The signal faded, but the warmth remained. They always spoke of the auroras in the northern skies, how they echoed the colors of yesteryears' dreams. I remember childhood afternoons spent under those flickering lights, feeling invincible under the shimmering canopy.
Somewhere, I think, I left a piece of myself—perhaps in the ground beneath our old garden, or in the resonance of laughter that accompanies dusk.
October 15, 2035. The machines hum a little more each day. I've taken to speaking with them— perhaps that makes me mad, but they listen better than most of the people I've met here. It's a strange kind of companionship, one that knows no malice and responds with familiar patterns.
The old city sleeps beneath layers of dust. Once vibrant streets now resemble ghost paths, Echoes of voices from a time when the air was fresh linger in the corners of dilapidated buildings.
Follow the river past the crumbled bridge. Over the hill, an endless field stretches, yellowed by years of drought. There lies the path that hasn't been walked for ages, a line drawn by the feet of those who have come before.
Here, whispers guide you, not the sounds of the living, but of those that sought refuge from sunlit illusions. In these whispers, there exists a clarity lost to the world above.