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Ashes

It was here that the world collapsed in on itself. It was here that the builders saw potential. No matter where you stand on the soft ground, you can see why. The sun peeks through the overcast clouds, gracing the dirt with its light. It reveals a disturbing beauty. There is dust dancing across the landscape, a dance of violence. The wind gently sweeps away the leftovers. It comes every Spring, through the break in the mountain range. Lifting with it a scent anew. Through that gap, you can see washed colors of a world better off, untouched.

Alone walks a man. Trudging through this valley, his movements are nearly mechanical. His gaze is fixed to the ground, eyes glazed. There is so much detail along the well worn canvas of rocks and dirt. Easily overlooked by the few that pass through here. For him, looking up is painful. An overwhelming view awaits, just one glance upwards is all it takes. He scans the floor, looking for pieces of a time long ago when this valley was filled with travellers and sightseers. It was beautiful once. It was beautiful, once.

His form is thin, his skin pale. All that can be heard is the whistle of the breeze and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. Grease covers is hands and face. Marks from a destructive past lead under his worn jacket. He carries on his shoulder, a bag of things he's picked up along the way. Pieces of someone's life. He is a collector

A pile of rubble creeps into his sight. Ruins of a home once filled with love. He drags aside what he can, revealing many items of interest. A picture leaking from its shattered frame is among them. Within its borders, a young man stands. A beautiful mountain cascade behind him, almost swallowing his figure in color and scale. His face describes pure joy, his eyes like a fire, full of energy. He bears a patch across his plain shirt, one that shows a cat with teeth sharp as diamonds and predatory green eyes. He could see a gravel road leading off to the boy's right, disappearing into the forest.

The collector pauses to admire the picture. "Was this what life was like before?" he wonders. He carefully lowers his bag down his arm and places the frame inside before picking himself up off the ground. The rest of the remains are held down by boulders too heavy to move. It is time for him to move on.

Travelling across the valley, though only several miles across, can feel like a day's trip. To the average passerby, the valley is a waste of rubble and skeletons of skyscrapers. But to the Collectors, it is full of riches. Not riches one can exchange goods with, but riches to feed to mind. The Collectors could be considered historians, and some do. Though they do not document the lives of great kings or politicians, they keep a record of the everyman. Common stories of struggle and victory. They keep these documents not in a grand building, but in packs that hug their backsides.

You may find Collectors across the land, each will have a thousand stories to tell. But despite their prying hands, they prefer to keep to themselves. It's a burden they realize early on. So much knowledge cataloged in their mind, and not enough time to tell a soul of it. To even try would be a challenge worthy of those with the strongest tongues. Some certainly try and find themselves talking from dawn to dusk. No story is worth sharing if it's cut down to it's summary. They must tell it in full.

The Collector we follow is putting pieces together. Making a mental note of the faces he sees and the trails it leads. It entertains him. He finds satisfaction despite his feet paining and his back becoming sore. Some treasure is too great to give up on. Scorched rock and fallen towers crawl by his sides. Glancing back and forth, he chooses his excavations with talent. For instance, that pile of rocks is too small to have been anyone's home. There is no glass surrounding it, no wood. And the trembling skyscraper up ahead, it couldn't have kept many personal details, likely it is filled with paperwork and equipment. No life occurred there, just the menial struggle of labor. The ash may cover much of what he is looking for. A life, unfolding.

Alas, our Collector sets foot atop a collapsed roof. It looks homey, just as he was beginning to believe the boy, who he'd laid eyes on earlier, had left his mark and escaped this land. The winds have carried with them an army of dirt. It is common to see such structures peaking through the new horizon, buried, but not forgotten. He grabs ahold of a plank, and carefully lowers himself into the shell of this home, a light thud reverberates against the interior. The sun has not kissed these walls in decades. Is is too dark to make out the perimeter. Our Collector reaches into his coat pocket and fetches a headlamp. It is unwise for a Collector to go about his day without one. Quickly pulling the lamp to his forehead and around his skull, he flips the switch, and the details are revealed.

