His Story

The land was barren and cracked. Cracked like an egg. Broken. Burnt and charred by the ravages of war.

Above the sky was bleak. Bleak and heavy with clouds that promised rain that refused to fall. Through the desolate path, the steady clink of metal against stone echoed as the horses navigated the land. The two men halted, their horses snorting uneasily. The older of the two, his eyes dark and laden with all that he had seen. And it had been too much. Dismounting, he scanned the horizon, his hand shielding his eyes from the simpering sunlight.

His companion, younger and more restless, jumped down beside him. "There's nothing here, Father. No food, no water, not a soul in sight."

His father nodded slowly, "War leaves nothing but shadows."

"So, what do we do now? Just wander this dead land until we find them?"

"We survive," he said simply.

As they rode on, the landscape was incessant—broken and lacerated by war. Behind them, the ghosts of those that they had lost.

As night began its ascent, they neared an abandoned industrial zone. Exhausted by their journey, they made a camp in the lee of a ruined wall. They sat in silence, as they shared the last remaining bread. Each contemplating their fate.

Above them, windmills, dark and foreboding; their blades whirring ominously, indifferent to the suffering of man.

They were lost. Abandoned. Living remnants of a world that had been destroyed by its own volition.

The son broke the silence. "Do you think there's anyone else out there? Anyone else trying to survive in this... this graveyard?"

"I don't know," he replied. "But as long as we're alive, there's hope.

Repeat.