Today, like every day, I woke up — regrettably.
The world has been a barren hellscape ever since World War III reduced cities and countries to nothing but ash and echoes. Somehow, whether by divine intervention or as punishment for the life I lived, I survived. As far as I know, I’m the only one.
I roll over in bed and scratch another tally into the wall: 1,995 days.
That’s how long it’s been since the world ended. And I’m still here — the lone witness left to remember it.

Every day follows the same rhythm. I scavenge for scraps, though most nearby supermarkets are long picked clean or filled with rot. I tend to my little garden of fruit, vegetables, and herbs. The world may have ended, but I still want my food to taste like something. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left.
My possessions are few: a handgun I haven’t fired in years, a jacket, a few changes of clothes, and a radio.
I carry the radio not for its function, but for what it represents — the fragile, impossible hope that someone else might be out there. Someone to talk to. Someone who might answer back. Someone to cry with.

I remember my old life.
A mindless office routine that numbed me more than it sustained me.
Back then, I felt dead inside. Now, I’d give anything to go back. The chatter. The footsteps. The chaos. The sound.

Now, my footsteps are the only ones I ever hear.
The birds are gone. The animals too. No chirping, no buzzing, no cicadas whining in summer — if it is summer. The sun’s been blotted out for years, hidden behind dust and decay.
The air smells like rot, like rusted sorrow. A scent you can’t ever scrub out of your lungs.

The noise hit me like a gunshot.
A crackle. Static. Then… something else.
The radio.

A voice?
No — it couldn’t be. I’m alone. I have to be.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’ve finally lost it.
But still…
What if?

“Hello?”
Just that. Soft. Uncertain.
But real.

The color drained from my skin as the moment froze around me.
How could anyone else have survived? Where were they?
How far?

I didn’t let the questions linger. The world waits for no one — and indecision kills faster than starvation.
For the first time in years, I moved with purpose. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to go.
Because if I didn’t follow this voice — this chance — I would never recover.
I would rot in my routine. And eventually, I would die.

I packed what little mattered:
A bedroll, the radio, some canned food, dried herbs, my jacket, a candle-lit lantern.
Who would’ve thought candles would outlive the modern world?

I started walking.
No map. No direction. Just the static, and the whisper I’d etched into memory.

Block by block, I pushed through the ruins. Concrete jungles now reclaimed by silence and time.
The only signal I had — the only hope — was the softening of static.
My radio has no mic. I can’t answer.
And even if I could… I’m not sure I remember how to speak.
It’s been that long.

Hours became days. Days, weeks.
I was starving. Weak.
I needed shelter.

I found a collapsed building, half-swallowed by moss and shattered concrete. I climbed inside, tucked myself into a corner shielded from the worst of the elements, and rested.
It wouldn’t protect me forever, but for now, it was enough.

I think I recognized the town.
Maybe I used to go to school here. Funny — how the place I once hated might save me.

Down the street, I found a forgotten supermarket. Barely touched.
A few intact cans. Bottles of stale but drinkable water.
A miracle. I was safe. For now.

But my mind… it was slipping.
Had I imagined the voice? The “hello”?
Was I just chasing ghosts to give meaning to my survival?

I crawled back to the building. My temporary sanctuary.
Laid down in my bedroll.
Closed my eyes.

And then —
A sound.
A faint squeak. Or maybe a thud.
Upstairs.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My limbs locked with fear.
No sound should exist except mine.

I stared into the dark. Waiting. Praying. Or maybe wishing for death.
A mercy.

Then — eyes.
Two glowing orbs in the black.
Unblinking. Watching.

A footstep.
They moved closer.

My candlelight touched their face.
Shit. I should’ve snuffed it.
I was careless. Lonely. Desperate.

“Hello?”

It was the voice.

My throat clenched. My heart thrashed.

And then —
A glint of metal.
A knife in their hand, gripped tight.
Not in aggression.
But like it was the only thing anchoring them to reality.