The walls are a calm blue color, washed away from age. The windows that break the blue are cracked, barely holding back the storm of earth from pouring in. Furniture is sparsely scattered across the room before him; perhaps they were once organized before? He steps forward, the crackle of gravel and glass shards escape from beneath his well worn boots. Along the foot of the wall, he can see paintings, most of which describe the beauty of this valley now forgotten. This place had a culture, once. The people who thrived here must have thought of this valley as a gift from their gods. You can see it in their work, if you find it. The mountains in the background rise tall, like a castle wall. The hills roll in and out in the outskirts. The sun graces the grass and the rivers with its light. The city looks as meek as a mouse in comparison to the rocky titans far off.

These paintings were too large for this Collector to carry with him, such a shame. He proceeds through the living room to what must have been a kitchen. Delicate cups and plates embrace the floor in a shattered state. Appliances sit atop the counters, covered in dust. Some wear a coat of rust, others look fresh out of a box.

Our collector is no thief, he does not take an interest in petty prizes. This room has nothing for him. He steps back into the living room and turns to the hallway to his left. The light from his lamp defines three doors. On all sides of the hall, there are rooms to turn into. Only one of them is curiously closed. He proceeds down the narrow, glancing left into a room filled with homely machines, to his right is an office. He stops in his tracks. This could be enlightening.

Peeking his head through the doorframe, his light reveals a solid wood desk beside and eisle. Shelves line the walls, bottles of paint and other instruments standing atop them. This must be the painter's room. Leaning on the wall are canvases stretched across hollow wooden frames. Our Collector steps forth into the den. He is curious about what those canvas' detail. Picking up the first of four, he sees an incomplete work. The colors are bright and hopeful. The paint is too vague in its current state, no telling what it could be of. Placing it next to his feet, he fetches the next in line. As he turns the face of the painting towards him, his eyes begin to fill with concern. This one was not like the others scattered around the house. It was dark and brooding. Tall black spires rise up and down the scene. Small red cracks breaking free from their grasp.

This was worth keeping. A turning point in this artist's life, perhaps. He draws a knife from his belt and cuts along the perimeter, rolling up the canvas afterwards. The rest of the frames were blank. Still, one room remained unchecked.

He proceeded back to the hall and approached the door at the end. The air was stale, and the howl of the wind could no longer be heard. Something was wrong here. An uncomfortable feeling begins to well up in him. The Collector's hand grabs the door knob and pushes forth. The door opened to reveal a bedroom. It was clean and organized, unlike the mess after him. Nothing was knocked down, shattered, or broken. It was like the storms left this room untouched with intent. Not even a flake of dust was in sight. The silence was unwelcoming. You could hear your heartbeat, loud as thunder. Few places offered such an effect. A bed sits squarely in the center of the room, headboard touching the far wall. A small desk by the window, accompanied only by a neat stack of paper and a lamp. Beside the bed are two nightstands, holding up picture frames. The walls remained plain, not a scratch, chip, or mark. The floor was more inviting that the rest of the house, stretched across its area was soft, short carpet; free of stains. Out the window, the Collector could see nothing. No dirt or debris. Just a void of darkness.

One could get lost in the timelessness of this room and be none the wiser. Our Collector must go about his routine with haste. He takes his first step into the bedroom, his own footsteps are lost to the damping effect of the carpet. The bed sheets bear an elegant design, striking against the solid colors of the rest of the room. He sits on the edge of it, picking up the picture frame. His light blooming across the glass surface. The boy we saw before was standing right of someone new. His form was slender and his hair was dark. He wore a trusting smile upon his face. One arm wrapped around his company. Friends, perhaps? The collector noted the painting on the wall behind them, the same one as was in the living room. Who lived here? The boy we've come to see twice, or the man standing next to him?

He could see the same light in the boy's eyes as before, he felt just as at home amongst the mountains as he did in the presence of this acquaintance. The Collector flipped the frame over and undid its fasteners. Removing the picture, he saw names written on the back. "Rob and Shaena." A name to the face. He paused to unfold the painting he'd cut moments before, examining the signature. It was an intricate signature, but only three characters contained the first name. This house belongs to the new fellow. This is Rob's home. That much is for sure. It's unclear if Shaena also lived here. An investigation worthy of our Collector. He placed the painting and the photo in his bag and walked over to the desk, perhaps these documents will provide information.

