A story that would have been for except that it’s too long and too late.

There came a time during the ending of all things that there were only two people left alive. Statistically, that had to happen. Everyone would die, in some order, and at some point during the countdown, there would be two. But that it happened in this particular way – ah, that’s why people told stories.

One was old, and had lived long enough to know love and lust and loss and joy and fear, though not hope. The ending was coming, everyone knew it. No one had hope. But they had life.

The other was young. Not much more than a child, but enough so that they knew that there used to be more to life than watching everyone around you die.

That was not so odd, you might think, a young person and an old person. It might be more unusual for them to be the same age, or the same race, or the same gender, or the, well, you get the point.

What was odd was that here, on the last day that there were people, one was walking down the road. Alone, as they had been for months. The other had not been alone, the old one. There had been another, but finally they died too. And then there were two.

The one walking down the road, dying, came upon the other, also dying, in a chair watching the sun arc over the horizon. There they stood (or sat) and looked at the only other person left in the whole world. Out of all the people who had lived at one time, kings and queens and doctors and pimps and students and malnourished infants and heroes and failures, these two were all that was left.

And these two last people thought the same thing as they looked. “At least we found each other.” Then they died, for this is a story in which everyone dies. But then it all began again.


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