The Last Traveler

After the flames consumed the earth, the sky was so black that he couldn’t see the ash that fell on him in an endless cascade. But as he walked, on and on in the darkness, calling for his neighbors, his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his old friends, he felt the flakes on his skin and tongue, and they felt like snow. Hearing only the crunch of his boots on the charred remains of the world, he began to dream of winter—his favorite season, as a boy, when he and his brothers ran through the woods ankle-deep in snow, the air clean and blue-gray, darting through trees that stood silent and still like majestic, white-crowned guardians. The littlest one (he’s forgotten his name, now) would trip and cry, complaining of snow up his sleeves, so he’d pick him up and run with him on his back, laughing, until they’d all stop at the frozen river and lie beside it, their panting breath creating puffs of steam, the gentle snowflakes falling on their faces like kisses. Perhaps, he wondered, as he trudged onward, he had wandered back there, to those woods. He reached forward and felt the rough husk of a burned-out tree. His breath came out in thin wheezes; he could no longer run as he used to. Still, he could lie down as he did, in that delicious collapse. He could stare up at the black sky and feel the ashes fall on him, embracing him, bringing him peace.