Oblivion

The world was desolation. Vast grey dunes rolled beyond the horizon. Great spires thrust upward from the ashen wastes. The sky was the colour of an old bruise.

My feet were scraped raw. My throat groaned with every breath. My tears ran black and ruddy. I did not remember where I came from, only that I had to keep walking towards the setting sun.

I came to an old shack. It stuck out oddly among the ash. A small thing, built from a pale wood. I knocked on the cracked door. There was no answer.

The interior was rustic, but comfortable. A stove sat, stained but cold, in the centre of the room. I sat on the bed, springs creaked. Paintings lined the walls. Many were of landscapes I had all but forgotten, others were of people I almost recognized.

Next to the bed was a ledger, bound in flaking leather. It was a log of every visitor who stayed in this cabin.

Every name was my own. Over and over, my name with a different date. Some entries were almost a hundred years old. Upon the last page was scrawled a note in shakey script:

Look to the West and ye shall find salvation.

I snapped the book shut. Whatever mysteries this house kept, I would have no part in them. I left without a second glance, and continued on, towards the setting sun. Perhaps this time I would find something different.