Epilogue

How the World Ends.

A journal sits on a table that's seen better days, its wooden surface scratched and dented, with charred spots on one end where a candle tried to burn it down, thwarted at the last second. An often-mended table cloth sits on it, generally too small to cover it all and thrown on sideways with two tips dangling off on the long ends. It's a rich blue, with white frills and white flowers stitched on it. Weighing down the cloth is life; the clutter of it, the tragically disorganized humanity of it. There are perfectly round stains, the ghosts of mugs waiting to return.

The journal lies open. Its pages have been turned to near its end. There's not much room left; its crowded full of memories, margin to margin, often accompanied by snatches of newspapers and magazines glued in or tacked on carefully. When shut, the journal bulges, its small spine not made for all that's been stuffed between its covers. Certainly not the occasional pressed plant with its very distinct leaves or the feathers and even a few knits.

Lying across the journal is a glaring red pencil. It's stubby, probably hard to grip at this point, and had its blunt end thoroughly chewed up. A name is scratched into it: Collin. Except you can't read it all anymore. The only letters left at this point are a C and an O.

It's the same name that sits written on the first page of the journal, along with a year, and a promise of a reward should anyone find it and return it.

Though they might as well keep it.

《《 A good chance I won't need it anymore, 》》 it reads at the front somewhere. Which is fatalistic; and ultimately it'd been wrong.

For the most part, there's hope on the pages. Tentative hope, yeah. Sometimes a little bitter and at times weakly grasping for something bright and kind, but it's there. Page by page. From pencil to pen and back to pencil, as days turn to weeks. Weeks to month. And months eventually to very hard years.

For the longest time, the words are as restless as the contents, following a journey that zig-zags across a world tipped into chaos, the letters often shaky, written in the back of a car rattling over bad roads.

Though, finally, a rhythm forms.

There's a routine that can only be found with roots growing underneath. Tales of shelter, of hiding, of two brave, cursed souls who stand between death and them all; a shield against the night.

And then there's Home.

But it isn't until the last few pages, near the end now, near to where the journal lies open and bared, that a real narrative has been put together. A summary of sorts. An epilogue. A kind of lead-up to an end.

《《 You don't really think, ever, that you'll be around when the world ends. That's just not something that happens, right?

Shit.

It happened to me. To us. None of us figured, not when we were kids and not growing up, no matter how vivid our imagination, that this would be where we'd be standing eventually. At the end of days.

Don't get me wrong, we did well enough, yeah?

Survived Harran. Most of us even got our clocks reset. That's what Rahim calls it (who got it from Crane who got it from Fi), and I'm rolling with it. It's real. It's accurate.

After that, we got through the Crumble. That's what I call it. Most call it the Fall, capital F. But I always figured falling is like a drop and then a sudden stop, and that whole shit with the Crumble was more like a slow-ass float right into a shit pit.

We made it though.

Some of us, anyway.

Made it all the way here. Morrow's Watch, we call it. Also known as Home.

We made it that. Built it from nothing to something meant to last, and it's treated us well. And if you're to listen to Fi, it did the impossible: Make Kyle Crane pick up a hobby that's not overextending himself just because someone asked politely. 》》

Taking up half a page, a sketch stretches between the margins. On the right of it, Crane kneels with one leg extended behind him. He's saluting, sharply, and looking down at a row of… puppies. They are sitting at attention, staring up at him with their too-large ears perked.

All except one, which has its puppy teeth attached to the end of his pant leg.

《《 He's been really good at it?

Which is great. Though I didn't know dog people get all those cat lives, that's a bit backwards, don't you think?

But. Yeah. He's still the first to go out there whenever something dangerous needs doing though. That never changed. Something-something can't teach an old dog new tricks. And something-something him and her have no other choice, what with how they didn't get Lucky like we did. Well, alright, they did get lucky. A different sort of lucky. 》》

Another sketch fills an entire page after that, drawn so the journal needs to be turned up. Far on the left, her back to the page's edge, sits Zofia, her legs crossed under her. A guitar is propped in her lap. She wears a bandana, some hair sticking from it, and is looking out to the centre of the page.

All the way on the right, Kyle is hunkering down low, balancing on his toes, arms extended and a grin on his face.

Between them, a toddler wobbles clumsily in his direction.

《《 His name is Theo. That's their luck. The name means Gift from God. He's seven months now, give or take a few days.

Yep. Named after that Theo.

It's a long story, as you know. Go read up on it again if you've forgotten, I won't fit it in here again; much like I won't rehash all of theirs. Meghan's. Russel's. Damien's. Gabriel's and the Breckens'. Mine and Rahim's, too. All of them from start to finish, even if some of them finished way too soon.

But the world is ending.

No. It's not ending with a bang, you already know that. But with the loss of everything gentle. Everything soft. I don't know how else to say it, really.

Today is the day the world ends.

No, the world does not end with a bang. Not with a whimper. Not with blood or tears.

But the loss of our last roll of toilet paper. 》》

"Col!" a voice calls out over the hush in the dusty room. Footsteps rap against the wooden floor in a rushed sprint.

"Just one sec," Collin hollers back. He rushes into the room and piles into the table. His hand quests for the journal.

On the journal's next page, sits one last drawing: A single, sparking roll of toilet paper.

Colling snaps the journal shut.

And ends a chapter in the life of everyone who mattered.

Taffer Notes: Endings are hard.

I've written countless beginnings. Almost as many middles. But endings? Endings that are meant to tie together three years of writing? Ehehe— Can't say I got any of those and this has been nerve-wracking.

Here it is though. The end of it. A conclusion.

And I want to thank you all, every single reader, for sticking with Kyle and Fi from start to finish.

Though I got to thank a bunch of you specifically, since, without you, I wouldn't have come anywhere near as far:

First and foremost, I have to mention DeejayMil and StopTalkingAtMe. Without them, I wouldn't have ever reached season 1. They've encouraged me. They've edited for me and betaed for me. And have been simply fantastic.

And without MaverickWerewolf, TurboToast, and ChronicallyOwlish, I would have never had the endurance to finish this. They've kept me going with their constant support and helped me get over a lot of those moments when I was ready to give up because I couldn't get myself to believe I was writing anything worth reading.

And then we've got every. Single. Reader. Thank you for your favourites, your kudos, your bookmarks. Thank you for your comments. Thank you.

I hope you've all enjoyed this.