He dreamed of the cup.

It was white. Porcelain. Thin as breath. It sat on a table of black wood in a room that smelled of wet stone and old blood. Thomas Ashworth reached for it. His hand shook. He was a sergeant. He knew how to hold a rifle. He knew how to hold a door. He did not know how to hold a thing so fragile.

He gripped it.

The cup shattered.

Not with a crash. With a sigh. A soft, white dust that hung in the air like snow. Thomas stared at his empty hand. The dust settled on his fingers. It was cold.

He woke up in the trench.

Rain hammered the mud. The smell was different here. Wet earth. Cordite. Fear. Thomas sat up. His head throbbed. He looked at his hands. They were caked in grey dirt. He rubbed them together. He expected to see white dust. He saw only grime.

"Sergeant."

The voice was rough. Young. Peter Whitmore. He was nineteen. He looked ten.

"Get up, Sergeant. The Corporal wants us at the wire."

Thomas stood. His knees popped. He moved through the dark. The trench was a throat. It swallowed sound. It swallowed men. He walked. Peter followed.

"Did you sleep?" Peter asked.

"No."

"I dreamed about my mother. She was making pie. Apple. I could smell the cinnamon."

Thomas said nothing. He thought of the cup. The white dust. It felt more real than the mud under his boots.

They reached the wire. It was midnight. The rain had stopped. The sky was a bruise. Purple and black.

"Check the line," said Corporal Halloway. He was a big man. He did not shout. He did not need to. His voice was a flat stone in a stream. "If it’s cut, we die. If it’s not cut, we work."

Thomas and Peter climbed over the parapet. The ground was soft. They walked. The silence was heavy. It pressed against their eardrums.

"Look," Peter whispered. He pointed.

In the middle of no man’s land, there was a shape. A table. Black wood. On it, a white cup.

Thomas stopped. His breath caught in his throat.

"Is that... is that real?" Peter asked.

Thomas did not answer. He stepped forward. The mud sucked at his boots. He pulled them free. He walked toward the table.

"Hold," Halloway’s voice came from the trench. "Ashworth. Hold."

Thomas did not hold. He walked.

The distance was short. Ten yards. Twenty. He felt time stretch. The world narrowed to the white spot on the black wood.

He reached the table.

The cup was there. It was whole. It glowed in the dark.

Thomas reached out.

A bullet hit the table. Wood splinters flew. The cup tilted. It did not break. It stayed.

Thomas grabbed it.

He ran back.

The mud was deep. He slipped. He fell. He held the cup against his chest. It was warm. It was alive.

He crawled back to the trench. He threw himself inside.

Halloway was there. He grabbed Thomas by the collar. He pulled him up.

"What is that?" Halloway demanded. His face was pale. His eyes were wide.

"A cup," Thomas said. His voice was a rasp.

"A cup?" Halloway looked at the object in Thomas’s hand. "Where did you get it?"

"From the table."

"There is no table."

"There was."

Halloway stared at him. He looked at the cup. It was plain. White. Unmarked.

"You are not fit for duty," Halloway said. "You are losing your mind. The shelling did something to you."

"I was there," Thomas said. "I saw it."

"You saw nothing. You are a danger. Put it down."

Thomas looked at the cup. He looked at Halloway. He looked at Peter, who was staring from the shadows.

"No," Thomas said.

Halloway’s face hardened. He reached for the cup.

Thomas struck him.

It was not a planned blow. It was a reflex. A primal surge. He hit Halloway in the jaw. The Corporal staggered back. He hit the wall of the trench. He slid down. He did not get up.

"Help him," Peter said. His voice was high. "Sergeant, help him."

Thomas stood there. His hand was still raised. The cup was in his other hand.

"He is just a man," Thomas said.

"He is your superior," Peter said. "Put the cup down. Let’s get him to the aid station."

Thomas looked at Halloway. The Corporal was breathing. He was alive. But he was out. He was broken. Like the cup in the dream.

Thomas looked at the cup.

It was no longer glowing. It was just porcelain. Cold. Heavy.

"I have to give it back," Thomas said.

"Give it back where?" Peter asked. "To who?"

"To the fate."

Peter looked at him. He looked at the unconscious Corporal. He looked at the dark sky.

"We are going to court-martial you," Peter said softly. "They will lock you up. They will take that cup from you. They will say you stole it. They will say you are mad."

"Let them," Thomas said.

He turned. He walked out of the trench.

Peter followed.

"Come back," Peter begged. "Please. Don’t do this."

Thomas did not stop.

He walked into the dark. He walked into the rain.

The rain began again. It was cold. It washed the blood from his knuckles. He walked toward the table.

The table was still there.

He placed the cup on the black wood.

He stepped back.

The cup shattered.

It did not make a sound. The white dust rose. It mixed with the rain. It disappeared.

Thomas stood in the mud. He was alone.

He felt a weight lift from his shoulders. It was a terrible weight. A heavy thing. But it was gone.

He turned back to the trench.

Peter was there. He was crying. He was holding a rifle.

"Come back, Thomas," Peter said.

Thomas looked at him. He saw the fear in the boy’s eyes. He saw the confusion. He saw the loss.

"I can’t," Thomas said.

He turned away. He walked into the night. He did not look back.

He knew he would not survive the war. He knew he would not survive the court. He knew the cup was gone. He knew the dream was over.

But he was free.

The rain fell. It covered the ground. It covered the blood. It covered the dust.

Thomas walked.

He walked until the trench disappeared behind him. He walked until the world was just rain and dark and the sound of his own breathing.

He was a man. He was a soldier. He was a dreamer.

And he was alone.

The cup was gone.

The fate was done.

He did not run. He did not fight. He simply walked.

Into the pale night.

Into the end.

The silence was loud.

It was the loudest thing he had ever heard.

And it was enough.