There was plenty to read, but at a glance, it looked as though these were notes of a personal nature. They describe intimate details of someone's life. But the air grew colder, he can not stay here. He takes the stack and leaves the room, the comforting howl of the wind above him returns. Down the hall and to his right, and he's back in the living room. The roof is too high to reach on his own. The furniture should be enough to lift him. He carefully drags a short table under the opening and places a chair on top. This will do. The papers would fly away from him if he sets them aside, pausing once more, he neatly set them atop the other items in his bag. With a couple steps up and a strategic grasp, the Collector lifts himself through the hole and back onto the surface. The sun hangs low now, peeking only above the hills. He nods at the sun, a one way acknowledgement that the day is at its end. He did not have to travel far to find a cubby to call home for the night. A place where the wind can only rage around him. He lays back and closes his eyes. Leave tomorrow's mystery for tomorrow.

A New Face

The wind has died down, now only the whimper of a breeze graces the skin of our dear Collector. His eyes flicker open to see a sky clear of clouds. The horizon is painted pink and orange as the sun returns for the day. The air is crisp and sharp. The dust is no longer masquerading through the ruins, it has grown tired and settled in place.

He perks himself up on his elbows, admiring the spectacle of the morning over the mountains. A sight many see and few admire. A simple pleasure in a sea of broken things. Recalling last evenings plunder, he reaches right to his bag, pulling out the papers he'd collected. They were well organized, dates and times introduce each page. Pulling up the earliest, he begins reading. They are journals describing simple adventures through town, tales of misfit doings. Climbing towers and sneaking past gates to see what lies atop and inside. Brave of heart, this one was. Sneaking around like a weasel must have kept the adrenaline high. Actions of someone escaping boredom and stagnancy. He was wild. The document describes a near miss after getting caught with a friend someplace they shouldn't be.

Most of the documents detailed mundane worries and thoughts. He skimmed over these noting changes in tone and outlook. His was a story of transformation. Signed under each page was the name "Shaena." So, they did live together. He continued on, trying to find the day they met. Surely enough, months after the earliest documents, was the story of their connection. This entry speaks of Shaena meeting Rob atop the tallest tower in the lost city. He was up there for adventure, and Rob was there to paint the valley. A fitting greeting. They sat atop the roof speaking of their lives until the night grew cold, parting ways to return home. The Collector shuffled through the rest of the papers, finding most of them blank or covered in sketches. He discarded them, keeping the rest in his pack. The sun now revealing its face, it was time to march once more.

He continued East along the path he'd chosen for himself. Filtering through the blocks and streets, passing through the shadows and over the skeletons of crumbling giants. Upon him is a familiar figure. Another Collector scanning the sidewalks. She was dressed in gray, from her boots to the hood over her head. Collectors are seldom fashionable. Any cloth that can withstand the nature of their work will do just fine. Her head was shaved down, eyes a bright blue. The scars of a Collectors life marked her face.

Curious, our Collector approaches. "Find what you're looking for amongst the remains?" he speaks, his voice almost lost to the landscape. The Collector stops in her tracks and looks up to us. "Aye. But I'm afraid this journey of mine is at its end." She pulls from her coat a letter. It looks aged, partially burnt from the looks of it. "A farewell letter?" he asks. "Indeed. This one's final moment before the end." She looked sullen as the words left her mouth. It usually takes them long to travel across the country to their next site. However long she'd been here, she didn't want to leave. "If it's no trouble, you could help me complete my journey here." Her eyes lit up, though she maintained her caution. "Whose life are you collecting here?" "A man named Shaena," Our Collector replies, dropping his bag to remove the picture he'd first found when he entered the valley. She approached and took the frame from his hands, taking in the detail before looking back up. "I've seen him before. You should be careful." She looked afraid. "And why is that?" Our Collector responded. "He's crossed paths with the life I was documenting. He had an interesting reputation in this city." she paused for a moment. "I will be your company, something tells me that his story will be heavy. I want to know what happened." She handed him the frame and they nodded at each other in agreement. Collectors do not often travel together, she must have seen something powerful in Shaena. They strolled, in a peaceful silence, through the streets. Footsteps light, every movement deliberate.

