TIMELESS ECHO

Blinding light!It burns. Sharp and fierce against my skin.A sudden rush of warmth I never thought I'd feel again—painful, yet strangely needed.I stumble out from the dark underground, every nerve screaming at the brightness. My eyes refuse to focus, blinded by the sun's harsh glare. But I force myself to stand, to embrace the fire that might be the last trace of life on this shattered world.My fingers curl around crumbled glass and broken memories as I sift through the ruins of forgotten stores. Each step echoes emptiness, each breath tastes like ash.Why do I still search? What am I hunting in this decay? Supplies? Hope? Or something buried deep within—hidden beneath layers of pain and silence?The wind carries a scent—earth after rain. It drags me back to distant voices. Soft whispers from a past that feels more like a dream.Par-a-dise.Their word haunts me. What did it mean? What did they see that I cannot?The chill bites my bones, but my mind reaches through the numbness, chasing fragments of warmth and light.And then… I find it.A battered diary beneath the shadows of a collapsed bookstore. Its leather cover cracked, its pages yellowed and trembling with forgotten pain.I open it."We are sinners, trapped in a world poisoned by our own hands. Radiation burns the soil; toxic rains wash away what's left of hope. Nights freeze us into silence; days scorch us with cruel, relentless fire.""The bones of civilization lie beneath vines and dust—no voices, no echoes, only memories best forgotten. We hide from ourselves, haunted by what we destroyed… and by the emptiness left behind."The words cut deeper than any wound.The world is bleeding, dying slowly beneath the weight of its sins—a paradise turned to ash.I close the diary carefully, feeling the unbearable weight of it all settle heavy in my chest.Alone. Broken. Searching for light in the ruins.But somewhere beneath this despair, I have a mission—a fragile thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, paradise can still be found... or made anew.I don't know what this is, exactly. This echo, this strange connection. But I think—he was like me.Not the man I am now.There was something different about him.Desperation.I've never known that kind of hunger—not for food, not for shelter. If I find supplies, I eat. If not, I move on. I survive.But he… he seemed driven by more than survival—a restless fire, a burning need for something beyond the ruins and the cold silence.Maybe he was searching for something, just like me.Or perhaps he found it—if only for a moment.A whisper of life beyond the numbness.Does that mean he's still alive?Because I'm reading his story now.Or is he dead?I don't even know whose story this really is.But somehow, it feels like mine too.Like it's waiting—for me, or for something I haven't yet found.