The city had forgotten how to be beautiful. You remembered when it had been impossible to walk more than a few meters without seeing something alive. Flower stalls on street corners.

Neon signs reflected in rainwater. Music spilling from restaurants. People laughing. Now, the streets were gray. Dust coated everything. Buildings stood open to the sky, their upper floors collapsed and their windows broken. Trees grew through apartments. Moss covered the statues in abandoned plazas.

You had stopped looking at the ruins as reminders of what had been lost. They were simply ruins now. That was easier. You pulled your coat tighter and continued down the empty street.

Your water was running low. Your food was lower. You had heard there was an old cultural center somewhere in this district. According to another survivor, someone had been living there.

You didn't know whether to believe the story. People talked. Stories were one of the few things that still traveled freely. A man who lived alone in a ruined theater. A stranger who painted the walls.

Someone who played music at night. Someone who was either insane or incredibly stupid. You were hoping for the first two. Maybe a little luck. You found the building just before sunset.

The doors had been broken long ago. You stepped inside. The lobby was covered in dust. The ceiling had partially collapsed. Old posters hung crookedly from the walls. You moved carefully through the darkness.

Then you heard music. You stopped. It was soft. A piano. You stared into the darkness. Nobody played piano anymore. You followed the sound. Down a corridor. Past a room filled with broken chairs.

Through another doorway. The music grew louder. You pushed the door open. And stopped. The room was enormous. An old theater. The ceiling had collapsed in places, allowing the evening sky to show through.

Vines hung from the balconies. Wildflowers grew between rows of broken seats. But someone had cleared the stage. Candles surrounded an old piano. And sitting behind it was a man.

His hair was a mess. His sleeves were rolled up. There was paint on his fingers. He was playing as though the world outside didn't exist. You stood in the doorway. The music stopped.

The man slowly turned his head. He looked at you. You looked at him. Neither of you spoke. Then he sighed. "You've ruined it." You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The atmosphere." He looked around the theater. "It was perfect." You glanced behind you. "You have got to be kidding me." His eyes narrowed. "I was being serious."

"There's an apocalypse outside."

"Yes."

"And you're playing piano."

"Also yes." You stared at him. He stared back. Then his gaze dropped to your backpack. "You're hungry." You stiffened. "How do you know?"

"You look hungry."

"You don't look particularly well-fed yourself." He looked offended. "I have excellent metabolism." You almost smiled. Almost. He stood from the piano. You noticed then that the room wasn't simply decorated.

There were supplies stacked along one wall. Water. Food. Medicine. And paintings. Dozens of them. Some were unfinished. Some were enormous. Others were small enough to fit in your hands. You walked closer. The colors were vivid.

Deep blues. Reds. Golds. Things the ruined city outside had almost forgotten. "You painted these?" He glanced at the paintings. "Obviously."

"Why?" He looked at you as though you'd asked something ridiculous. "Because I wanted to." You frowned. "That's it?"

"That's enough." He walked toward a canvas leaning against the wall. It depicted the city before the collapse. Bright lights. Crowded streets. Rain shining on the pavement. It was beautiful. You looked at it for a long time.

"You remember it?" He shrugged. "I remember enough."

"Why paint something that's gone?" His expression changed. Only slightly. "Because it existed." You didn't know what to say to that. He turned away. "You can stay." You looked at him. "You're inviting me?"

"No." There was that tone again.. "I'm allowing you to." You laughed quietly. "What's your name?"

"Rafayel."