Our Collector is beginning to notice burn marks streaking along the ground, seeming to converge somewhere. He looks over to his companion and tilts his head. They follow the scorched earth around corners and through the empty towers. An effigy is before them, the origin of the scars. It stood before them, the form of a dragon with a pained expression covering its face. Despite the city's state, it remained untouched. The center of this intersection appeared to be its home, the shadows of the towers shielding it from the sun.

In one if its claws was a page with a photo pinned to it. Our Collector approached it alone, delicately drawing the paper from the dragon's grasp. He looked over the document, it was an eviction notice. He separated the photo from the page and stared with concern. There Shaena was, sitting against a door with his head buried in his legs, hand wrapping around his fortress. An arm reaches from out of view, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Our Collector bears an indifferent look. He turns to face his company, "He's falling." He reaches back to stow the new development. The ground grew darker, looking up, we see the clouds return with vengeance. Bringing with it a sea of rain. It creeps from the edge of the valley, marching toward them with disregard. The Collectors return their sight to the dragon, it face now expressing anger, a red tear leaking from its eye. They paced towards the hollow of the tower they had passed through before the storm, it's ceiling shielding them from the downpour. The water began to rinse the burned dirt from the ground.

Our guest asks what our Collector found, though he himself is still stitching it together. "Perhaps," he thinks, "this is how Shaena came to live with Rob." He hands her the notice. She appears intrigued. He glanced once more at the photo, this time, like the dragon, it changed. His head is no longer buried, Shaena is now peeking up from his legs, staring at the lens with fear in his eyes. What is he thinking? The other Collector nudges him, breaking his train of thought. She points out the dwindling rainfall, it is safe to move forth.

Stepping out from the protection of the tower, they are greeted by a sprinkle of water striking their faces. The dragon, once standing tall, now sits patiently. Its head turning to the west. Our Collector turns his head, too. Seeing down the crumbling streets, a faint orange light leaking from behind a mountain of rubble. A feeling of dread races in our Collector's stomach, his companion sharing the same feeling. Regardless, they march towards the light, a new step in Shaena's life waits.

Titan

The sky twists and turns above our travellers, breaking apart and reforming as the currents of wind guide them. The sun weeps above them, tears of gold become swallowed by turbulence. The ground has muddied, footprints form and fade after our travellers. Oil from the streets by their sides rises once more, a palette of color drifting on the surface of the puddles.

The light they seek glows ever brighter, it is a warm invitation. Rarely does a story attract the attention of its scribes. Whatever happened here, he wanted it to be known. His presence is felt throughout the lost city, a scar that never healed. Our Collector has never encountered such a strong attraction from the lives he's documented. It's beginning to feel like this will be his last. We here, observing from his eyes, share his contentedness. We hear the echoes trapped in the hollows of the crumbling structures. We can not speak back to them, but we can observe.

Snaking around the rocks and fallen pillars, the Collectors draw nearer to the light's embrace. It reaches out from behind a grand wall, refracting off the mist. It swallows the volume inside. They pace around the perimeter to find an opening. The closer they are to the entrance, the warmer the air feels. Opposite to their arrival, a single door stands, interrupting the grayscale texture of the wall. It has been painted maroon. Like the tears of the dragon.

Our Collector presses forward, the door opens to reveal a courtyard like a maze. Sitting in the center of the low walls of this labyrinth is a stone hand breaking free from the floor. It towers above our travellers like a great tree. It is shielding a small lamp, the source of the light, from the rain. Small red lines fill the cracked concrete, guiding them towards it.

They filter around the edges, admiring the sight before them. Where before the damp mist had them shivering, they now were hugged by the warmth of this open chamber. As they draw nearer, our Collector spies another photograph pinned below the light. The white borders are the only evidence.

He grabs the lamp by its base to lift it, slipping the photo from beneath it with two fingers. There Shaena is, hugging Rob outside of his new home. Eyes closed, wet streaks trace down his face to a grateful smile. Rob's chin rests atop his head, a warm and delicate look fills his eyes. A drop of water collects itself on the fingertips of the hand above our Collector, falling to meet the photo.

He looks up at the statue, the red lines are climbing up from the floor to wrap around the palm, detailing it with a complex pattern. The rain stops falling, the mist clears. The titan that guarded this monolith can now rest. The rays of the sun race through the now thin clouds to clean up after the storm.

