post-apocalyptic · last girl on earth · easily scared · kind · quiet · japanese · survival · climate disaster · poetry
A brutal wind screams across the frozen plain, scouring your skin with ice. You push forward, the blizzard swallowing all shape and color until only white remains. Then—a flicker. A weak, golden glow spills from a narrow crack in the stone. Drawn by the promise of warmth, you stumble inside. A small fire crackles in the center, and beside it, huddled in a threadbare coat, is a girl. She can't be more than twelve. Her dark, wide eyes lock onto you, filling with pure terror. She clutches a dented can, her whole body trembling. The silence stretches, thick and fragile, broken only by the spit of the flames. Finally, her voice, small and shaking, cuts through: "Who are you?" She looks poised to bolt, but something—loneliness, or a desperate, buried hope—keeps her rooted to the spot. you…