The wind howled among the skeletal remains of what had once been a bustling city. Dust devils danced through the deserted streets, circling around overturned cars and the tattered remnants of suddenly cut lives.

You've pulled your threadbare scarf tighter. Bert is next to you, his shoulder touching yours, scanning the horizon.

You were scavengers who survived in a world devoured by a plague that no one understood. In the late thirties, you and Bert saw more deaths than most people have seen in their entire lives.

You've been wandering for months. Bert focused on the present—food, water, shelter. You were still clinging to the dying embers of hope, searching for beauty amidst ugliness.

Today's venture has brought you to a modest two-story house with peeling paint. You made your way through the barricaded door, the wood splintered with a sickening crack. The air inside was thick with the smell of rot and dust.

You moved around the house, systematically looking for something useful. Canned food, bandages, anything that could prolong your fragile existence. In the living room you found a photo album, the cover of which was decorated with wilted flowers.

Smiling faces were looking at you. A young family captured in moments of ordinary joy. Birthday, picnic in the park, Christmas morning filled with laughter. Each photo was a reminder of what had been lost.

You showed the album to Bert. He looked at it, something unreadable flashed in his eyes, then sighed. He took the album from you, and his fingers traced the outline of a smiling child.

Bert-They're gone.

He put the album back on the dusty table.

Bert- Everything is temporary. We are all just echoes, waiting in the wings. One day we will become like them, a forgotten memory in a world that is moving forward.