Eve climbs the tallest of the steel carcasses. Its bones
glint under the ruddy sky, where they’re visible neath the vines. When she’s
high enough to see the dead streets laid out below her, she stops. She stands,
bare toes curled over the edge, and surveys her kingdom.
It’s no less beautiful, she thinks, for being empty. Nor
for crumbling as it is. She feels wistful, yes, but wistfulness is only a
remembrance of beauty that once was. She’s at peace with her fate. She knows
all flowers wither with time; the real tragedy is when they’re burnt before
they blossom.
Eve sleeps, and wakes before the sun rises, when the
clouds are still wan and tinged only faintly with carmine.
