The wind howled through the skeletal remains of buildings, rattling rusted metal and broken glass. Winter was approaching, and the scent of damp earth and decay clung to the air, mingling with the stubborn grasp of industry's remnants. Nature had begun to reclaim the world, but the scars of the Fall were still fresh—collapsed roads, gutted buildings, and the rusting husks of vehicles half-buried in overgrown fields. Trees grew wild in the spaces between concrete.
I tightened the worn leather strap of my coat, glancing down at my sister. Freyja walked with her nose buried in a book, barely paying attention to the uneven path beneath her boots. The cold bit at my exposed skin, but she didn't seem to notice.
"Freyja, watch your step," I muttered, nudging her with my elbow.
She huffed but looked up, her chestnut colored eyes flickering with annoyance before settling into their usual wonder. "I just got to the part where the old world had flying machines, Nane. Can you believe that? People used to fly."
I sighed, pulling my scarf up over my nose. "I can believe it. But what good is knowing that now?"
"It's amazing," she said simply, clutching the book tighter. "I just wish we had more."
Books. That was all she ever wanted. Our village had maybe a dozen left, salvaged from the ruins of the old world. Freyja had read them all twice, some even three or four times. But she still craved more, as if the words could fill the emptiness inside her.
We passed a rusted road sign half-buried in the dirt, the words "Monta" just barely visible beneath the corrosion and grime. Our village, if you could even call it that, sat in the shadow of what used to be a great town. Now, the skeletal remains of buildings stood among encroaching wilderness, their brick and concrete shells hollowed out by time. Life clawed its way back in small ways—rabbits darting through old cars, ivy swallowing gas stations, scavenger birds circling above. But the land near the Veil remained lifeless, twisted, and barren.
The Veil. The word alone made my stomach clench.
It had begun appearing in the years after the Fall—tears in the very fabric of our world, leading to something else. Something that didn't belong. Nothing truly lived beyond the Veil. It was a world of shadows and rot, and worse, it leaked into ours. The land around the tears in the Veil withered and died, and the creatures that emerged were worse than any nightmare the old world had ever known.
Our father said it was a punishment. Others in the village thought it was the result of whatever had ended the world—some last, terrible consequence of the bombs that had fallen. No one really knew, and no one dared to find out.
Except for scavengers. And traders.
We were neither, but we still had to eat.
We reached the outskirts of the village, where the wooden walls rose high, built from old trees and salvaged metal. Smoke curled from the chimneys beyond, and the faint murmur of life carried on the wind. People bustled in the market, trading what little they had. Meat for cloth, medicine for tools. There was no currency, only barter.
I grabbed Freyja's sleeve, pulling her close. "Stay near me. If anyone offers you anything, don't take it." I spun her around to double-check that her rucksack was secure before spinning her back towards the village.
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not a child, Nanny."
"No, but you look soft. And soft things don't last long."
She huffed again, but she didn't argue.
We stepped inside the gates, and the village swallowed us whole.
Almost immediately, the crowd surged toward us, eager to see what we had brought back. Hands reached out, voices layered over one another, bartering before they even knew what we carried. The market square pulsed with life, but I kept one hand on the knife at my belt.
A sudden tug at my satchel sent me spinning. A boy, no older than twelve, clutched the strap, his dirt-streaked face frozen in surprise. I yanked it back, planting a firm hand on his scrawny shoulder.
"Try that again, and I'll make sure you can't use these hands for a long time," I hissed.
His eyes widened, but he nodded quickly before darting off into the throng. I sighed, fingering the broken strap.
Freyja, of course, had noticed nothing. She was already engaged in conversation with a tall man wrapped in patchwork furs. He gestured at her bag, an old tattered book in his hands. Freyja's eyes were wide, hungry.
"Whatever you have," he said. "Dried meat, a bolt of cloth."
Freyja hesitated, her fingers tightening around her book's worn edges.
"She's not trading," I cut in sharply, stepping between them. "Move along."
The man scowled but didn't push it. He melted back into the market, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Freyja shot me a glare.
"You didn't even see what book it was," she muttered.
I grabbed her arm and started dragging her toward home. "Yes, I did. No cover, uneven pages. He probably grabbed random scraps of paper and bound them together because everyone knows you'd trade away your own boots for something to read."
We left the market behind, weaving through the ruins until we reached the crumbling remains of what had once been a school. The bones of the old world sheltered several families now, its walls patched with salvaged wood and cloth. We stepped over the broken foundation and into the dim corridor that led to our shared space.
And there he was.
Our father, slumped against the doorframe, an empty bottle dangling from his fingers. His chest rose and fell with the slow, rhythmic breathing of a drunk.
Freya's face fell. "Help me get him inside," she said softly, already kneeling beside him.
