look at the coat.

He looked at the door.

"The door is locked."

"It is not locked," Elias said.

"It is sealed."

He stood up.

His knees popped.

He was old.

His hands shook.

He shook the coat.

It was light.

It had lost its weight.

It had lost its shape.

It was just cloth now.

"You have walked three days," Thomas said.

"Your boots are split."

Elias looked at his feet.

The leather hung in flaps.

Blood stained the toe.

"I am walking to the gate," Elias said.

"To return it."

"Return what?"

"The honor."

Thomas laughed.

It was a dry sound.

A crack.

"Honor," he said.

"You think you carry it?"

Elias did not answer.

He held the coat tighter.

The wool pressed into his palm.

It was cold.

Even by the fire, it was cold.

"Listen to me," Thomas said.

He stepped forward.

His face was hard.

Like stone.

"You are not a knight."

"You are a dog."

"A stray dog with a bone."

Elias flinched.

But he did not drop the coat.

He hugged it.

He hugged it to his chest.

It was the only thing he had.

The rain stopped.

The air changed.

It was thick.

Stale.

They were in the wilderness.

The trees were bare.

Black sticks against the grey sky.

No birds.

No wind.

Just silence.

A heavy silence.

It pressed on their ears.

Elias walked.

He walked away from the fire.

Thomas followed.

He did not run.

He did not shout.

He just watched.

He was the witness.

He saw everything.

He saw the blood on the boot.

He saw the tremor in the hand.

He saw the coat.

The faded blue.

The worn shoulder.

The torn cuff.

"Why do you hate it?" Elias asked.

He did not turn around.

He kept walking.

"Into the fog."

"I do not hate it," Thomas said.

"I hate what it means."

"It means you think you are clean."

"It means you think you can wash the blood."

"You cannot wash the blood, Elias."

"I am not washing it," Elias said.

"I am burying it."

"Under the coat."

"Under the wool."

"Under the weight."

They walked for an hour.

The path disappeared.

Mud sucked at their feet.

It was cold.

The cold bit.

It went into the bone.

Elias shivered.

He did not stop.

He could not stop.

If he stopped, he would feel it.

The guilt.

It was in his gut.

A knot.

A stone.

He had to move to keep it moving.

To keep it from settling.

To keep it from crushing him.

Thomas walked beside him.

He was quiet.

He was tall.

He was strong.

He could have stopped Elias.

He could have taken the coat.

He could have thrown it in the mud.

He did not.

He walked.

He watched.

He waited.

"Remember the war?" Thomas asked.

His voice was soft.

It was the first soft voice.

"The night at the river."

Elias nodded.

He did not speak.

He could not speak.

His throat was tight.

"We were tired," Thomas said.

"Everyone was tired."

"The Colonel was screaming."

"He was shouting orders."

"He was mad."

"He kicked the boy."

Elias closed his eyes.

He saw it.

The mud.

The scream.

The boy’s face.

Young.

Scared.

Broken.

"The boy ran away," Thomas said.

"He ran into the woods."

"He was gone."

"The Colonel screamed louder."

"He said you let him go."

"He said you were slow."

"He said you were weak."

"I did let him go," Elias said.

His voice was a whisper.

"I was slow."

"I was weak."

"I froze."

"And so the Colonel blamed you," Thomas said.

"He blamed you for the rest of the war."

"He blamed you for the desertion."

"He blamed you for the death."

"He blamed you for everything."

"He took your coat."

"He took your rank."

"He took your name."

"He gave you this."

He pointed to the faded wool.

"This rag."

Elias looked at the coat.

He looked at the tear.

The tear was long.

It ran from the shoulder to the hem.

It was a scar.

The coat had a scar.

Like Elias.

Like the land.

"I am returning it," Elias said.

"To the gate."

"To the place where he died."

"He died with it on."

"They found it on him."

"I found it."

"It was in the mud."

"It was ruined."

"I fixed it."

"I stitched it."

"I wore it."

"I wore it for ten years."

"It is worn now."

"It is faded."

"It is almost gone."

"I am returning it."

"So it is gone."

Thomas stopped.

He turned to Elias.

His face was pale.

"Where is the gate?"

"There is no gate."

"The camp is gone."

"The forest is gone."

"The man is gone."

"Elias. There is no one to give it to."

Elias stopped.

He stood in the mud.

The rain started again.

Fine mist.

Cold.

It settled on the coat.

The blue turned dark.

Wet.

Heavy.

