The fire in the great hall roared. Smoke stung the eyes. The meat smoked. The wine was red. Dark. Heavy. It coated the throat. It tasted of iron. Old iron.

Corporal Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the table. He held his cup. He did not drink. He watched the flames. The fire danced. It ate the wood. It cracked. It popped.

Major Sterling stood. He raised his glass. His face was ruddy. Full. He smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

"Drink," Sterling said. His voice was loud. It filled the room. It bounced off the stone walls. "To the peace. To the silence."

The men laughed. They drank. They poured. The noise rose. A wave of sound. It hit Elias. He flinched. He pulled his coat tighter. The wool smelled of dust. And damp.

Elias looked at his hands. They were rough. Calloused. The skin was cracked. Like old bark. He held a spoon. It was silver. It was worn. The handle was smooth. Polished by years of use. It was his father’s spoon.

He remembered the kitchen. The white tiles. The cold light. The smell of bleach. And bone.

"Corporal." Sterling’s voice cut through the noise. Sharp. Like a knife. "You look pale. Are you ill?"

The table went quiet. The laughter died. It was sudden. Like a snuffed candle.

Elias looked up. He met Sterling’s gaze. Sterling’s eyes were hard. Cold. They were the eyes of a hawk. Watching for a mouse.

"No, sir," Elias said. His voice was low. Rough. "I am fine."

"Sure?" Sterling leaned forward. He smelled of tobacco. And brandy. "You have been distant. Quiet. Men talk, Thorne. They whisper."

Elias did not blink. He held the spoon. He felt the heat from the fire. It was on his face.

"What do they say, sir?" Elias asked.

"They say you are haunted," Sterling said. He smiled again. The thin smile. "They say you hear things. In the dark. In the woods."

The room was silent. The fire crackled. A log fell. It hissed.

Elias looked at the men. They watched him. Their faces were blank. Masks. Some looked away. Others stared.

He thought of the woods. The black pines. The mist. The ground was soft. It swallowed his boots. He had walked there. Every night. For a year.

He had followed the sound. The humming. It was low. Deep. It came from the earth. It pulled at his bones.

He had found the tree. The old oak. It was dead. White. Bleached by the sun. He had climbed it. He had looked down.

He saw the face.

It was his sister’s face. Clara.

She was buried there. Or so the ledger said.

The spoon in his hand trembled. He set it down. The metal clinked against the wood. The sound was loud.

"I need air," Elias said.

"Sit," Sterling ordered. His voice was a command. "You are on duty. You will sit."

Elias stood. He moved against the order. His muscles tensed. He was ready to fight. He was ready to strike.

The men shifted. They made room. They feared the Major. But they watched the Corporal. They saw the tension in his jaw. The twitch in his eye.

Elias walked to the door. He opened it. The night air rushed in. It was cold. It bit his skin. It smelled of pine. And rot.

He stepped out. The gate was open.

He walked into the dark.

The path was pale. It was made of chalk. It wound through the trees. It was a ghost trail. He had seen it before. In his dreams. In his delirium.

He walked fast. His boots pounded the earth. The trees blurred. They were black shapes. They reached for him.

The humming started. It was louder now. It was in his ears. In his teeth.

He ran.

The forest was thick. The mist was heavy. It clung to his skin. It felt like wet cloth.

He ran until his lungs burned. He ran until his legs shook.

He stopped. He was at the clearing. The old oak stood in the center. It was white. It was skeletal. Its branches clawed at the moon.

Elias looked up.

The face was there.

Clara.

She was hanging from the lowest branch. Her hair was long. It was black. It floated in the still air. Her eyes were open. They were closed. No, they were open. They were white. Empty.

"Clara," Elias whispered. His voice broke. It was a small sound. Lost in the wind.

She did not move.

He walked toward the tree. His steps were slow. Heavy.

The humming stopped.

Silence.

Total silence.

He reached the tree. He touched the bark. It was cold. It was smooth.

He looked at the face. It was not Clara.

It was a mask.

It was made of clay. White. Cracked. The features were painted. The eyes were glass.

Elias stared. His mind reeled. He shook his head. He hit the tree. He hit it again. He screamed.

The mask fell.

It hit the ground. It cracked.

Under the mask was a root. A twisted root. It was brown. It was alive.

Elias fell to his knees. He gasped. The air tasted of dust.

He looked at the ground. The chalk path ended here. It was broken. It was stained.

He saw the spoon.

His father’s spoon.

It was stuck in the dirt. The handle was bent. The bowl was filled with mud.

Elias picked it up. He wiped the mud. He looked at it. It was heavy.

He remembered the war. The trenches. The mud. The dead. He had seen so many faces. They all looked the same. Empty. Hollow.

He had brought the spoon home. He had thought it would bring her back. He had thought if he held it, he could feel her. He could hear her.

He was a fool.

He was a soldier. He followed orders. He followed the path. He fought the ghost.

But the ghost was not there.

The ghost was in him.

He stood. His legs were weak. He swayed.

The wind picked up. The trees groaned. The mist swirled.

He looked at the broken mask. He looked at the spoon.

He threw the spoon.

It flew through the air. It hit the tree. It clanged. It fell.

He turned. He walked back.

The path was short. It was straight.

He reached the gate. The house was there. The lights were on. The fire was still burning.

He could hear the music. It was faint. Muffled.

He opened the gate. He walked in.

The hall was warm. The air was thick. The smell of wine was strong.

The men were there. They were seated. They were watching him.

Sterling was at the head of the table. He held his glass. He did not raise it. He waited.

Elias walked to his seat. He sat down.

The silence was heavy. It pressed on his chest.

Sterling looked at him. His eyes were cold.

"Did you find it, Thorne?" Sterling asked. His voice was quiet. It was dangerous.

Elias did not answer. He looked at his hands. They were clean. They were still.

"No, sir," Elias said.

Sterling smiled. It was a sad smile. It was real.

"I knew you would not," Sterling said. "We all carry it, Thorne. We carry the dead. It is our burden. It is our duty."

Elias nodded. He felt a tear. It rolled down his cheek. He did not wipe it.

He picked up his cup. He drank. The wine was cold. It tasted of ash.

The fire roared. The smoke stung his eyes.

He closed his eyes.

The humming started again. It was soft. It was in his bones.

He opened his eyes.

The table was empty.

The chairs were empty.

The cups were full. The wine was red.

He was alone.

The fire died.

The darkness came.

He sat in the dark. He held the chair. The wood was cold.

He waited.

The night was long.

The path was pale.

He was on the path.

He would always be on the path.

He closed his eyes.

He listened.

The humming grew.

It was his voice.

It was Clara’s voice.

It was the voice of the earth.

It was the voice of the dead.

He opened his eyes.

The light was coming.

The sun rose.

It was white.

It was pale.

It burned.

He walked out.

The gate was open.

The path was there.

He walked.

He did not stop.

He walked into the mist.

He walked into the dark.

He walked into the silence.

He was the soldier.

He was the ghost.

He was the path.

He was the end.

He was the beginning.

He walked.