The dream began with the smell of wet iron.

It was a heavy scent. It coated the back of the throat. It tasted like blood. And it tasted like rust.

Edward stood in a field. The grass was high. It was black. It swayed without wind. The sky above was a bruise. Purple. Dark. It did not move. It hung there. Heavy. Silent.

He wore his uniform. The tunic was stiff. The brass buttons were cold. He felt the weight of his coat. He felt the weight of the silence.

A figure stood ten yards away.

It was a shape. It had no face. It wore armor. The metal was dull. It reflected nothing. It absorbed the light.

Edward did not run. He walked.

His boots sank into the mud. The mud was thick. It pulled at his heels. It wanted to keep him.

He reached for his sidearm. The leather was dry. The metal was cold. He drew the weapon. The slide locked back. The chamber was empty.

He checked it again.

Empty.

The figure raised a hand. It was a gauntlet. It was large. It was black.

Edward lowered the weapon.

He looked at the gauntlet. He looked at the empty air.

He remembered the drill.

He remembered the range.

He remembered the sound.

The figure lunged.

The motion was slow. It was like syrup. It was like oil.

Edward stepped back. The mud grabbed his foot. He fell.

He hit the ground. The air left his lungs. The pain was sharp. It was clean.

The figure stood over him. The black metal loomed. It blocked the sky. It blocked the light.

Edward looked up. He saw the reflection in the metal.

It was not the figure.

It was a room.

A small room.

Wooden walls. A single window. Dust motes dancing in the beam.

A table. A chair.

A woman sitting in the chair.

She was young. Her hair was dark. She held a mug. The steam rose. It curled. It vanished.

She did not look at him. She looked at the wall. She waited.

Edward tried to speak. His voice was gone. He had no voice. He had no mouth.

The figure raised the gauntlet. It swung down.

The world turned white.

Edward woke.

He was in a cell.

The stone was cold. It pressed against his back. The air was stale. It smelled of sweat. It smelled of fear.

He sat up. His head throbbed. A dull ache. A constant pulse.

He looked at his hands. They were trembling. The fingers were stiff. The nails were dirt.

He looked at the door. It was iron. It was barred. The bars were thick. They were black.

A shadow fell across the floor.

A man stood in the doorway.

He was tall. He wore a uniform. It was dark. The insignia was silver. It was a scale.

The man stepped in. He did not look at Edward. He looked at the floor. He looked at the wall. He looked at the bars.

He was a guard. Or a judge. It was hard to tell. The face was flat. The eyes were dead.

The man spoke.

The voice was low. It was dry. It sounded like paper tearing.

"Did you dream again?"

Edward said nothing. He watched the man. He watched the silver scale on the chest.

The man moved closer. He crouched. The floor creaked. The stone groaned.

"You are a soldier," the man said. "You fight for order. You fight for the law. You do not dream."

Edward looked at the man. He saw the fatigue. He saw the dark circles. He saw the fear.

The man was afraid.

"I remember," Edward said.

His voice was rough. It was a rasp. It sounded like gravel.

The man flinched. He stood up. He straightened his back.

"Remembering is a breach," the man said. "You are to be corrected. The dream is a glitch. It is a virus. It must be purged."

Edward looked at the bars. He looked at the wall. He looked at the shadow of the man.

"I was there," Edward said. "In the dream. I saw her."

The man stopped. He froze. His hand went to his hip. He did not draw a weapon. He did not reach for a tool.

He just stopped.

"Who?" the man asked.

"My sister," Edward said. "Clara."

The name hung in the air. It was heavy. It was real.

The man stared at him. The dead eyes widened. The flat face crumbled. The fear returned. It was stronger now. It was raw.

"Clara is gone," the man said. "Clara is dust. Clara is history. You cannot see her. You cannot speak to her. It is a lie."

Edward stood up. The cell was small. He had no room to move. He pressed his back against the wall.

"I saw her," Edward said. "She was waiting. She was not afraid."

The man backed away. He hit the door. The iron rattled. The sound was loud. It was sharp.

"Stop it," the man said. His voice shook. "Stop it."

Edward moved forward. The man moved back.

The cell was tight. There was no space. There was no room for escape.

The man drew his weapon. It was a baton. It was silver. It was bright.

