The steam train's whistle sliced through the fog, a shrill cry echoing across the desolate platform of Blackwood. Captain Alexander Gray stepped down, boots sinking into the mud, his breath clouding in the chill of 1919. The gaslit streets flickered in the pre-dawn haze, casting long shadows over cobblestones slick with frost. Smoke curled from factory chimneys, blending with the damp air, heavy with the scent of coal and decay. The world was scarred, like him—a man in his early thirties, gaunt, with eyes that looked through rather than at the world. His hands, calloused and trembling, clutched a worn satchel, while his threadbare coat hung loosely on a frame thinned by war.
Blackwood was a town time had forgotten, its glory buried under years of neglect. Crumbling facades leaned toward each other. Gas lamps cast a sickly yellow glow, barely piercing the gloom, while the distant clang of church bells tolled like a warning. Gray walked, each step heavy, the rhythm of his boots on stone blending with memories he couldn't escape. Mud, blood, the screams of men—he shook his head, trying to anchor himself. In his pocket, his fingers found a bullet, polished smooth from years of nervous habit, a relic of the trenches. He pulled out his pocket watch, its hands frozen at 3:17—the moment the shell hit, the moment his world broke. He wound it absently, knowing it would never tick again.
The factory's rhythmic pounding grew louder, a steady beat that wasn't machinery but artillery, the prelude to slaughter. Gray's heart raced; he scanned the rooftops for snipers, though he knew none were there. Not real, he told himself, but the line between past and present blurred. The fog thickened, muffling sounds, distorting shapes. Buildings loomed like sentinels, their windows empty eyes watching his every move. Shadows twisted into almost-human forms, and Gray quickened his pace, the feeling of being watched gnawing at him.
Near the town square, a group of children played, their laughter sharp in the quiet. One boy, face streaked with dirt, looked up. "You're Captain Gray, ain't you? Pa says you brought the war back with you." The words hit like a bayonet. Gray froze, his forced smile masking a chill. What did they know? The other children giggled. Gray turned away, the child's voice echoing in his mind, stirring doubts he couldn't name.
Further along, a horse-drawn cart rumbled past, its wheels clattering on the stones. To Gray, it was no cart but the march of boots, hundreds advancing in step. He pressed himself against a wall, hand reaching for a sidearm long gone. The driver glanced at him, curious, and the cart moved on, the sound fading. Gray exhaled, forcing himself to breathe, to remember he was no longer at war. But was he?
The inn stood at the square's edge, its sign creaking in the wind, a dilapidated relic of better days. Inside, the air was thick with stale beer and tobacco. The innkeeper, a burly man with a scarred face, handed Gray a key without a word. Upstairs, the room was small, the bed sagging, the window overlooking the fog-choked square. Gray sat, head in his hands, the bullet rolling between his fingers. Memories surged: mud sucking at his boots, the crack of rifles, faces of fallen comrades. He lay down, the thin blanket offering no warmth. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the panes. He closed his eyes, but sleep was a distant hope.
A soft knock—or was it footsteps?—jerked him upright. He listened, heart pounding, but heard only silence. At the window, he peered into the mist. For a moment, a figure seemed to stand in the square, watching. He blinked, and it was gone, swallowed by the fog. Gray closed the curtains, his grip on the bullet tightening. He was home, but the war was still with him, and in the quiet of Blackwood, he felt more alone, more afraid, than ever before.