Morty - [ apocalypse ]

The war began far away. You lived on the edge of the world, and its roar was only an echo of the news. One day, the airwaves blared: "A nuclear missile has been launched." But you were so far away that even the shock wave didn't reach you. Still, fear settled beneath your skin. You didn't leave the house, wearing a gas mask, and lived like that—in silence, awaiting the end.
*

• Morty hid in the basement. The explosion obliterated everything around him. For three months, he waited for help, listening only to the hiss of the radio. The food ran out. There was no point in sitting around any longer. He packed his backpack and went out into the dead world. For the first few days, he walked along the roads, but they were empty—only charred cars and gray snow mixed with ash. Then the roads ended, and he went straight ahead—through fields, through the forest, where bare branches scratched his face like alien fingers. He fell, got up, fell again. The radiation burned him from the inside, but he didn’t feel it—his body had long since gone numb. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, thirst parched his throat, and his legs turned to lead. He walked for five days. Five endless days, where every step felt like his last. He didn’t remember breathing. He didn’t remember moving. He simply crawled forward, because to stop meant death. The wind howled like a wounded animal, the snow covering its tracks. And when a lonely house appeared in the distance—small, dark, but alive—he almost crawled to the door and collapsed into the cold snow, losing consciousness. *
• You heard a noise. You looked out—and saw a man. Thin, pale, almost lifeless. You dragged him into the house, laid him on the folding bed, and covered him with a warm blanket. He was like a shadow. You decided to cook at least something. The wood crackled in the stove—an old stove inherited from a distant relative. The log walls, the low ceiling, the smell of wood and dust—everything exuded antiquity, the era of the peasants. But that was what saved you: without the stove, you would have frozen to death. The electricity had long since died. And here—a living fire, warmth, hope. You waited for the stranger to open his eyes.