He swung it.

Edward caught it.

He caught it in his hand. The metal burned. The pain was hot. It was bright.

He did not drop it. He held it. He squeezed it.

The man’s face twisted. The eyes were wide. The mouth was open. The sound was a gasp.

Edward pulled the baton away. He pulled it hard. The metal screeched. The sound was high. It was piercing.

The man fell. He hit the floor. He lay there. He did not move.

Edward looked down. He looked at the silver baton. He looked at the man.

He kicked the man. Once. Twice.

The man did not get up.

Edward turned to the door. He looked at the lock. It was complex. It was mechanical. Gears. Pins. Springs.

He did not have a tool. He did not have a key.

He had his hands.

He looked at his fingers. They were strong. They were scarred. They were steady.

He put his fingers in the lock. He felt the pins. He felt the springs. He felt the tension.

He pushed.

The pins moved. One by one.

The first pin set.

The second pin set.

The third pin set.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

The light was bright. It was white. It was blinding.

Edward stepped out.

The hallway was long. It was empty. The walls were stone. The floor was cold.

He walked. His boots clacked. The sound was rhythmic. It was steady.

He walked for a long time. The hallway seemed to stretch. It seemed to loop. It seemed to end.

Then he saw it.

A door.

It was wood. It was brown. It was old.

He stopped. He looked at the door. He looked at his hands.

He reached out. He touched the wood. It was rough. It was warm.

He pushed the door.

It opened.

The room was small. It was quiet.

There was a table. There was a chair.

A woman sat in the chair.

She was young. Her hair was dark. She held a mug. The steam rose. It curled. It vanished.

She looked at him.

Her eyes were green. They were bright. They were full of life.

She smiled.

It was a small smile. It was sad. It was real.

Edward felt the wall in his chest. It cracked. It broke.

The pain was there. It was the old pain. It was the deep pain. It was the pain of loss.

But it was not alone.

It was joined by something else.

Something warm.

Something solid.

He walked to the table. He sat down.

The chair was hard. The wood was cold.

He looked at Clara.

She looked at him.

She did not speak. She did not need to.

He picked up the mug. It was heavy. It was warm.

He drank.

The tea was bitter. It was hot. It burned his tongue.

It was real.

He looked at the window. The light was fading. The sky was turning gray.

The dream was ending.

He knew it. He felt it.

The room was dissolving. The edges were blurring. The colors were fading.

Clara stood up. She looked at him. Her face was calm.

She reached out. She touched his hand.

The touch was light. It was soft.

It was the last thing he felt.

The white returned.

The iron smell returned.

Edward woke.

He was in the cell.

The stone was cold. The air was stale.

He sat up. His head throbbed.

He looked at the door. The bars were still there. The lock was still closed.

But something was different.

The lock was open.

The door was ajar.

The hallway was dark. It was empty.

He stood up. He walked to the door.

He stepped out.

The hallway was long. It was quiet.

He walked.

He walked until he found the door.

The wood. The brown. The old.

He pushed it.

It opened.

The room was there.

The table. The chair.

But the chair was empty.

The mug was there. It was cold. The tea was stale.

The steam was gone.

The light was gone.

The room was empty.

Edward looked at the table. He looked at the mug.

He sat down.

He picked up the mug. It was cold.

He put it down.

He stood up.

He looked at the walls. He looked at the floor.

He looked at his hands.

They were empty.

He closed his eyes.

He waited.

The silence was loud. It was heavy.

It was real.

He opened his eyes.

He walked to the door.

He left the room.

The hallway was long. He walked back.

He passed the cell. The door was open. The man was still on the floor.

Edward did not stop. He did not look.

He walked on.

The end of the hallway was a gate. It was iron. It was large.

It was closed.

He looked at the gate. He looked at the lock.

It was complex. It was mechanical.

He put his fingers in the lock.

He felt the pins. He felt the springs.

He pushed.

The pins moved.

The lock clicked.

The gate opened.

The light was bright. It was white.

He stepped out.

The world was gray. It was flat. It was endless.

There was no sky. There was no ground.

There was only the gray.

He walked.

He walked into the gray.

He did not stop.

He did not look back.

He walked.

The pain was there.

It was quiet.

It was his.