In a dark and terrifying world, a father gives his young daughter hope with a tale of what once was.
“It wasn’t always this dark,” Ryan told his daughter, holding her hand in the firelight. She shifted on the mattress, whether from restlessness or discomfort, he couldn’t say. They’d been on the move all day, and the mattress on the floor could have come from anywhere.
“There were lights,” he continued, drawing a thin cover over her shoulders. “Lights everywhere.”
“What kind of lights?” Her piping voice, somehow still enthusiastic even after the day they had endured, the month, the year.
“Bright city lights,” he answered after thinking about it for a moment. “There used to be giant cities full of buildings, filled with people. And everyone left their lights on, even when they were asleep. From a distance it looked like the sky was glowing!”
“Wow.” The response, breathless, no trace of sarcasm, too young to know any better. “That sounds too good to be true.”
He paused, listening to the slight creak of the house settling, wondering when it had last hosted people.
“Yeah,” said Ryan after a moment. “It was something. It truly was.”
“How could they leave the lights on overnight, daddy?” she asked doubtfully. “How was there ever so much light?”
“People were silly back then,” said Ryan. “They didn’t know any better.”
“Will it ever be that light again?” she asked.
Ryan wanted to comfort her. He wanted to lie to her, felt the primal urge to protect, but he knew better. “No,” he said. “It will never be that light again.”
Later, he watched their fire fade to embers before allowing his eyes to drift shut. Cassie’s light snores filled the room. The shadows blended into darkness as the last flickering light of the fire died away.
He resolved to lie to her the next day.
