Ashes, Ashes

The world ended on a Tuesday, which Zee thought was rude of it. Tuesdays were already doing enough.

He picked his way through the ash where a city used to be, trench coat dragging two neat lines behind him like the world’s most pointless punctuation. Nothing moved. Nothing had moved in a long time. That was the trouble with being the last thing still walking — there was no one left to be late for, and he’d always been the sort who needed somewhere to be.

“Still here,” he told the skyline, because someone had to. The skyline, which was mostly a memory now, declined to answer. “Rude,” Zee said, and kept walking, because the alternative was standing still, and standing still was how you started to believe it.