Epilogue

How the World ends.

A journal sits on a table that's seen better days, wooden surface scratched and dented, with charred spots on one end where a candle tried to burn it down, thwarted at the last second. There's no table cloth, no decoration, just the clutter of life lived on it, and perfectly round stains, the ghost of mugs long forgotten.

The journal lies open, its pages turned to near the end. There are maybe five more of its plain white pages left to go. Memories fill the rest of it, margin to margin, often accompanied by snatches of newspapers and magazine glued in or tacked on carefully. When shut, the journal bulges, its small spine not made for all that's been stuffed between the pages. Certainly not the occasional pressed plant with its very distinct leaves.

Lying across of it, is a glaring red pencil. It's stubby, probably hard to grip, and had its blunt end thoroughly chewed up. A name is scratched into it: Collin.

The same name that's written on the first page of the journal, along with a year, and a promise of a reward should anyone find it and return it.

Or keep it.

《《 A good chance I won't need it any more, 》》 it reads.

But, for the most part, there's hope written between the pages. Tentative. Sometimes a little bitter and at times weakly grasping for something bright and kind, but it's there. Page by page. From pencil to pen and back to pencil, as days turn to weeks. Weeks to month. And months to hard years.

For the longest time, the words are as restless as the contents, following a journey that zig-zags across a world tipped into chaos, the letters often shaky, written in the back of a car rattling over bad roads.

Though, eventually, a rhythm forms.

There's a routine that can only be found with roots growing underneath, and tales of shelter and hideouts and not again, turn to something else.

Home.

But it isn't until the last few pages, near the end now, near to where the journal lies open and bared, that a narrative begins.

《《 You don't really think, ever, that you'll be around when the world ends. That's just not something that happens, right?

Shit.

It happened to me. To us. None of us figured, not when we were kids and not growing up, no matter how vivid our imagination, that this would be where we'd be standing eventually. At the end of days.

Don't get me wrong, we did well enough, yeah?

Survived Harran. Even got our clocks reset. That's what Fi called it, anyway, and I'm rolling with it, 'cause it's real.

After that, we got through the crumble. That's what I call it. Some call it the Fall, capital F. I always figured falling is like a drop and then a sudden stop, and this was more like a slow-ass float right into a shit pit.

We made it though.

Some of us, anyway.

Made it all the way here, which we figured we'd call Home.

Capital H.

We made it that. Built it from rubble to something meant to last, and it's treated us well. If you're to listen to Fi, it did the impossible: Make Kyle pick up a hobby that's not overextending himself just because someone asked politely. 》》

Taking up half a page, a sketch stretches between the margins. On the right of it, Kyle Crane kneels with one leg extended behind him. He's saluting, sharply, and looking down at a row of… puppies. They are sitting at attention, staring up at him with their too large ears perked.

All except one, which has its puppy teeth attached to the end of his pant leg.

《《 He's been really good at it?

Which is great. Though I didn't know dog people get all those cat lives, that's a bit backwards, don't you think?

But. Yeah. He's still been the first to wave his hand around when something dangerous needs doing. That never changed. Something-something can't teach an old dog new tricks. 》》

Another sketch fills an entire page after that, drawn so the journal needs to be turned up. Far on the left, her back to the page's edge, sits Zofia, her legs crossed under her. A guitar is propped in her lap. She wears a bandana, some hair sticking from it, and is looking out to the centre of the page.

All the way on the right, Kyle is hunkering down low, balancing on his toes, arms extended and a grin on his face.

Between them, a toddler wobbles clumsily into his direction.

《《 His name is Theo. He's seven months now, give or take a few days.

Yep. That Theo.

It's a long story.

A story I can't fit in here. A story I'd love to tell though, much like I'd love to tell all of theirs. Meghan's. Russel's. Damien's. Gabriel's and the Breckens'. Mine and Rahim's, too. All of them from start to finish, even if some of them finished way too soon.

But the world is ending.

No. It's not ending with a bang, you already know that. But with the loss of everything gentle. Everything soft. I don't know how else to say it, really.

Today is the day the world ends.

Not with a bang. Not with a whimper. Not with blood or tears.

But the loss of our last roll of toilet paper. 》》

"Col!" a voice calls out over the hush in the dusty room. Footsteps rap against the wooden floor in a rushed sprint.

"Just one sec," Collin hollers back. He flips the journal shut, trapping the pencil between the pages, and closing it on the final filled page.

Drawn on it is just one thing. A single, sparkling roll of toilet paper.

Taffer Notes: Endings are hard.

I've written countless beginnings. Almost as many middles. But endings? Endings that are meant to tie together three years of writing? Ehehe— Can't say I got any of those and this has been nerve-wracking.

Here it is though. The end of it. A conclusion.

And I want to thank you all, every single reader, for sticking with Kyle and Fi from start to finish.

Though I got to thank a bunch of you specifically, since, without you, I wouldn't have come anywhere near as far:

First and foremost, I have to mention DeejayMil and StopTalkingAtMe. Without them, I wouldn't have ever reached season 1. They've encouraged me. They've edited for me and betaed for me. And have been simply fantastic.

And without MaverickWerewolf, TurboToast, and ChronicallyOwlish, I would have never had the endurance to finish this. They've kept me going with their constant support and helped me get over a lot of those moments when I was ready to give up because I couldn't get myself to believe I was writing anything worth reading.

And then we've got every. Single. Reader. Thank you for your favourites, your kudos, your bookmarks. Thank you for your comments. Thank you.

I hope you've all enjoyed this.