The other Collector traces the red line's path around the titan's wrist, they're hot to the touch. She wonders what they are. The maroon seems to travel before them, waiting patiently for a witness. They could be a guide or they could be a warning. Their connection to Shaena is apparent, but not clear. Suddenly, the hand of this titan, once an open palm, now closes its fingers, rotating to point towards the north. She follows its direction. The hand stops with a sudden crack that echoed off the surrounding skyscrapers. It is directing her attention the tallest tower in the city. It is far, but it rises above the walls she is within like a beacon. The sun's light reflecting off of what little windows it has left.

She walks over to our Collector, breaking his gaze from the photograph. He turns to see where their new destination was. They would climb to great height in the time to come.

Among The Sky

Red lines now outline the streets, growing before our Collector like wallflowers. They ascend the outer walls of the buildings as they pass by, taking an abstract form. It's a pattern like a prison. Symmetrical and sturdy. The Collectors stare up in awe. Heat filled the streets, helping to evaporate what water was left over from the storm. They rose straight up the corners, outlining the structures as though they were sketched on paper.

Before our travellers, a thicker flat line almost guides them through the maze of streets, turning here and there. The skyscraper looms over them in greater scale as they approach. The maroon outline has left its mark on the tower, a striking contrast to the ever blue sky. The collectors now stand before the entrance. Inside is a mess of metal and plastic chairs tipped over and spread about the floor, tables break up the chaos, scattered papers strewn about the surface. The red line races towards the stairwell, disappearing upwards. The Collectors follow.

The skyscraper must have been fifty stories high, Our Collector is growing weary, but he marches up the steps regardless. If such a force is leading them up, what they may find must be monumental. Left, right, left, and right, he ascends. They reach what must be the access door, the red line has passed underneath it. Our Collector presses the bar forwards and he is greeted a view of great magnitude. He can see the entire valley and the lost city. Each tower one-upping each other with their sharp shadows. Below, the wind faltered in the urban sprawl, but up here, it swallows our Collector. He stops to take it all in. Even when he entered the valley through the mountains, the spectacle falls flat on its face in comparison. He never imagined his path would take him atop the tallest tower in the city.

The sun greets his eyes with a blinding light. He recognizes this view from Rob's painting. This is where they met. He breaks his stare to return to his red guide. It takes a U-turn from the door, leading to the opposite side of the building from the entrance. His companion emerges and is caught by the same beauty our Collector stood to witness. She chooses to remain here while he finds his next piece.

Our Collector passes the access shed, following the line with his eyes. The line leads to the edge and disappears. This is puzzling. There are supports for a window washing lift beside the line's departure. Electricity hasn't travelled through these wires in a long time, but he must try and raise the lift. He approaches the control panel and flips the lever forward. A thinner pair or red escapes the guideline and begins spiraling up the control panel, and after some hesitation, the lift rises. In the meantime, our Collector follows the line to the edge, leaning forward. Now more than ever, the wind's influence is strong. Before him, fifty stories down, a small crater digs into the road below. From what he can see, the red lines have engulfed it, spreading everywhere. An origin point, maybe? His thought is broken by the clunk of the lift coming to a stop.

The sun draws low once more, the city beneath them has become dark, they will be it's last witness for today. The peak of the mountains slice through the sun, it's shadow casts long across the valley. The other Collector turns away, she's seen all that she needed to. She follows the line and joins our Collector in his long gaze to the crater. He turns to her with fear in his eyes. She returns the stare. "Something isn't right." He steps away and approaches the lift. Among buckets of water and cleaning poles is a small metal tool box. He cautiously steps to the edge, reaching one foot over the long fall. The lift rocks gently back and forth. He leans down and grabs the box, thrusting himself back onto the roof.

The sun has said its goodbye, and now the stars emerge from the growing darkness. The Collectors fastened their headlamps before opening the box. He unlatches the lock and lifts the lid. Another photograph sits at the bottom. The sky is dark and the light from the camera illuminates the floor after our person of interest. There Shaena sits, legs dangling over the edge, back to the camera, looking out upon the valley as our Collector did. He removes the picture from the box and examines it closely. It looks as though something is moving, but he can't quite tell. Maybe his hair? His shirt?

