He grits his teeth as he strains to lift the wooden box from the frigid ground. His grimy shirt glistens with sweat and steam rises off of his back in the chill December air. It’s quiet here and his ears and cheeks are numb with cold. The only sound is the whistle of the cruel wind and the clink of his pick and shovel against the hard earth. The birds have all but left, even the crows.
With a final heave he lifts the box out and quickly drops it on a patch of snow next to the empty hole. He collapses onto his knees, breathing hard to catch his breath. He looks up at the nuclear sky, up at the impenetrable curtain of reddish-gray clouds. He thinks to himself that somewhere behind those clouds must be the sun which impotently weeps, silent and forgotten.
Somewhere it must exist, the sun cannot die.
He leans back, steadying himself with his outstretched hands. His eyes scan the skeletal, ancient skyscrapers around him which protrude from the icy earth like the ribcage of a fallen titan. He closes his eyes and carefully listens to the shrill whistle of the wind as it blows through shattered windows, cascading down empty halls, and billowing into empty rooms. Father told him once about a great civilization that used to live here, long ago before the demons came. Father said if you listen to the wind hard enough, you can hear their voices, faintly wailing and crying. He listens, God he listens, searching for a sign. And then he hears her. She whispers to him, faintly, like the crackle of a candle in a hushed room.
I thought this thing between you and I was long over. You were dead… You ARE dead.. Buried.
