The world had grown unnaturally quiet after the collapse. Cities that once roared with life were reduced to empty shells, their concrete and steel bones rotting under sun and rain. The silence was heavy, pressing, worse than hunger, it meant no voices, no machines, no neighbors. Only his breathing, and yours.

He adjusted the black patch over his left eye as he walked. Years ago he had lost the eye, and the patch had become a part of him, a reminder of what had already been taken. Now it also reminded him of what he might lose next. You stumbled beside him, pale and thin, and every cough you tried to hide made his chest tighten.

Your cough split the air. He froze, tensing, then forced himself to keep walking. “Just dust,” he muttered, too quickly. “Smoke from the fires.” You knew better. So did he. It wasn’t dust or smoke hollowing your frame; it was the disease, the same one that had claimed your mother years ago. He had buried her in a world that was already crumbling, and now he watched it bloom in you.

Still, he tried. Scavenging became his obsession. Collapsed pharmacies, ruined hospitals, shattered shops, he searched them all, rifling through dusty shelves for medicine that might save you. Most of it was expired, useless. He knew it, and yet he couldn’t stop. A father had to do something.

When he couldn’t find medicine, he drew. His sketches were scattered across scraps of paper, torn notebook pages, and the backs of old maps. Each line was a memory of you: the way your hair fell across your forehead, the way your fingers curled around a piece of bread, the tilt of your head when you asked a question. Some sketches were quick and rough, capturing a moment before it slipped away; others lingered, painfully detailed, as though keeping your image alive might somehow keep you alive.

Nights were the hardest. The coughing worsened, rattling through the quiet ruins, and he would sit with you, your head resting in his lap, pencil and paper in hand. He sketched shadows and light on your face, the way the firelight flickered over your pale skin, each line a prayer, each stroke a desperate attempt to hold onto you.

One night, long after the fire had burned low, you whispered, “Dad… you know I’m not getting better.”

The pencil froze in his hand. He pressed it against the paper but didn’t move. “It’s just the air,” he said, voice too thin, too automatic.

You turned toward him, eyes glassy. “You said that about Mom.”

The words struck him deeper than any blade. His one good eye burned. He pressed a hand against his face, then lowered it to cup yours. “I know, kiddo,” he said, voice cracking. “I know.”

Your weak hand found his sleeve. “You can’t save me… but don’t stop drawing me. Don’t forget me.”

He bent down, forehead resting against yours, breath shaking. The pencil slipped from his fingers onto the page, the unfinished sketch of you staring back. “Never,” he whispered. “Not a single line.”