Sunset was underway. Pale yellow sky was tinted with layers of flushed golden hues, which saturated the barren, weathered ruins. At any other time they would be their usual bleached cream color – everything, stone to tile to half-ashen wood – but now they absorbed the warmth of the sunset’s flush, and their usually stark, defeated, crumbling look was entirely reshaped into a city of delicate, dependable beauty. Each smoothed fracture of a crack in the wall was no longer a point of weakness but an addition to the picture; each fallen wall now another soft facet to enhance the glow of the aura instead of a reminder of decay.

The light did the same to the figure and face of a wiry girl perched atop one of the highest walls. She was dressed in loose tatters, and had long bangs and hair. Her light eyes were the same color as everything else, as was everything about her – the color of the city – the color of the ground – the color of the entire world that stretched flat for endless miles in every direction. Now it was pink and orange, but in moments the color would be lavender, then purple, then blue, then the clear black of night. Starlight would later give a watery silver reflection. Soon after, the red of sunrise would creep over everything, replenishing the world after the weak night, but then all colors but the eternal light tan would fade for the long, scorching hours of day, and countless days would pass in this way. An hour of color, endless blankness. An hour of color, endless blankness. An hour of color, endless blankness. Nothing could or ever would change that.

The hour of color was passing, and with the twilight came darker shadows. The girl had to get home. She pulled her hood over her fair, thin hair, hiding it from the gentle, soft wind that had been amusing itself with the strands while she had been watching the sunset.

As she nimbly leapt down from the tall stone ruin, the last of the sunset regretfully pulled the hues and tints back from the bleak world, but as they left the stones they left their mild heat. At least there would be some contrast, if only that between warmth and cool. She ran her hand along the surfaces she passed, her fingerless gloves allowing her bare fingertips to feel the pockmarked stones. Once or twice she had to climb up and over a tall pile of rubble, but the way she did it made it obvious that she had been dealing with this terrain for years.

Soon the ruins became more scarce and the piles of rubble flatter and smaller. The girl began to weave her way through narrow streets and alleys, racing the darkness that the night was carrying over the land. If she was late again…

Her quickened pace brought her to the center of this part of town – or what had used to be a town – and she stopped in front of one of the more intact buildings. The walls were mostly standing, and where they had fallen had been replaced by patchy cloth or scraps of wood and stone. The roof was practically nonexistent in the front part of the building where it was one story, but a few feet from the detached front wall a battered second story rose up, covering the opening at the top. Apparently heedless of the ashen dust she’d collected from running, the girl pushed aside the faded, too-short cloth curtain hanging in front of a doorway.

The narrow room was empty and filled with the last thin light of twilight, making the objects inside blue-purple like everything outside, but a yellow-orange glow came from the chinks between the stonework of the inner wall. The girl silently walked over the powdery ground to a hard-to-see secret door in the corner, pushed on it, and followed as a section of the wall rotated inward.

“…and that’s all I can give you,” the hushed, but intense, voice of a girl was saying. “You know how we are. I don’t have anything else I can spare.”

The tall young man sitting at the low table with the girl sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, but I can’t spare anything either. Fourteen or no deal.” He opened a hand that lay on the table, his palm ready to accept the girl’s decision.

Instead of responding, she angrily stood up, shoving the table back as she did so. “I can’t!” she shrieked before turning and whipping around towards the door. As she passed the girl who had just arrived, their nearly-white eyes met. Their eyes were identical in color, as was their hair – the drained color of the whole world – identical to each other, to the walls, to the curtains, and to the few children sitting in the shadowy corners.

“I don’t know how you can live like this,” the angry girl hissed to the smaller one as she disappeared through the doorway.

“No different than you do,” she retorted coolly.

At her voice, the boy looked up from where he was packing a few small pieces of food back into a small sack. “Night. You’re back.”

“What was she doing here, Tristan?” the girl asked harshly. “Aia should know by now she’s not going to get anything out of us.”

Tristan shrugged. “You know how she is. She’s not going to quit until she’s happy in one way or another. Besides, she really is doing badly, and we’re some of the few people with supplies or food.”

Night threw her bag down onto the table. “But we don’t have much. This is all I could find today, and I looked for hours. I know we’re careful, but we should be more strict. We have to think of our own needs first.”

Tristan’s rough, fair hair glowed in the lamplight, but a shadow seemed to be over his face. He was older now. He’d seen more, survived more, lost more, and it showed. His ragged clothes were frayed in places and a few lopsided patches had been sewn on. Small scars and scrapes peppered his skin and his grey eyes showed pain buried miles beneath his surface. There had always been something hidden and sad in them. It had grown.

“What?” Night asked. He was staring at her with an expression she didn’t quite like.

“You,” he answered, a tone of melancholy in his voice. “You’re so different.”

She gave a frustrated huff. “Well, isn’t everyone?”

“I was just thinking while you were gone. You used to be so be so bright, and even though you knew pain you were still happy. And now…” He sighed. “Now it’s ‘Night.’”

“Yes, it is,” she answered firmly. “I’ve grown up, Tristan. Before, I’d only heard of pain. Now it’s my whole life. People can’t be children forever.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Still. You’re only twelve. I feel like it’s my fault.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s your fault. That makes total sense. As if you had anything to do with destroying the world.”

He winced a little as if her comment came too close, and she sighed. “Look, you know you’ve taken care of me this whole time and protected me as much as you could. This isn’t ‘your fault.’ It’s just who I am now.” She turned around quickly, her loose hair and clothes whipping in an arc behind her, and made her way to the ladder in the back of the room, ignoring the kids sitting near it.

The wood was worn, but still felt rough to the touch as Night climbed up. Upon reaching the top, she pulled herself up to a standing position on the thick stone floor and walked the few steps to a small room. There was no door or curtain but only an open passway into the room. Its walls were bare and a little crumbly like the rest of the building, but she was evidently at home here. Taking off her hood and attached short cape, she flopped down on a small folded pile of tattered blankets with an exhausted groan.

It had been a long day. Walking for miles in search of supplies, running from a possible group of soldiers, climbing up buildings and towers of sharp debris, balancing, and jumping had tired her physically. But that was just like every day. The difference tonight wasn’t physical.

Her day had been filled with painful memories, and her memories weren’t like normal people’s memories to begin with. Once she started thinking about something in her past, she became so absorbed that she’d stand there staring into blank space until something or someone shook her back to the present. She’d been so mentally absent that it had drained her. Of course she was always haunted by some shred of her past or another; today’s memories had just been so much more vivid and near. It would be six years tomorrow.

Six years. It seemed like too short a time for all that had happened.