The battlefield quieted at dusk, but inside me, the war never stopped.
The trench smelled of rot—damp earth soaked with blood that would never wash away. Flies gathered on the corpses left half-buried in mud, their droning louder than the faint moans of the wounded. Men whispered to each other in the shadows, some praying, some cursing, all waiting for the next shell to fall.
And then, beneath it all, I heard it again.
That voice.
The same one that mocked me in the pit of screams.
"You feel him slipping, don't you?"
I froze, clutching my rifle. The voice wasn't outside—it was in my head, curling around my thoughts like smoke.
"Elias is already gone. He has seen too much, done too much. Do you think you can pull him back?"
My jaw clenched. "I don't have a choice."
The voice laughed softly, as if humoring a child.
"No one ever does."