The Last Witness

The silence had grown so thick that it seemed to press against his skin. He had stopped counting the days. Time no longer functioned as it once had; it was no longer measured by the chime of clocks, the rising of the sun, or the murmur of others. The city—if it could still be called that—stood frozen in time, its towers like jagged teeth gnawing at the gray sky, their insides hollowed by fire and wind. There was no one left. No voices, no footsteps, no accusations, no consolations.

Mark wandered through the ruins, an insignificant figure dwarfed by the skeletal remains of civilization. His own existence felt like an administrative error, as though he had been overlooked in the meticulous process of annihilation. He had searched for others at first, but each empty building, each abandoned street, whispered the same response: you are alone.

Sometimes he would speak aloud, just to test the air. His voice, when it came, sounded foreign, as though it belonged to someone else. "Is anyone there?" he asked the wind, the walls, the sky. They never answered. He began to wonder if even they had turned away from him.

Survival had become mechanical. He ate only because hunger gnawed at him, drank only when his throat grew too dry. He collected books from the shattered remains of libraries, reading aloud in the dim light of dying days. The words blurred together, became nonsense, became prayers, became nothing.

One evening, he found himself staring at the reflection in a broken window. The glass, smeared with dust and blood, fractured his image into something inhuman. He traced a finger along his face. Was this still him? Had he ever been real at all?

A noise—impossible yet undeniable—broke the stillness. A footstep? A breath? The shifting of rubble? He turned sharply, every nerve raw with anticipation. The street was empty, as always. And yet, he felt the presence of something unseen, something watching. His pulse thundered. For the first time in an eternity, he was not alone.

He stepped forward, hands trembling, lips parting to speak. But before he could, the light shifted, the wind howled, and the presence—if it had ever been real—vanished.

He stood there, frozen, listening to the silence swell around him once more.

Had it been real? Or had the solitude finally fractured his mind beyond repair?

There was only one way to find out.

And so, he walked on.