He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,

And death shall be no more,

Neither shall there be mourning,

Nor crying, nor pain anymore,

For the former things have passed away.

REVELATION 21:4

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Silence.

The heart within the Earth has stopped beating. There is an obvious lack of background noise, of pumping machinery and chittering animals and hushed murmurs.

Only silence.

Hollowed husks of buildings stand alone, their doors open and interiors dark like gaping maws. Cars rest as mangled shells, metal crumpled and rusted. Nothing, not even a stray breeze disturbs the quiet. The only trees still clinging to their roots are decayed and rotting.

Though the ruins are large, they're the opposite of impressive. They lie vacant, playgrounds abandoned and a once-beautiful metropolis reduced to lonely shadows. A tall, marbled library has collapsed in on itself, burying the metal lions out front with debris.

Half submerged in frothing grey waves, a banged-up green hand clutching a torch protrudes from the sea.

It would be a true sin to give these descriptions, and skip over the most interesting- or, for lack of a better word, disturbing -piece.

The corpses.

They are no longer rotting, but weathering. Sand and ash and dirt sweeps over them, eroding their skin away to join the gentle wind. Leering from the back of alleys and beneath cars are skulls, grinning fearlessly out at the street, mostly removed of their skin. Wherever anyone looks, therein lies death.

If there is even anyone to look.

The only things that exist here are buildings, cars, bodies, skulls, and silence.

Always the silence.

Then, a new sound chases the silence away.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

Clip-clop.

These hoofbeats march across the island, over the bridge, until pausing at a place once known as Long Island. Only a few know of it. The rest have forgotten.

A pale horse draws to a halt. He shakes himself, shedding the dirt from him coat. The rider's feet make no sound on the concrete as she dismounts.

The horse snorts.

"Yes, this is the right place, Azrael," she assures him. Her words echo down the street.

The pair amble through the island, and on occasion, the rider peeks into creaking houses or hopped over fences, the mission unbeknownst to all but the horse and his hooded companion.

The rider's billowing cloak ripples in the wind, swaying around her feet but never tripping her. She walks with smooth grace, sometimes not touching the ground at all as she drifts over obstacles. Dust stirs up behind her. Azrael sneezes.

The city scene shifts to sprawling plains and rolling hills, where cozy homes are situated. Many have fallen into a state of disrepair, but the rider does not mind as she pauses before one of these said houses. It may have once been a warm cottage, with pastel blue shutters and little garden gnomes scattered on the lawn, but now, the wooden railing is skewed, and several shingles are missing from the roof.

Azrael hesitates on the sidewalk, appearing unsure. The rider tugs off her hood and shawl, revealing a head of thick braids. She tugs at a few thin braids until they tumble down, framing her face.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Williams," she greets. She runs her hand over the cracked wall. Her coffee-colored fingers come away dusty.

Naturally, there is no reply, but despite this, she eases herself into a sitting position before the house, crossing her legs and folding her hands.

"You may know me. My name is Ana, and I work with your grandson."

The house remains quiet. Ana continues as though she has been given acknowledgement.

"I'm here to tell you not to judge him too harshly. You don't know the full story. He's the most pure of all of us; or at least, he used to be."

Silence.

Ana traces absent-minded designs in the dust. "World War III is happening in the East. I don't think you would like that, having lost your son-in-law to war."

A pause.

"The other three enjoy their jobs. They've been corrupted by it." Ana pulls at a loose braid, frowning. "I haven't, not yet. I feel worse and worse about this as time goes on. I'm not sure we're doing the right thing."

Off to the side, Azrael nibbles on what little grass is left.

"So I decided to go on a cross-country tour," she continues. Her voice softens. "I already stopped at Euna's house, and now I'm here. I came to tell their stories, so people understand they weren't... they weren't born killers. They had lives, and families."

Ana takes in a shuddering breath and chuckles bitterly. She bows her head, as if praying, but the tears pricking her eyes claim otherwise. "I know I had mine."

A cold breeze lifts her braids, tousling it. Her shawl ripples like the ocean. Azrael nickers.

"You should grab some seats, because Helmer told me a lot about himself, so this will be a long one." Ana clasps her hands. Tears slip from her brown eyes, dark and glistening like rain-soaked earth. She breaths deeply, and prepares to tell the story from the beginning.

"One could claim that Helmer Jackson was scandalously intimate with death in these past few months, and the teenager wouldn't dare contradict you..."

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