Hey guys! Just a short oneshot that I came up with this morning. Hope you enjoy!

Ludwig Beilschmidt's alarm clock whined shrilly in his ear. He groaned and rolled over to peer at the time on the face of the digital clock. The red block numbers blinked three AM.

Yes, today was the day.

Every year, he dreaded this day and the journey that he would make. He dreaded rolling out of bed, getting dressed, and catching the four o'clock train.

This was the one day of the year that he actually hated.

However, today was the most important day of all.

Ludwig sat up in bed, silenced his whiny clock, and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He had so much he still had to do before he was to be at the train station, and he worried that he might be late. He was never late. Being late was a mortal sin, but being late today would spell out disaster. He couldn't accept that. Not today, of all days.

Shivers ran up Ludwig's spine the instant his bare feet slid out from under the warm covers of the bed and touched onto the cold dark hardwood floor of his bedroom. This winter had been brutal, and with no end in sight, he would have to dress as warm as possible to make it through the day. The coffee maker in the kitchen down the hall clicked on, and within moments, the warm and inviting aroma of a fresh pot wafted its way down the hall and into the bedroom. Ludwig took a deep breath to drink the smell in. Soon enough he would have what he needed to start the day off strongly.

Five minutes later, after Ludwig had pulled on as many layers as he could, he sat at his empty kitchen table and blew a steady stream of breath over the steaming black of his cup of coffee. He figured that he could allow himself ten minutes to enjoy his drink and relax some before he would have to finish gathering the rest of what he needed for today. There wasn't much, just a knapsack that sat open in the living room on a couch arm and a few other very important things. He had time.

For a moment, he allowed himself to mull over the proceedings of today. The train ride early this morning would be the worst part, simply because of how lonely and empty he knew his car would be. Today especially, he wished that he could have someone accompany him, but he could never allow himself to take someone with him. It would most certainly ruin everything. It would ruin the gravity of today. No, he could never take anyone with him. He had to be alone today. Alone with his mind and the shivering ghosts of his past. They were plenty company, but oh, were they ever heavy to carry.

The empty coffee mug in front of him was his signal to hurry along and finish getting ready. He pushed the chair back from the table and strode to the sink, where he washed out his mug and replaced it in the cabinet. A brown paper bag to his right caught his attention, and he swiped it off of the counter with one hand. He remembered what he had packed inside: Some fruit, a sandwich, and a bottle of water. Surely that would be enough for today.

Ludwig carried the paper bag to the living room and gently placed it inside of the open knapsack that lay on the couch's arm. The only other things inside of the knapsack were some gloves and a scarf, which left plenty of room for the final thing that he had to pack.

Ludwig sighed heavily. He would fetch it now.

Inside of his office down the hall, was a small closet. Inside of that closet were all of the things that he held dear from all of his history. Old uniforms were hung together on a bar that spanned the width of the closet. Hung preserved in a plastic bag in the furthest corner was his old Nazi uniform. If he could avoid touching the thing, he always would. In another corner were all sorts of old weapons that he had used, dating back all the way to his earliest days. There were files of important documents stacked high in cardboard boxes from floor to ceiling.

This closet was his time capsule.

A small shelf highest up in this closet held the thing that he was searching for. If one was not looking for it, the tiny shelf would escape view. Despite Ludwig's height, he still needed a stool to reach it. Once he located one, he stepped up onto it. Now, his head was nearly level with the hidden shelf.

There, in the back. He could just reach it.

It was an immensely thick book. Leather bound. Pages yellow and brittle from years of fingers leafing through.

The List.

He drew it out gently, almost as if one stray breath could crack the thing in two. His arms shook with the immense weight of it. As he stepped down from the stool, he clutched The List to his chest. On his desk was a towel spread open, waiting to receive it. Ludwig gingerly laid the dusty leather book down onto the middle of the towel, and then he carefully wrapped it up. This way, he could protect it from damage. It was how he had done this for years, and it had worked well enough, so Ludwig decided that this was the best way. It would fit snugly inside of the knapsack, snuggled up against the gloves and paper lunch bag.

Ludwig checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to the train station if he was to catch the four o'clock train in time. Cradling The List, all wrapped up in the towel like a baby, he walked slowly down the hall back toward the living room.

