The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fear that had consumed the outside world. Sunlight streamed weakly through the living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. I sat on the worn couch, a bowl of dry cereal clutched in my hand, staring blankly at the television screen that had once blared news of 'The Nightmare,' now a silent, dark rectangle.

It had been Tuesday morning when I truly awoke, not to the world, but to the crushing weight of its absence. My father, my anchor, was gone. The weight of his quilt, now a shroud, settled heavy in my gut. I remembered vague, feverish images: a dog, the rhythmic thud of a shovel, then blessed oblivion. Now, a deep, empty ache had replaced the frantic grief.

Why was I still here? Why had I woken up? The thought gnawed at me. My friends, my entire world, were likely gone too. A grim, self-pitying chuckle escaped my lips. Why bother? But the hunger pangs in my stomach were a persistent, biological demand, dragging me back from the brink of despair. Anything in the fridge was spoiled, a festering reminder of a life that no longer existed. I drank from a bottle of water, my water now, and the realization hit me again, sharp and cold: I was alone. Just me. I had to keep reminding myself.