The Stillness of a Dying World

The end of the world is nigh—a few days, perhaps even a whole year. Who could tell? I sit here on this roof, staring at the grey sky, once blue. I contemplate my life. What true meaning it had? Apocalypse, originally a Greek word—despite what many would think—it actually doesn’t mean chaos. It means “a revealing of something hidden.” Funny, right? How something hidden so deep in a person’s heart can be revealed at such a time.

As everyone rushes to find some way of survival, some way to preserve their already long, cursed existence, I lay here on top of the rooftop of a long-abandoned building. A building once called a school—something I’m unfamiliar with. How could people have ever lived life so leisurely? I’m envious.

“Hey, Solace, we’re here to gather supplies. No slacking off!” a voice calls to me from a distance. I wish I could have not heard her, as I sigh. “I’m coming, sorry,” I respond back as I walk down the broken concrete stairs of the building, carefully so as not to fall. She wouldn’t like it if I fell.

I soon arrive in the room that she’s in, quietly—as if I have no presence at all. A room of which I’m not quite sure the use of, but I could guess. Math problems on the whiteboard—things I could never understand. Books, dozens and dozens of books, all scattered around that dusty old concrete floor. I always make sure to sneak one with me whenever it’s my turn to go out scavenging.

Lyra notices me as I look around the room, quietly observing. She smiles at me, quietly noticing how I’m not really in the mood to speak. She has that smile you give to people when you’re just trying to find at least a little bit of light in that never-ending darkness. I don’t blame her, though. We were both born underground—in a shelter. Anyone would be grateful to be born in such a place. Anyone who’s still alive, that is. Some were born outside of shelters. Those people never last long. We call them the Veiled. No one is sure if they exist anymore. But I know. I’ve seen one.

“Come on, quickly. We have to go before it becomes even darker,” Lyra says to me, cheerful as ever—interrupting my thought process as I follow her quietly on that long walk back once again. To the place that I wouldn’t necessarily call home.

On that seemingly endless walk back to the shelters, we pass by buildings—the ruins of a small town. Lyra hums quietly, as quietly as possible, so as not to be heard by much else but me and her. We pass by an old building—something called a flower shop. When I was younger, my mother used to tell me how beautiful they were. How she had longed to see just one more. I wished for nothing more than to grant her wish.

I glance at the building once more, trying to remember that voice of hers—the voice that once called a name—now unfamiliar to me, Solace. I laugh to myself at the irony of a name such as mine in a world such as this.

As I’m looking at that old flower shop, I see a shadowy figure in the reflection of the glass. My eyes widen for a second as I see them leave something behind—a drawing of a face. And I can only guess what that person must’ve meant.

Soon, we arrive at a broken building, a little hatch in the alleyway next to it. We climb down, reaching what some would call home. Not me though.