Memories Live On
Summary:
In a world reclaimed by a silent, chemical rot, survival is no longer just about staying alive—it is about staying human.
Francis Miles hates writing. He finds the habits of his family annoying. Yet, in the crushing silence of a decimated world, he finds himself performing their every ritual. He watches the sunrises his Nana loved, reads the books his mother favored, and tucks a teddy bear into his little brother’s empty bed every single night. In the isolation of the wasteland, mimicry is the only thing standing between Francis and the "things" that prowl the dark.
Years later, a scavenger named Aiden enters the ruins of Trenton, guided by a fox and driven by the raw instinct to endure. He doesn't believe in ghosts, but when he discovers a tattered journal and a photo of a family of seven, he is forced to face a visceral truth: that some memories are too heavy to die, and some legacies are written in blood and tissue paper.
Excerpt:
September 23 (I think. Not quite sure)
Hello to whoever might find this one day and read it. My name is Francis Miles, and I don’t really write. I want to apologize for my poor grammar ahead of time as I write this. I hate writing. Always have. My sister, though... She loved it. Wanted to be a journalist, then a fiction writer, and spent every spare moment lost in words. She'd probably cringe at my grammar, but right now, with her gone, I miss even her passionate rants about it.
I now do the same things that my family used to do, which I found annoying. I watch the sunsets and sunrises every day, just as my Nana did. I read books that my mother read all the time, books that seemed a waste to me. And as I read, I find myself biting my nails, just like she used to, sitting in her armchair in the living room.
Every night after I’ve watched the sunset, I’d go into my little brother’s room and begin reading stories out loud as my mother used to read to him every night. (He would be eight now.) I find myself reading the same stories to his teddy bear, which I place in the same spot where he used to sleep, and I tuck it in every night just as my mother used to do for him. After that, I stared out the window as if lost in thought...