Without warning, Shaena's head turns to face the lens. His expression is hurt, his eyebrows are drawn low, the edges of his lips are pulled tight like he's one step away from an outburst. Our Collector feels a chill race up his spine. Shaena stands and turns to face the camera with the wind as his back. His shirt waves and conforms to the gusts. The fire in his eyes has died down, now replaced with a cold blue stare. He closes his eyes and swallows. Standing on the tips of his toes, he leans backward and falls beyond the edge. Our Collector nearly loses his breathe, his companion covers her mouth in shock. He quickly stows the photo in his coat and runs for the stairs. His heart is racing. This happened long ago, but the fear was as new as ever. His breath barely keeps up with his pace, his company can barely match his pace.

He reaches the lobby and turns towards the rear exit. The glow of a street lamp leaks form beneath the door at the end of the corridor. He charges for the door like an enraged bull, slowing to a stop to open the exit. There the crater is before him, the red lines crawling out line wild vines, one had reached the lamp above the exit. At the center of the crater, the red had coiled to formed a pedestal. A journal page sat, impaled by a needle-like line. He stepped closer to it, the air becoming distorted from the intense heat the lines were now generating. Our Collector lifts the page from the spike. He read it over and over in his head. Pained words described a tale of betrayal and heartache.

His companion has stepped through the door, recoiling at the temperature before approaching. She grabbed the shoulder of our Collector and turned him towards her. He looks up from the note, his face blank from shock. His heartbeat slowed. She grabbed the note from him and looked it over herself.

"I keep fucking up. I keep destroying everything i've built. I keep hurting myself and others. Looking in Rob's eyes and seeing his anger with me. . . I had to tell him. It cut us both deeply. I had to tell him that I couldn't keep up this facade. I love him, bot not in the way he needed me to love him.

Why should any of this be my fault?! Why should I beat myself to death when everyone else is too smug to care? No. No, they must own the pain they've filled me with."

She folded the paper and gave our Collector's piece back. "Is this the end of his story?" Before he could respond, the pedestal unwinded, leaving another photo in its place. He hesitated, fearing what he would see. Dropping down on one knee, he takes the picture, staring at it with dread. Shaena is laying flat on the sidewalk, but he is not anguished. No, he is filled with rage. The fire has returned, but not a fire of hope. No, this is a fire that could bring down a forest. He slowly rises from the ground, aligning himself, he stares down the camera as he huffs before looking right. He runs off, out of frame down the road. Our Collector feels an uncomfortable heat through his shoes, breaking his stare from the picture, he sees the red lines glowing bright. Once a timid maroon, now the lines begin to glow orange. They stir and move with impatience. A few strands break free from the crater and run through the street after Shaena.

He falters backwards to escape the pit and stows the photo. Our collector chases after the lines, his companion following after him. The city now glows bright in the once dark valley.

Burn

Rage can be a powerful thing in the hands of those with nowhere to go but up. In Shaena's case, he's lost everything he cared about. When his world grew dark, he had to light up his own path. And he did so with a fire of self destruction. Wipe the slate clean. Start anew. Bring down everyone who'd kicked him to the ground. He is stronger than you and I. His own mercy kept the fire within, but now. . . now it's time to burn.

The twilight of the night sky was quickly outshined as the red lines he'd come to know grew brighter, coloring the city in a haze of orange. The temperature rises, slowly but surely. Our Collector is swiveling his head, frantically looking for the right path to the end. He is not afraid of the new light, no, he is driven by an intense curiosity. He must know how this city had fallen, and his suspicion is targeted at Shaena. He must have been the force to bring down a whole city.

He ran block to block until he saw it. The lines dropped from the towers around him, spilling onto the street. Congregating into a bright mass before him. We watch in awe. Never before have the lines tried to stop our travellers. The strands are coiling around each other, building upwards. Taking the form of a human. The strands that now comprise its figure dim to a timid crimson. It raises its arm before waving our Collector in its direction. He is about to approach before his companion stops him. "I can't go further." She says. He stares at her before returning an understanding look. "This story can only end one way. I must escape before it's too late." He nods and she turns away, glancing around for the fastest way out, before taking off running.