"Then I will leave it," Elias said.

"In the mud."

"Where it came from."

"Where it belongs."

"You are a fool," Thomas said.

"You are a broken man."

"You are chasing a ghost."

"Drop it."

Elias shook his head.

"No."

He looked at Thomas.

His eyes were clear.

Clear and deep.

Like wells.

"I cannot drop it."

"If I drop it, I am still the dog."

"If I drop it, I am still the weak one."

"I have to finish it."

"I have to give it back."

"Even if there is no one."

"Even if there is no gate."

"I have to do it."

"For the boy."

"For the honor."

"For me."

Thomas looked at him.

He saw the truth.

He saw the madness.

But he also saw the peace.

The peace in Elias’s face.

It was not happy.

It was not sad.

It was empty.

It was full.

It was done.

Thomas reached out.

He took the coat.

Gently.

Like it was made of glass.

He held it.

The weight was small.

It was just cloth.

It was just wool.

It was just memory.

"Elias," Thomas said.

"Let me carry it."

Elias looked at him.

He nodded.

He let go.

His hands were empty.

His hands were free.

The tremor stopped.

The shaking stopped.

The cold stopped.

The silence returned.

But it was different now.

It was not heavy.

It was light.

It was the sound of the rain.

It was the sound of the wind.

It was the sound of nothing.

Thomas walked ahead.

He carried the coat.

He held it over his arm.

It trailed in the mud.

It got dirty.

It got wet.

It got darker.

Elias walked behind.

He did not look back.

He looked forward.

The fog was thick.

The trees were black.

The path was gone.

But he did not care.

He did not need the path.

He did not need the gate.

He did not need the Colonel.

He did not need the boy.

He only needed to walk.

To walk until the end.

To walk until the coat was gone.

To walk until he was gone.

Thomas looked back.

Once.

He saw Elias.

Small.

Grey.

Fading.

Like the coat.

Like the man.

Like the time.

They were disappearing.

Into the fog.

Into the silence.

Into the past.

Thomas turned away.

He kept walking.

The coat was heavy.

It was not heavy anymore.

It was light.

It was air.

It was breath.

He breathed it in.

He breathed it out.

The rain fell.

The trees stood.

The world continued.

Without them.

Without the coat.

Without the honor.

Without the guilt.

Just the rain.

Just the mud.

Just the walk.

Elias stopped.

He was at the edge of the wood.

The ground sloped down.

A cliff.

The fog rolled over it.

White.

Blind.

He looked down.

He saw the mist.

He saw the emptiness.

He looked at his hands.

They were clean.

The blood was gone.

The dirt was gone.

The tremor was gone.

He was still.

He was quiet.

He was alone.

He closed his eyes.

He felt the wind.

It was cold.

It was sharp.

It cut his face.

He smiled.

A small smile.

A tiny crack in the stone.

He opened his eyes.

He looked at the void.

He stepped forward.

One foot.

Then the other.

He did not fall.

He flew.

He was light.

He was the coat.

He was the wool.

He was the fade.

He was gone.

Thomas heard the sound.

A soft thud.

A whisper.

A sigh.

He stopped.

He looked over his shoulder.

There was no one.

There was no figure.

There was no man.

There was only the fog.

And the coat.

It was in the air.

Floating.

Drifting.

Down.

Into the white.

Into the nothing.

Thomas stood there.

He held the glass.

The amber liquid was still.

He did not drink.

He did not move.

He watched the fog.

He watched the emptiness.

He waited.

For a long time.

The rain stopped.

The sky cleared.

A single star appeared.

Bright.

Cold.

Distant.

Thomas turned around.

He walked back.

To the fire.

To the crate.

To the silence.

He was alone.

He was the witness.

He was the keeper.

He carried the memory.

He carried the weight.

He carried the truth.

He walked.

Step by step.

Foot by foot.

Through the dark.

Through the cold.

Through the night.

He did not look back.

He did not need to.

The coat was gone.

The man was gone.

The honor was gone.

The guilt was gone.

There was only the walk.

There was only the end.

There was only the peace.

The heavy peace.

The tragic peace.

The final peace.

He reached the fire.

The fire was out.

The ash was cold.

He sat down.

On the crate.

He held his hands in his lap.

He looked at the stars.

They were far away.

They were unreachable.

They were eternal.

He was small.

He was mortal.

He was human.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

He closed his eyes.

He slept.

He did not dream.

He just slept.

In the silence.

In the dark.

In the end.