The morning air was cold and it smelled like wet dirt and old dust coming from the broken stones of the ruins we live in now. I walked through the small paths between fallen pillars while thinking about the stories my grandma used to tell us. She talked about a world before the silence where lights stayed on all night and people talked across oceans using glass and metal things. It all feels like a dream or a story you tell kids so they can hope for something more than this grey sky and the daily hunt for water. But looking at our people digging in the ground to catch the morning dew made me feel that the old world is still here as a plan for what we can build again if we just stay strong.
My brother came up to me and his hands were full of scars from years of hard work but his eyes were still shining like when we were children in the green fields that are gone now. He pointed to the hills far away where smoke from other camps was rising and it was a sign that we are not the only ones left in this empty land. We have to start a trade route he said with a serious voice because the food is getting less and winter is going to be hard for anyone who is alone. I just nodded and felt so proud of him and how he became a leader. This journey was never only about running away from fear but it was about taking back our lives in a world that tried to take everything. I took out my old notebook and started drawing a map of the area and I marked the broken watchtower and the dry river and the ruins of the big city. Every line I made was a way to say we are still here and we are still breathing and dreaming of a day when these ruins are just the floor for something new. The sun went up and the shadows started pointing forward and for the first time the road didnt look like a dead end but it looked like a real start.