The sky above my home is black, heavy, and unmoving. It presses down on the world, silent and cold, as though mourning without tears. The streets outside are choked with ash, where shadows stretch endlessly, and the air smells of smoke and endings. This was once a place of life, of laughter, but now it feels like the world has turned away, leaving us here to fade.

My house still stands, though battered and broken. The paint, vibrant blue against the grayness, seems to fight the darkness, as if to say, We are still here. At night, when the silence feels unbearable, I light the single lantern in the window. The faint glow spills across the ruins, not to chase away the shadows—they are far too vast—but to remind the darkness that it hasn’t claimed everything. Not yet.

I move through rooms filled with ghosts. Every creak of the floor, every worn chair, carries the weight of lives once lived. I can almost hear their voices—distant, blurred echoes of joy and sorrow. They haunt me, these walls that have survived. They are not cheerful. Their colors seem to mock the destruction around them, a fragile beacon amidst the ruins.

I wonder why my home remains while others fell. Across the street, there is nothing but dust and fragments of what used to be. Each glance out the window reminds me that survival is not a victory—it’s a question. Why me?

Above, the sky remains unbroken, save for faint streaks of light that fight to make themselves seen. They fail, disappearing before they touch the ground. Hope exists here, but it is small and fleeting. It doesn’t thrive; it endures, as I do.

I tell myself the glow of my home isn’t just for me. It’s for those who might pass by, for anyone searching for proof that something still remains. The house whispers in its colors, If we can endure, so can you.

But every morning, I wonder how long that light will last before even my home’s quiet defiance is swallowed whole. Until then, I keep the lantern burning.