2070: Alone on Earth – Day Four

Day Four begins before dawn. I’ve barely slept—each time I closed my eyes, I heard that clatter again. Real or imagined, it echoed in the chambers of my restless mind.

I rise before the sky has turned blue, the city still cloaked in grayscale. The air is colder today, sharp against my skin. I make a hot drink from instant powder and sip slowly as I stare out the window. The same city, the same stillness—but something is different now. The silence no longer feels total. It has a seam, a tear, where the unknown leaked through.

I write my daily log: Day Four. All systems nominal. Radio broadcast scheduled.

After breakfast—oats and water, joyless but filling—I sit at the radio. My voice is steadier now, less hopeful, more determined.

"This is Day Four. Alex broadcasting from downtown Chicago. I heard something yesterday. If you’re alive, if you’re listening, I’m going to investigate. If you hear this, know I’m looking. And I’ll return here to broadcast every evening. You are not forgotten."

I switch off the radio. A deep breath follows. Then I gather my gear: water, flashlight, crowbar, binoculars, medkit. I pull on my boots. This isn’t a supply run—it’s a search. A scouting mission into the uncertainty.

I head back to the area where I heard the sound: an old commercial zone several blocks from my base. The streets here are narrower, buildings taller, the wind louder. I walk with caution. Every step echoes like a question.

I begin by scanning the area, looking for recent disturbances—footprints, displaced rubble, broken glass. I see none. I climb onto a parked delivery truck for a better view. The horizon is cluttered with shadows, alleyways, old signage rusted by time.

Then I hear it again. Faint. Metallic. A dragging sound, like a pipe scraping stone.

I freeze.

This time, I don’t call out. I don’t want to scare whatever—or whoever—it might be. I climb down silently and move in the direction of the sound, staying close to the walls. I pass by a bookstore with shattered windows, a bakery with chairs still upright inside.

At the intersection, I stop. The sound has stopped too. I wait. Five minutes pass. Ten. Nothing.

Then, a sudden clang.

It comes from inside a parking garage.

I approach the entrance carefully. The air inside is colder. Darker. I switch on my flashlight and sweep the concrete floors.

Something scurries behind a pillar.

I inch closer. Heart pounding.

It’s a dog.

Thin, dirty, shivering—but alive.

I exhale all at once, overwhelmed by emotion. I kneel, lowering my flashlight. The dog stares back at me, unsure, cautious. I pull a protein bar from my pack, unwrap it, and place it on the ground.

It approaches slowly. Eats quickly.

When it finishes, it sits. Looks up at me. Tail wagging just once.

I sit too. For several minutes, we just exist. Together.

I speak softly.

"I thought I was the only one. I guess we’re not meant to be alone after all."

Eventually, I coax the dog back to my base. It’s hesitant but follows, lured by warmth and more food. I fashion a bed from old blankets in the greenhouse room. I call him Echo.

Back at the radio that evening, my voice is warmer.

"Day Four. I found something. Not a person, not yet. But a life. A heartbeat. His name is Echo. We’re not alone."

I smile for the first time in days.

The rest of the night is spent preparing. I cook a larger meal. I heat water and clean Echo’s fur as best I can. He falls asleep quickly, curled by the heater.

Later, I pull out my journal. I write everything.

How I followed a sound into the unknown. How the unknown became less frightening when it had eyes and fur and fear of its own. How I felt something I hadn’t felt since the collapse—connection.

Before bed, I read again. This time a passage from a philosophy book I found in the museum:

"Even when civilization ends, the soul seeks companionship. Not as luxury, but as necessity."

Day Four ends with that quote echoing in my mind.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to the garage. Maybe there are more like Echo. Maybe someone owned him. Maybe someone is still searching too.

Tomorrow, for the first time, I won’t just be surviving. I’ll be tracking hope.