The northern wind bites harder the further I walk.Snow clings to the shoulders of my coat, heavy and soft.Each step leaves a mark that vanishes almost as soon as it's made — erased by the next gust, by the simple indifference of time.
That's the rhythm now.Walk, fade, repeat.And somehow, it feels like peace.
The ridge ends at a plateau overlooking a frozen bay.The ruins of a city sleep beneath the ice — glass towers snapped in half, trains fossilized in white.Once, it must've been beautiful.Now, it's quiet in the way that only places beyond history can be.
I sit on a cracked stone pillar, unwrap a small pack of dried bread, and eat in silence.The world doesn't demand meaning anymore.It just exists.
When the sky clears, I see shapes moving in the distance — tents, lights, figures working beside the ice.A small expedition.Not soldiers.Researchers, maybe.Curiosity never dies; it just finds gentler reasons to exist.
I walk closer.A young woman waves me over, goggles fogged, her face hidden by scarf and frost."You're a long way from the settlements," she says.
"I could say the same."
"We're digging for data cores," she explains. "Old Directorate tech. Most of it's dead, but sometimes… sometimes we find something that still remembers."
"And you think that's worth waking up?"
She smiles beneath her scarf. "We're not waking it. We're listening to what it left behind."
Her answer makes me laugh quietly.
"That's all anyone should do with the past."
They invite me to share their fire.There are six of them — young, curious, full of that restless hunger for understanding that makes humanity dangerous and wonderful in equal measure.They tell me about the fragments they've recovered: fragments of the Accord's communication code, early recordings from before the fall, journal entries written by people who didn't know they were building a future.
"Some of it's just noise," one of them says, turning the small device in her hands. "But sometimes we hear voices."
"Voices?"
"Fragments of transmissions. Half-phrases. Warnings, speeches, laughter. We don't even know their names. We just call them the witnesses."
The word catches me off guard.Witnesses.That's what I called myself once.Not hero. Not savior. Just someone who stayed to see the end.
"And what will you do with them?" I ask.
"Collect them," she says. "Not to worship, just to remember."
"That's the right way."
She nods, then gestures to the ice. "You can stay with us if you like. There's room. The storms get worse this time of year."
"Thank you," I say, "but storms don't bother me anymore."
That night, while they sleep, I walk out to the edge of the frozen bay.The stars reflect off the ice like a second sky, fractured and trembling.Beneath my boots, I can hear the faint groan of water still moving below — the slow heart of a world that refuses to stop breathing.
I kneel and place my hand against the surface.It's cold, unyielding.And alive.
"You kept walking," I whisper. "That's all I ever wanted."
The words vanish into frost and air.The ice hums, faint but steady, like an answer I can't quite hear.
When morning comes, I leave before the expedition wakes.They won't miss me.They'll just find footprints leading toward the ridge and assume I went home.In a way, they'd be right.
The road ahead is endless again — hills buried under snow, rivers frozen into white scars that shine under the dawn.Each step feels lighter.There's no past to carry anymore.Only the quiet joy of knowing that the world no longer needs a witness to keep moving.
At the highest point of the ridge, I stop and look back one last time.The camp below is a small flicker of light in a sea of white.Beyond it, the frozen city gleams faintly beneath the morning sun — fragile, temporary, and perfect.
Nothing lasts.But some things keep returning in different shapes.
That's enough.
I adjust my pack and start down the other side of the ridge, where the snow thins and the land begins to breathe again.Somewhere far ahead, I can almost hear the faint noise of a new settlement — tools striking metal, people laughing, something being built again for no reason other than it can be.
It's a good sound.A living one.
And as I walk, I finally understand that this was never a story about power.It was about continuity.About the courage it takes to keep living after the miracles are over.
The horizon remains, I think. And as long as someone keeps walking toward it, the story never truly ends.