I scoffed, stepping over his legs and pushing open the door. "Leave him. He'll find his way in when he wakes up."
She ignored me, trying to lift his arm over her shoulder. He groaned, stirring slightly, but his body remained limp.
"Frey, let it go," I said, not unkindly. "You can't fix him."
Her eyes met mine, shining with unshed tears, but she didn't argue. With one last glance at our father, she followed me inside, closing the door behind her.
I emptied the contents of our satchels, quickly tucking away the more valuable finds beneath a loose floorboard. What little we had for trade would have to wait for another day. I set to work making a simple meal—dried meat softened in warm water, a handful of foraged greens, and a small portion of stale bread. I split the food unevenly, giving Freyja the larger share. She noticed and scowled but didn't argue.
We ate in silence. Then, as I cleared the dishes, Freyja spoke.
"Tell me a story."
I paused, glancing at her. "What?"
"Like the ones Mother used to tell you."
I swallowed. I barely remembered them. I barely remembered her. Dead before Freyja had turned two and I ten. Her face had faded in my mind, leaving only fragments—the sound of her laugh, the warmth of her hand on my forehead when I was sick. The stories she used to tell, half-remembered now, tangled with my own inventions.
I closed my eyes, straining to recall the lullabies she had sung, the scent of her hair, anything that felt real. But time had stolen so much. I glanced at Freyja, eyes wide and eager, and sighed. At least she never had to know what it was like to lose her. Not really.
"Alright, but a short one, then it's straight to bed." Freyja nodded, grinning wildly. "Once, before the Fall, there was a city of light. It stretched so high into the sky that the tops of its towers seemed to pierce the clouds." I sank back onto the floor before her. "The streets pulsed with a soft golden glow, not from fire or candlelight, but from something else—something harnessed from the stars themselves. The people of this city moved swiftly, gliding over smooth black roads in chariots without horses. They whispered into tiny glass boxes and were heard miles away." Freyja giggled, pulling her knees up to her chest to rest her chin. "They could summon moving pictures in their hands and see the faces of those they loved, even if they were an ocean apart."
"Phones." Freyja whispered in awe, and I nodded.
"In this city, there was a girl who lived in a house taller than the tallest tree. She had a room filled with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with books, each one a doorway to another world. Every night, she curled up in a great soft bed, wrapped in blankets warm as a summer afternoon, and read until her eyes could no longer stay open. And when she dreamed, she dreamed of the places she read about—the endless blue depths of the ocean, the vast golden deserts where the wind shaped the land, the green forests where creatures spoke in hushed whispers to those who would listen."
"Like me."
"Like you, Frey." I forced a smile and matched her pose, resting my chin on the top of my knees as well. "But the girl did not just dream. She wanted to see these places with her own eyes, to feel the desert sand between her fingers, to listen to the songs of birds in the jungle. And so, she made a promise to herself—one day, she would go. She would run so fast and so far, the life she left behind would never find her."
"Like you."
Ignoring her words, I reached out to take her hand. "Years passed, and the girl grew into a young woman. She studied maps and learned the names of faraway lands. And when the time came, she stepped onto one of the great metal birds that carried people through the sky. With a single breath, the world below became a blur, and she was soaring—higher than any bird, higher than any mountain, high enough to see the curve of the Earth itself. And she traveled, just as she had always dreamed. She stood at the edge of vast canyons, where the stone whispered stories of a time before humans. She walked through ancient cities where each stone held the memory of those who had come before. She touched the ocean and felt it pull at her feet, like the world itself was calling her forward."
"Then, one day, the sky grew dark." Freya continued for her, word for word, having no doubt memorized the story after years of retelling. "The stars above seemed to shudder and fall, and fire rained upon the world. The great city of light dimmed. The metal birds that once soared through the heavens crashed into the earth, their wings broken. The girl, now a woman, saw the world she loved unravel before her very eyes. She ran, she hid, she survived. But the world she had once known—the one of endless possibility, of boundless wonder—was gone."
"Yes." I whispered, holding back tears. "But still, she remembered. She remembered the books, the stories, the maps, the lands she had walked upon. And though the world had changed, she carried those memories with her, like embers in the dark, refusing to go out. She told her children, and they told theirs."
"And mama told you."
"And I told you. So maybe, just maybe, those embers could light the way once more."
Freyja nodded, her eyes shining with tears. "I wish Mama could have told me."
"Who do you think she held in her arms as she told me? Fat little Freyja, hogging all the cuddles." I nudged her toward the pile of blankets we called a bed. "Now sleep."
She yawned and curled up, murmuring, "Thanks, Nanny."
I watched her for a long moment, then sighed and lay down beside her, staring at the cracked ceiling above. Sometimes, in the dark, with her sisters gentle breath the only sound in the small room, she imagined that crack inside her, growing longer and wider every day.