I awaken to silence—thick, heavy silence.
The kind that presses against your ears, muffling thought, distorting time.
For a moment, I am unsure whether I've died. But the steady ache in my ribs, the sharp pain in my throat, and the hunger gnawing at my insides remind me: I am still alive.
My eyes open slowly. The dim interior greets me—a soft, grey light filtering through warped window slats. Dust motes drift like dying fireflies. The rug beneath me is rough, but real.
I roll to my side, groaning. My limbs resist, stiff and reluctant.
The shack is small—one room, maybe two if there's a closet pretending to be something more. A table leans in the corner, one leg chewed by time. Cabinets line the far wall, their handles rusted and bowed.
I crawl first. Then I stumble upright. The air is stale but less toxic than the ash sea outside.
I approach the cabinets with a sense of reverence, like a starving man to an altar laden with fruits and meat.
Inside the first: nothing but dust and splinters.
The second holds treasure.
A small, cracked clay jug. Water. Not much, but enough. I drink with trembling hands, spilling half of it down my chin. Still, it soothes the inferno in my throat.
Next to it, wrapped in brittle cloth, is a piece of hard bread. Mold dances on the edges, but I don't have the mind to care. I tear into it like a beast, every chew a battle against its stony resistance.
Below, tucked in the bottom shelf, I find folded clothes—coarse fabric, worn but intact. A long coat, thick and dusty, and a pair of gloves. I don them slowly, savoring the moment.
I sit down at the table, bones aching. The silence keeps me company.
I think.
What now?
I need a plan, no matter how small. Anything to keep madness from creeping in.
I tear a strip from the bread cloth and dip my finger in the last drops of water. The ink of the desperate. I write on the wood of the table.
GOALS:
1. Find more food
2. Conserve water
3. Strengthen body
4. Search for others
5. Understand this place
6. Survive
I stare at the list.
It is simple. Pathetic, maybe. But it is mine.
Outside, the ash shifts.
The wind is rising.
But for now, I have shelter.
For now, I have breath.
For now… I live.