Deep in the Ruins

The candles cast a faint golden circle across the cracked wooden table, and in its glow lay a spread of old maps, edges curled and yellowed with time. Silen leaned over them, one hand tracing the faded lines of freeways and rivers, the other pressing down the corners to keep them flat. His sister, Maren, sat opposite him, her eyes sharp but weary.

Outside, Los Angeles was already groaning under the weight of its own unraveling. Distant sirens rose and fell like the tide, punctuated by the occasional crack of gunfire. The air was thick with smoke—some nights from wildfires that burned unchecked, others from riots that left whole blocks smoldering. The city wasn’t dead yet, but the smell of its decay was everywhere.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” Maren whispered, her finger running along the faded outline of the 5 freeway. “If the collapse comes here first, we’ll be boxed in.”

Silen’s jaw tightened. He had always been the one to push forward, to find solutions where none seemed possible. “If we head north,” he said, tapping a spot on the map where the mountains rose, “we might find places still untouched. Small towns, maybe farmland.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “If we can avoid the gangs.”

Maren shook her head. “No. Too many choke points. Too many eyes.” She slid the map aside and pulled another from beneath the pile—an older, hand-drawn chart marked with her own symbols. “The dirt roads, the forgotten ones… they’re safer. Harder to track. If we move at dusk, we’ll have a chance.”

Their eyes met across the table, shadows flickering across their faces. They both knew what they weren’t saying: the city would fall. It wasn’t a question of if, but when.

That night would be the last they studied maps together.

When the violence reached their street days later—mobs pouring in, fires tearing through houses—chaos ripped them apart. Silen had run north, clutching one of the maps, while Maren was swept south in the crush of panicked bodies. Neither knew if the other had survived.

But somewhere deep in the ruins of Los Angeles, under the weight of years and silence, both still carried the same memory: candles burning low, a table scattered with maps, and the plan that had never been finished.