Fall

  ~ A Prayer to the Radio ~

  You woke to the cry of the alarm, and your eyes sought the digital screen glowing in half-light.

  7:30.

  The first fingers of sunlight crept through the edges of curtains, their warmth unable to breach the cold that overnight had seeped into the cabin’s bones. You curled deeper into the sheets, if only for a moment, the last remnants of heat clinging to your skin. The flames had burned low into the stove, reduced to a faint crimson glow breathing out the last of yesterday’s fire.

  One hand reached out, silencing the clock with the press of a button.

  The world beyond held its breath, no voices save for the brittle song of unseen birds perched in the thinning trees. You closed your eyes, grasping at the haze of sleep, but the images that had haunted the night had already unravelled, slipping beyond recall. You were left with the emptiness they carved in their wake.

  It had become a ritual to wake. With the slow trickle of unwelcome thoughts every morning, and the struggle to push them back before they could take root.

  You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor greeting the soles of your feet, grounding you. You dressed in layers: a wool shirt rough against your skin, a pair of jeans that no longer sat right on your waist. A pen in one hand and a line scratched onto the calendar.

  October 25th.

  A Thursday. A meaningless day. It should have been a morning of lectures, of hurried walks through the campus, coffee cooling too fast in the crisp autumn air. But those routines had long turned to dust. What remained were habits, empty gestures you still clung to.

  In the bathroom, the grimy mirror bore witness to the erosion. The angles of your cheeks had sharpened, and your hair grown, and the eyes that met your gaze no longer belonged to you. Grief had worn the lines deep; hatred darkened the irises. You brushed your teeth as you did every morning because it was to be done. The world insisted on falling apart, but this piece you kept in order.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A heavy coat and boots waited by the door. The rifle leaned against the wall. Its weight had become familiar in a way. A tool that meant safety. A tool you slung over a shoulder before stepping onto the porch.

  The morning air bit at your face, but the world had not changed in the night, not in any way you could see. The same sloping valley stretched beyond the clearing, the same tangle of trees stood watching. The same aching silence you were growing to despise.

  You moved through your established duties like a ghost retracing its last moments. Water barrels, half-filled from the night’s reluctant rain. Perimeters walked, boots crunching leaves that had once been gold. The silence had settled out here, even the wind was afraid to stir. The animals had fled. The people had stopped coming. And spawns of the infection had grown to be a rare sight. Everything receded. Even the memories. The world itself had been pulled inward, folded into the quiet decay of autumn.

  You lingered there on the porch, the rifle slack at your shoulder. And for a long moment, you waited. Until the ticking sound of your mechanical watch woke you from a mourning slumber.

  11:45.

  You set about fixing breakfast. The last of the summer’s berries and hard bread softened in the dregs of yesterday’s tea. You ate slowly, knowing it tricked the stomach into satiety, and by the window. Watching the woods… always watching the space where something might change.

  Where nothing ever did.

  There was no given schedule anymore, but you had made one for yourself. It kept you from slipping into the weight of empty days. After breakfast came the radio: twisting the dial, listening to band waves, hoping to stumble upon a voice. And every afternoon, at the same time, the only same broadcast could be heard. The same voice. The same words.

  “Civilian safety protocols remain in effect. Proceed to the nearest designated relief zone. Unauthorised travel outside of safe zones is discouraged. May God help you.”

  God had nothing to do with it. The ‘safety protocols’ had condemned thousands, the ‘relief zone’ been nothing more than graveyards for the sick and dying alike, and the voices that had once commanded order had long fallen silent. Only the recording remained, repeating its vague threats into the void.

  But it didn’t matter.

  After the radio came the firewood. An afternoon spent at the lake if the weather held. If it didn’t: patching the cabin walls, reinforcing the roof, logging your thoughts into a notebook. Because no music ever played, no voices ever called. The days passed, and the routine clung like late leaves to the branches.

  Everything was survival. Wasn’t it? Everything a preparation. But the season shifted. The wind carried the damp scent of earth. The leaves had begun to turn. Fall had come. And it carried a warning on its breath, a whisper of the cold to come.

  Your name was Alek Stellan.

  And perhaps that still meant something. But some days, it felt like you had already faded, like a gasp held too long in the frigid air, waiting to vanish.

  Your name was Alek Stellan.

  But you might as well... be dead.

  ***