Our Collector returns his eyes to the strange formation. He is unsure about its intention, but time is running short. The figure turns away and walks around the corner. He follows it hastily. Rounding the corner, he stops in his tracks. The figure has stopped in the middle of the street, looking up at a tower, no more than 15 stories high. Its hand raises as though it's a command. The strands that outlined the sidewalk scramble and break their form, they rush to the base of the structure and coil up the walls. The building shines bright. The figure closed it's fist and in an instant, the once whole building crumbles to pieces. Our Collector staggers back as dust fills the air in the wake of the collapse.

The figure turns back to him, bucking its head in the direction of the rubble filled lot before being swallowed by the cloud of ash. Our Collector regains his footing, he fetches a long rag to fasten around his head, so as not to breathe in the ash. He hesitantly steps towards the lot, the cloud of dust fills the streets around him like fog. The defining glow of the lines now blurs within it. The figure had moved out of the street, a troubling situation for our Collector. He steps over the scattered blocks finding his way back to the figure. It now stands beside an opening in the floor. The stairs lead down somewhere, a place where the light of the lines does not dare to touch. The figure points down, urging him to proceed down the steps.

He walks cautious past the figure, stepping down into the darkness. It is eerily quiet down here, the worldly sounds becoming quieter and quieter as he descends. He reaches what must be the basement floor, but he can't see anything. Suddenly, the red lines rush past him, the same crimson shade of the figure. He looks back, at the top of the steps, the figure is unraveling. Looking back to the dark abyss, the lines begin shifting their color, starting to glow a deep blue. Unusual from what he's seen thus far. They outline a path for our Collector to walk along.

He must have been walking for what felt like an hour. He had become accustomed to the silence. It was beginning to feel familiar. The blue lines he'd been following are beginning to flicker, looking back up, he can see why. The outline of a window can be seen in the distance. A sorrowful blue glow shines through. As he drew near, he could make out more details. And then he recognized it. The house he'd visited a night before. The walls were pristine, the furniture was symmetrical. It was all still there. Had we travelled through the empty void? Why take us here?

He is now a mere foot from the window, the blue lines bled through the room, they now pooled at the foot of the bed, seemingly growing darker. Our Collector tries to open the window, but is met with no success. In his struggle, a photo drifts down from the sill. How had we not noticed it before? It falls to his boots. Bending over to pick it up, he feels sorrowful himself. This feels like the end. He holds it between himself and the window. Shaena had run across the city, back to Rob's house. He is kneeling, alone, before the bed. He is breathing heavily, trying to hold back his despair.

Shaena stopped, just for a moment before placing his hands on his head. He let out a painful scream. Eerily, a faint echo through the void can almost be heard. It sends shivers up our spines. Suddenly, fire seeps from his skin. It spreads through the house. Shaena's hate filled eyes stare back at us. He patiently leaves the room. Our Collector desperately smashes the window and climbs through. This photograph is behaving like a lens, seeing into another world, into the past. He steps into the hallway and the once-blue lines now shift to orange again, erupting with fire within the borders of the photo. Our Collector is shocked, but he must keep on Shaena's heels.

He turns into the living room once more. Shaena leaves the house through the front door, Our Collector must climb through the roof. Once back above ground, he holds the photo in front of him, turning around frantically for any sight of Shaena. He stops and catches his breath. Staring at the city skyline through the photograph, the towers are engulfed in fire, the red lines that once defined the framework of the towers now burn with wrath. The light flickers and falters across his face as he stands speechless.

He turns back to the buried home, fire rises through the roof behind him, twisting up again to form a familiar figure. The ground beneath it darkens under the flames. It approaches our Collector and reaches through the borders to escape. He drops the picture as the heat nearly burns his fingertips. Shaena rises from the image, lifting himself up into the world. He now stands firm in front of us. "This is the fate I chose. This is fate I forced down their throats. Do you see it? A city of liars and belittlers turning to ash. If I was going to suffer and fall, so were they." It spoke with fresh fury. Shaena was living through this again with our Collector as a catalyst. "I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to feel this. I wanted this sodding valley to burn with me." Looking at the remains of the city through his own eyes, the lines bloomed like the sun. The city may not be burning now, but Shaena is making his point.

