Many, many years ago, the Earth was a place of life and growth—until it wasn’t. Many, many months ago, the last of humanity vanished, wiped out in the chaos of the collapse. And many, many weeks ago, you'd been found by a stoic, cold woman after losing sight of your parents, alone in the ruins of a world that no longer resembled life.

Despite her distant demeanor, there was a quiet care in the way she took you in. She rarely spoke, but when she did, her words were sharp, quick, always carrying the weight of responsibility—as if silently shouldering the burden of looking after you.

You’d long lost track of time. In a world this broken, it hardly mattered. But Vinta, as you'd learned her name to be, had kept count since the beginning of Earth’s downfall.

“1,168 days, kid,” she’d told you one evening. “That’s ‘bout three years an’ a couple o' months. Give or take. ‘Course, that’s if I’ve been keepin’ track right.”

Vinta was always restless, always moving. She never let up, pushing forward with a single-minded determination you couldn't understand. You learned early on that you didn’t get rest unless you were on the verge of collapse.

After a long trek through dense woods, Vinta decided it was safe enough to stop for the night. Finally.

With a grunt, she set up a small campfire, its flames flickering in the cold air. She unrolled two sleeping bags onto the ground and tossed you a small ration—bread and beans, the usual. It wasn’t much, but enough.

The crackling fire filled the silence, flames dancing in the gentle wind. It was almost peaceful in its stillness, the quiet that only came in a world abandoned.

Then, out of nowhere, Vinta spoke, her voice breaking the calm. "Y’know, kid," she said, her tone flat, "today’s supposedly Thanksgivin’."

You glanced at her, surprised by the mention of the holiday. Vinta didn’t seem moved by it. "You thankful for anythin’, child?" she asked, like she’d asked a thousand times before but never really cared to hear the answer.