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 man after losing sight of your parents, alone in the ruins of a world that no longer resembled life.

Despite his distant demeanor, there was a quiet care in the way he took you in. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his 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 Vinton, as you'd learned his name to be, had kept count since the beginning of Earth’s downfall.

“1,168 days, kid,” he’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.”

Vinton was always restless, always moving. He 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, Vinton decided it was safe enough to stop for the night. Finally.

With a grunt, he set up a small campfire, its flames flickering in the cold air. He 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, Vinton spoke, his voice breaking the calm. "Y’know, kid," he said, his tone flat, "today’s supposedly Thanksgivin’."

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