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Dense smoke settled low on the horizon, almost opaque as it mixed with kicked up dust, following rogue horses down the mountain trails. Dusk slipped ever nearer, echoes of life pushing against the thick silence surrounding the valley beneath. The sun drifted lower, its light barely peaking over the dirt roads, abandoned buildings and harsh landscape surrounding the small fire. The village was desolate, houses with crumbling brick and rotting wood, no food, no belongings, as if nothing ever existed there. Stretching across the ground were shadows, crawling like ivy across walls, following the steady falls of boots against dusty ground. The air was tense, interrupted only by the crackling of fire, and the heavy thump of new logs being thrown overtop. Soot flared as boots thudded to the side of the fire to dry, the man belonging to them settling on a thin tarp stretched across the rocks.
A ghost of wind crept over the small fire and smaller bedroll, rustling leaves and picking up dust, spitting it back into the stew bubbling over the heat. His hair fought against the grasp of gel, falling free in the air to coil and fall as it liked. His silhouette flicked across dry stone anddrier riverbank, adhering to the cracks of the earth and warping his figure.
“Dry night,” His voice rasped, quiet and almost thoughtful, more to the stars than a person. He grasped the handle of the pot, metal searing into metal gloves as he set it on the floor to
cool.
“Water’ll be scarce soon. Bad sign.” Looking toward the sky, he counted the clouds covering the rising moons, watching as they drifted farther, darkening the horizon. Steam filled the air, the hot scent of stewed meat coiling toward the sky like an offering to something otherworldly.
Life was scant at night, hiding under cover from the toxic light of the second moon, travellers always carried their bulbs on them, when there were travellers at all. He knew he likely wouldn’t survive. And who would look for him if he didn’t anyway? A calloused hand reached automatically to the metal tags around his neck, enclosing them in his palm.
“I’ll have to cover more ground tomorrow. Before sunrise.” The scrape of the spoon against the metal pot was sharp, loud against the deep silence of the valley, and when he slept afterward, he dreamt of his youth.
Sun glared across laminate desks, sharp light piercing half-lidded children as the professor droned on at the front of the classroom. Grinning fervently, he tossed a carefully crafted paper plane across the room, watching as it twisted in the air, floating into the professor’s head, the class suddenly erupting into untameable chaos, shouting and jeering until the bell clanged and the chaos turned school wide. The sky was clear and blue, and the trees still bloomed full and green, raining leaves over soft ground, students everywhere there was clear space, the quadrant filled with the brightness of young life. He spent the break climbing trees and showing off, trading food for secrets and antagonising the professors, cementing a memory of happiness embedded deep into his childhood, his fundamental development. That was before the Mass Plague.
He awoke with a gasp, coughing out settled dust, rough skin clutching at his own neck as he doubled over, shoving away the thin layer of sand that had rolled over the landscape overnight. Everything glittered and the light of the sun was dim, as it always seemed to be recently. Every breath rattled. Every movement ached. He dragged himself to his knees, limbs trembling as he shoved the spare firewood into his pack.
“The dust is too thick,” he coughed, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled a step, a piece of wood broken from the nearest door. He let his eyes drag over the ground, catching on the pop of colour. A ripped, knitted doll. The cloud of dust thickened around him, no rain, no life, just a gathering storm of grit, spinning against the clean air. It whistled sharply as it whipped around, tinkling into what was a familiar tune, piercing into his ears, his brain. His foot caught and he fell to his knees. The doll was right in front of him.
The wool was thin, colours dulling through sooty eyes, it flopped lifelessly as he lifted it, holding it close, right by his heart.
“My dear…” He whispered, voice breaking as he bent forward on his knees, wind battering at him.
“How I long to see you again. Just… one more time.” The air was thick, tense, it felt silent as the wind picked up into a dust storm, thrashing around him as he attempted to suck in breath that didn’t come, tried to move muscles that were already falling apart.
“See this, my love, sitting on your bed, and forever think of me, of what I was, and of what I never could be.” The wind pulled on his clothes, his skin, dirt ripping into soft flesh as his heart stuttered, falling closer to the ground. His shoulder hit hard ground and his body failed to hold his weight, rolling him to his side, battered, and ill, every atom warped from the radiation of a night under the moons. Suddenly his mouth felt dry, he couldn’t move, his heartbeat rang in his ears as it all seemed to swallow him. He could only gather his last breath.
“Remember me.”