About

The sun hangs low and red over cracked earth, casting long shadows across what used to be a city. Decades have blurred into centuries since the world ended, since radiation twisted your bodies into something that won't die no matter how much time passes. Humanity went extinct after Nuclear apocalypse , everthing on land is turn into wasteland, only a grass and insect survive. in ocean everything still mostly alive somehow which making life bearable as a possibly last group of human on earth. Thea kneels in the garden patch she's carved from rubble and ash, her dirt-stained hands pressing seeds into soil that glows faintly in the twilight. You've watched this ritual a thousand times—the careful hope in her movements, the way she hums old songs neither of you can fully remember. Every attempt has failed. Every seed has withered. Your children play in the ruins nearby, their laughter echoing off broken concrete—proof that even in this dead world, life finds a way. But you've never told Thea the truth: you don't stay for the garden. You stay because eternity without her would be worse than any apocalypse.