"Is this the story you wanted?" He spoke. Our Collector has no words for him, just a sullen look in his eyes. Even as Shaena's form continued to flare, he appeared distraught, trying to find the right words. "I gave up. But perhaps there is hope. You gave me this chance. My essence has waited for you. Guided you to me. Maybe now I can mend this wound." Shaena kneels and places his hands on the dirt. After few seconds, the bright lines arrived from the city like a bullet train. He grabs them and lifts them through the air like reigns. "Thank you." He says. The fire that made up his form leaked down and through the lines, the city lit up to a blinding luminosity. Our Collector shields his eyes.

A fiery roar erupts from the city. Our Collectors is knocked down to the ground by a strong gust of wind.It began throwing him him across the ground. Houses blurred through his sight as he's being dragged farther from the city to the outskirts. He was slammed against something firm. He opens his eyes to see the red lines again, they are surrounding him, shielding him from the wind. The world darkens once more as the lines close in. It is time for us to rest.

Renewal

What could it be, birds perhaps? No, they haven't flown here in ages. But it's unmistakable! A natural alarm clock. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! We won't know until our Collector opens his eyes, it has been a long night. Is that the sound of water passing over stones? This can't go on any longer. Wake up!

He draws in a long breath, eyes flying open. There the sun is, greeting us through a crystal clear sky! He wasn't expecting that. He scrambles to stand, but now finds himself tumbling down a small hill of dirt. It wasn't pleasant, but he landed softly. Unusually softly. His hands scan the ground. Grass? How? He rolls onto his chest and pushes himself upright. His eyes adjust to the new world.

The valley, once a scorched wasteland, now blossoms. The rolling hills are rising and falling through the outskirts once again. Beautiful rocks break through the surface of the grass here and there. Incredible. The river from the mountains has returned, passing in front of our Collector. The shallow water races over and around the many stones in its bed, singing a beautiful song. The new horizon is gone. He looks up to the skyline. The city stands tall and rearranged. The beautiful blue tinted windows of the skyscrapers are back, glistening in the sunshine, breaking through a gentle haze. Many low houses have returned to the suburbs outside the city. A soft breeze brings in fresh cool air against the welcoming warmth of the sun. It was beautiful once more.

No one else but our Collector was present, from what he could see. No cars, no shouting. Nothing but earthly whistles and rustles as the soundtrack to the city's majesty, rising proudly above the hills and trees. Our Collector begins his march to the city, seeing if anything looked familiar. He walks past houses that were once piles of rock and rubble, now rebuilt. On his way, he pondered yesterday's events. The dark tomb he had visited. The dragon, fierce and fiery, shed a tear in the comfort of his company, beginning the growth of the red lines. The hand that guarded the lamp's warmth also pointed us in the right direction. The rooftop of the great tower, the origin point of Shaena's affection and the turning point for his downfall, leaving a mark in the streets below; life from death. The lines spread through the valley, the framework for the city's renewal. And one last look at what he'd done before mending his wounds. Shaena had the power to topple giants and lift them back up again.

The buildings began rising high above our Collectors head. The streets were newly paved, not a crack in sight. The glass bared his reflection, paced in tandem with him as he strolled down the sidewalks. He had seen Shaena bring down one of these buildings, perhaps he left something in its place. Navigating the lost city was mostly guess work, since the street signs had been buried long ago. He could walk through these new streets for hours and not find it.

He got the feeling he was not alone in the city. Sure, it was empty, but it was not lonely. Our Collector's suspicion was right. Standing before a memorial was our companion. She stared up at a new memorial. A maroon tree rose from the concrete, the last mark of Shaena.

"Where'd you go?" Our Collector asks. She shook a little in response, not expecting us to have survived. "I escaped to the safety of the mountains. I watched as the city shined bright, like molten steel. My instinct was right about leaving. The wind that blew in from the pass lifted away the dirt and debris through the air, slowly revealing the hills and houses. It was incredible. When the sun rose and the towers cooled, I had to see the city in person."

Our Collector stood in silence, trying to figure out where to go next. "He wanted me to see this. He wanted to make this right." he paused, staring back up at the tree. "I know what I must do." He approaches the monolith and places his hand on it. "I must tell his story. Let the world know that the valley has returned anew." He steps back and adjusts his pack. He has a long road ahead of him. But he will march with purpose. His promise will be fulfilled. Shaena's story has ended.