"The Only Living Human"
Months had passed since life vanished from humanity.
Months where the same actions repeated, the same breaths echoed, and the same empty eyes wandered with no meaning.
A soul-crushing routine that stole all feeling—killed wonder, joy, even sorrow.
At exactly nine in the morning, on yet another gray day,
amidst a quiet street where the only sound was the echo of synchronized footsteps...
There was a young man, around twenty-six,
walking just like the rest,
dressed in the same dull gray,
with dark eyes and skin between pale and tan.
His face—exhausted… yet entirely expressionless.
There was nothing special about him.
Not until that moment.
Suddenly, as he walked past a mid-rise building,
a rock—large as a human head—came crashing down from above.
It struck him violently.
And in that split second… a surge of electricity exploded through his brain.
He collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
An entire hour passed.
People walked around him, over him, as if he were trash on the sidewalk.
No one paused.
No one asked.
But then…
His fingers twitched.
He opened his eyes slowly—blood smearing his face—
his breath came in gasps,
his limbs trembled,
and suddenly he convulsed, vomiting with panic,
his eyes wide with terror.
He clutched his mouth in shock.
A whisper escaped his lips, trembling and raw:
"Wait... What is this?!
What's happening...
Why… why can I feel?!"
No answer came.
He jumped to his feet, running wildly,
blood soaking his clothes, fear in every step.
People passed him by without glancing—
as if he were no longer one of them.
As if he had become... a stranger to this world.
He ran. Without direction.
And somehow, found himself at the edge of the city,
climbing toward the rocky hills he used to visit long ago—
before The Great Dulling.
A place where he once read books and escaped the city noise.
With the sunset burning behind him,
he arrived at a small cave overlooking a silent lake.
Below it... the city of ash.
Towers stripped of soul.
Humans stripped of humanity.
He sat down, drenched in sweat and fear,
his pulse loud as thunder in his ears.
He stayed there for over an hour,
thinking. Remembering. Trying to understand.
But his body was tired,
hungry, and weak.
So he climbed down to the lake.
He leapt in fully clothed,
drank from the cold water,
washed himself,
and for a brief moment… felt alive.
Beneath the moonlight, nature was the only thing still breathing.
He found grapes and apples near the trees,
took them back to the cave,
and ate slowly… thinking.
Then, exhaustion overtook him.
He slept.
—
At dawn, he woke up wishing he hadn't.
But something inside him was stronger than despair.
He stood, and dug under the stones until he unearthed a small box
he had buried long ago.
Inside: a few books, and a blank notebook.
He opened it. Picked up a pen.
And began to write, like he was draining out the poison in his mind:
**"Today… I woke up from a death I never knew I was in.
The world around me is lifeless.
Everyone walks like machines.
No eyes. No tears. No voice.
I saw a mother throw away her daughter's corpse… and I felt nothing.
I was one of them—
a walking corpse.
But now… what do I do?
Do I hide? Do I scream?
Do I try to reclaim what was stolen from us?
But who am I?
I don't know anything—
not the source of the control,
nor who's behind it.
All I know is this:
I am alone."**
He closed the notebook and clutched his head in despair.
Then he screamed:
"Why?!
What do you want from me?!
To save the world?!
To shout at the blind?!"
He calmed slowly,
hands dropping by his sides,
as tension melted away from his body.
A faint, bitter smile crept onto his face.
**"But…
Can humans really remain like this?
Leaving their children behind, abandoning their loved ones…
No tears. No goodbye.
Is this… life?"**
He stood up from the dirt, dusted off his clothes.
His face was shadowed with grief,
but there was a spark of anger beneath it.
He reached for one of the books in the box.
As he opened it, a faded photograph slipped out.
He picked it up gently and blew off the dust.
It was a photo of him and his mother.
He stared at it—
his eyes flickering between confusion, nostalgia, and sorrow.
Her face was just as he remembered—
eyes always hiding her worry behind a soft smile.
That look alone cracked something deep inside him.
He set the photo down wordlessly.
He glanced back at the book—
a story about a superhero saving humanity.
He read a few pages…
Then shut it with a smirk.
"Your heroes only live in fiction…"
His voice dissolved into the silence.
And then, the tears began to fall.
Not for himself—
but for those still trapped in the nightmare he'd escaped.
He wiped his cheeks, stood up straighter.
His breathing steadied.
And then he whispered, as if realizing something both tragic and absurd:
"Who would've thought…
that some random guy,
not even American,
who just came here to study—
would be the one to survive?"
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