That day, I found a relatively intact bicycle lying on its side behind what used to be someone’s house. I gingerly lifted it upright and tested its resistance, resting a foot onto it, then bouncing it up and down. It showed no sign of falling apart, so I wiped the seat and hopped on timidly. When I put my foot to the pedal, it let out a dull creak, like the sound my bones made when I woke up in the morning. Needs maintenance, I thought.
But even if I managed to repair it, I couldn’t picture myself leaving this town.
Unable to decide whether I should celebrate this decidedly inedible find, I began retracing my steps. As I pushed the bike, the feeling of rust and dirt on the handle made my skin crawl; checking my palm, I saw that it was blackened with grime. I instinctively wiped it on my leg—a stupid move that only spread the stains further.
My lips parted as I tried to say something, but all that came out was a parched sigh. I talked to myself less these days. Had I simply run out of things to say? I’d grown sick of the sky—even the patterns of the clouds—and now I only ever looked at the ground.
As usual, the sunset hung over me like a weight; when I realized I was slouching, I consciously straightened my posture. Then I noticed that the sound of my footsteps—my one constant accompaniment—had now been joined by the rattle of wheels, and I found some small enjoyment in the new melody.
Because most nonhuman animals had gone extinct (at least, as far as I was told), there was very little noise or movement save for rustling grass and gliding clouds. And me, technically, as I headed to the edge of town. I’d taken a detour today—a whim that would only render the return trip that much longer.
Searching for food, then eating it. Sleeping, then waking. I could tell myself that my life was like a bicycle tire, but that would be a lie. Tires moved forward; I was stuck in a rut, and as I stood around purposelessly in town, I felt myself slowly wearing thin.
I’d been taught how to survive, but not how to live. This world didn’t allow for such freedom, so if I wanted to find answers, I’d have to take matters into my own hands. Why was I alive? Did this even count as “living”? Something inside me refused to be satisfied with merely breathing, and that feeling grew at the same rate I did.
Assuming that the person who’d raised me was right about my longevity, maybe there was a reason—a purpose—for it. Maybe my heart wanted it. This shapeless feeling formed hazy silhouettes from distant memories of interactions—of speaking aloud and hearing something spoken in return.
Were any other people still living on this planet? With each passing day, my mind wandered further and further beyond the scope of my wildest imagination. Yet for all my thinking, I didn’t act.
How far would I need to travel to find something?
I’d grown so accustomed to my life spent buried in the ruins of town that…for lack of a better way to describe it…a heavy lid of inertia pressed me down. After all, I could make it just fine on my own; if nothing else, I could survive. That was the only certainty I had, and I’d need more than that if I was going to go search blindly for the unknown. For that reason, I felt that I was most likely trapped here.
Until today. Until this very moment.
Snow.
I’d thought I said it out loud, but I couldn’t hear the soft rasp of my voice. Winter had long since passed, yet specks of white now belatedly fell down from the sky, stopping me dead in my tracks to admire them. As they danced on the wind, I reached out and caught one on my palm; instantly it faded, leaving only a faint glow.
For the first time in ages, I tilted my head back.
“Uh—”
A choked sound slipped from my throat and I froze, mouth agape, as something came into view. At first, it too was a tiny speck gleaming in the scarlet sky, but over time, it grew bigger and bigger until it took a humanoid form. It approached at a leisurely pace, as if it had blown in on the breeze, yet somehow it managed to land in front of me—directly into my new bicycle’s lumpy basket—without the slightest indication of pain or injury.
“Wh…whoa…” I hadn’t used my voice for so long, it took me a couple tries to get that out.
As the entity or whatever glanced around, I noticed that it was glowing, despite the daylight, exuding a pale blue the likes of which I’d never seen. Its descent had left a streak in the air that rose into the sky like a tower. Then, with a gust of wind, it was gone; the mass of particles blew over me, engulfing me briefly as they passed, and I caught a whiff of dry earth.
A beat later, the form turned and noticed me standing there. Her blue hair, I realized, was tied into the shape of butterfly wings behind her head—and when she fixed her gaze on me, her lips spread into a wide grin. Raising both hands into the air, she exclaimed cheerfully:
“Hello there!”
That was how it (all) began (again).