How he hated today.

-x-x-x-

The train was emptier than he had expected. Usually, there were one or two people who were journeying along with him in the car, but this morning, the dark must have been too heavy, the cold too bitter, because Ludwig sat in his seat completely alone in the car. Each bump of the train along the tracks jostled the knapsack that was his only company, and his arm shot out instinctively to protect its precious cargo. Just from walking the short way to the station, Ludwig's back ached from hauling The List from his house to where he was seated now. The List must weigh at least thirty pounds, although he never bothered to weigh it and find out exactly. Something inside of him seemed to tell him that that would be almost sacrilege, however silly the thought may be.

Ludwig fiddled with the map that he had picked up from the station that listed all the stops that the train made, but he didn't look at it. He had made this journey enough times to know where his stop was, when to change trains, and how long he would travel. He could make this journey in his sleep. Often, he did. In nightmares. Except then, he could wake up.

-x-x-x-

Tiny snowflakes came to rest on Ludwig's head as he walked. His destination was close. His feet knew the way. The List pounded on his back with every step he took, growing heavier with every passing moment. The straps of the knapsack dug into his shoulders painfully, but Ludwig pressed on as if he didn't notice. The sun had just broken over the horizon. Golden orange light bathed the white all around him, and cast a faint shadow behind. Ludwig shoved his cold hands in his pockets in a vain attempt to warm them. His breath was a silver puff that curled out from his nostrils and around his head. He sniffed the brutally cold air into his lungs. His legs were numb.

He could see his destination in the distance. He was almost there. Just a few more minutes, and he could finally begin what was the longest day of the year.

The List pounded against his back incessantly until he finally stopped.

There it was.

He stood in the cold morning sun and lightly falling snow and beheld what he had been searching for, and what he had been dreading.

The Gate.

The letters that spelled the biggest lie in all of history.

Arbeit macht frei.

Work makes you free.

A lump rose in Ludwig's throat that he couldn't quite swallow. This place was filled with so many ghosts, and they all tugged at him to come, to see, what he had done to them. His legs were like lead, frozen against the brick beneath his feet. The List grew ever heavier. It drew Ludwig down, down, down, until he couldn't stand beneath its weight. He fell to his knees heavily. Some of the ghosts in the air wept at his weakness, and others laughed shrilly at him. He couldn't bear them, but they had every right to mock him.

He had to get up. He had to go inside. If he didn't, then he would have failed at everything. He tried once, twice, to draw himself up, but fell to his face every time. All strength had been drawn from his body. He couldn't possibly do it, but he had to. The List drove him on.

Every step was harder than the last. Every footfall sucked the very life from him. He could see the crumbled and snow dusted ruins of the gas chamber, and he set his eyes on them. He could make it. He had to. The List compelled him.

At last, he had made it. Ludwig crumpled to the ground under the weight of the ghosts, of his own weeping, of The List. He could hear their screams, feel the terror, smell the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh.

He cracked under the weight of his own handiwork.

However, his task was not yet completed.

The List called to him.

Ludwig slid the straps of the knapsack off of his shoulders and let the bag fall to the snowy ground. The List thudded heavily against the brick. Ludwig tried to breathe, but found the air to be toxic. The ghosts tried to strangle him with every breath. They jeered at him, called to him to finish what he started.

He could not deny them.

Ludwig weakly opened the knapsack and withdrew The List. He unwrapped it and laid the towel on the ground underneath it. The dark leather stared up at the morning sky.

With numb fingers, Ludwig slowly opened the cover. The pages cracked and crackled in the weightily silent air. Printed on the first page, in miniscule lettering, were names. Ludwig knew every one of them by heart, but today, he would read over every single one of them. None of them could possibly afford to be forgotten. He would not allow it, even if he were the only one who still remembered a name, that name was still remembered.

Today, here on the crumbling ruins of Auschwitz's gas chamber, he would read eleven million names. The ghosts of every one of them would be pressing in around him, and today, he would entertain them. If they were not forgotten, then the souls could rest. He could rest.

The List was Ludwig's stab at some semblance of redemption. He still knew that no one could ever forgive him, and that he could never forgive himself.

The List knew, and The List understood.

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Harley