Many years after this story ends, and I am alone, I climb to the highest peak of the city.           

Once there, I am old and I do nothing but remember. 

It began with fire and black smoke and then, for a while, nothing. Nothing ends suddenly and I am sitting cross legged in the back of the kettenkrad and asking Mag something.                                                                                                                                                       I can still recall her face, her silver-grey hair that now matches mine, the way she used to hug me and rock gently from side to side. I remember her arms around me on the day of the storm- the coldest day of that year. We were talking about war, I think. I wanted to understand it.                                                                                                                                           

It was my history, I insisted. It was not my war but I shared in the consequences. Mag simply laughed at that, 

‘It was very few people’s war, Sasha.’

I was quiet after that and we continued travelling in silence. I had hurriedly covered the fuel with a tarpaulin as it began to rain, and it thrashed and writhed beside me, desperate to escape into the storm.                                                                                                  The weather was getting angry. Mag took a sharp right to avoid a falling cinder block and the sky thundered and flashed, releasing hailstones I swear were the size of my fist. Driving into the gaping doorway of the nearest building I could hear the snow thundering down onto the roof. The heavens had decided to deposit a year’s worth of sleet and ice onto the city in a single day and the long-rusted beams holding up the ceiling groaned under the additional weight. A cold wind cut through the holes in the walls and we went up four flights of stairs before we found a room that was still mostly intact. The plaque above the door was rusted and falling apart; as far as I could make out, it had once read ‘history.’ Shell casings littered the floor along with remnants of wires and copper lining, and desks lined the walls and the door, forcing us to bulldoze our way through. It was secure at least. As we undressed and pulled on warm, dry clothes, Mag decided she was too old to explore. Instead, she lit a fire with our remaining fuel, drying her socks and counting our rations. She settled down onto her folded jacket and sighed, smiling a half-smile. Ignoring her, I was desperate to explore- full of the special, kinetic sort of energy that you get in a storm- the kind that seems to only affect animals and young people, or so I’ve been told.                                                                                                                                           

Some of the cupboards were still intact, and Mag laughed as I got on my hands and knees and crawled into them. I strained my eyes and felt around for something interesting left behind, but all I got was a handful of dust. Some time ago, lower down in the city, when I was smaller and Mag’s hair was still a dirty blonde, I found what she called a radio, she said people used to communicate with each other through them, or even listen to music. Music was a concept I had never fully grasped. Maybe it was because I didn’t understand it, but the radio never left my person- it was dead, silent, and was missing some pieces that looked vaguely important- but it was my trophy. I carried a bag back then that was full of what Mag called ‘old junk’- mostly just various unrecognisable scraps, an old grey-brown glass bottle with a faded label reading ‘scotch’, a map to a part of the city we had never been to, and the handle of an old pair of scissors. Mag never kept anything we found, only watching me with mild amusement and pity. I didn’t understand her disdain for the old world at the time, but I knew not to ask, and so she let me continue with my fascination.       

Mag explained to me as we covered the windows that we were in some kind of school, one for young adults like me, rather than children, and so I had hoped that I would find some books intact.                                                                                                                Finding nothing in the cupboards, I left the room and ventured down the hall. The storm was picking up outside and I could hear parts of other buildings collapse, steel slamming against concrete over, and over. Secretly, I thought that might be what music was like.                                                                                                                                                             

The school was built more securely than most of the buildings in the area; it must have been important once. The ceilings were tall and the walls were all concrete, with the only light coming from far and few between windows which were now no more than holes to let the weather in. Snow was beginning to pile up underneath them and in that moment I thought the city looked beautifully cold and clean. Rain was washing away history in the shape of ash marks and huge black stains from the chimneys on the lower levels. It felt like a new beginning. I stretched out both my arms and my fingertips barely brushed the walls. There must have been many people walking here, a long time ago, for them to make the corridors so wide.                                                                                                                               

The unbroken white of the snow and the songs of the wind made the city haunted. It was as if souls were returning to their homes for a single night. Despite this, I thought the city felt more alive than ever, the usual silence had been broken by the wind dancing through the buildings all in various stages of decay, carrying sheets of metal, wire, and glass. Doors throughout the school groaned, pushed and pulled by the weather desperate to get in. I imagined I would walk into a classroom, or an office, and find groups of people turning to see me.                                                                                                                                                   

After a short while of wandering, stepping over scattered piles of stones and snow, I came across a room whose door was eerily still. It must have had something blocking the inside, which meant whatever was in the room might have survived the rain’s desperate attempt to wipe out anything in its way. I kicked it a few times with no response. Peering through the keyhole I could see rows of screens and wires, all black and grey with dust but perfectly intact. This room would be my mission for the day, I decided. I wouldn’t be able to blow up the door, as I might damage whatever was inside. There was no way I was getting through the solid concrete wall either- even if it was crumbling slightly. Excited, I remembered we had a roll of fairly sturdy wire rope back at the kettenkrad, and so I ventured back to the room labelled history, following the smell of burning fuel.                                                                                                                                     

Mag was half asleep by the time I got back, stretched out next to the fire. The door jumped as I pushed it open and the warm air stung my cold skin.                                               

 “Sash, help yourself to a cup of soup, find anything interesting?” 

“Kind of, I found a storage cupboard that’s blocked,” I sat next to her, poured some soup into my mug, and set it on the floor, “I’m gonna try to open it with the kettenkrad.”

“How exciting,” She opened an eye and looked at me, “Be safe and don’t be too loud, I’m going to sleep”.

I laughed nervously and promised to be quiet. I wasn’t sure why I lied at the time, but I didn’t want to tell her about the room and what I saw inside. Looking back, I think I had sometimes gotten the feeling that she wanted to hide the old world from me- my own history. That always irritated me. I was young, and infinitely curious, and knowing that, Mag followed me that evening, after I had been gone for a while. 

The door had been easy enough to take down, other than the fact that I narrowly missed a concussion. Someone had stacked boxes filled with files on the inside and I pushed through them with a final sense of satisfaction. The first thing I noticed was a large white screen hung on the furthest wall, along with a small black box fixed to the ceiling with two flashing, red lights that seemed to stare at me. Rows of smaller screens had been placed in perfect symmetry, one on each desk, and the wires overlapped each other, fused together with time. Turning to the left, I knocked a box from a pile adjacent to the door and it spilled files, books, and small metal discs the size of my palm onto the floor. I picked one at random and it had a photo of a young man printed along with what I assumed were his personal details. Alan Scott, it read, 18 years old and 1.78m tall. He lived on Church Street on the 22nd layer of the city- that used to be one of the richer areas, apparently. He wasn’t smiling in the photo, instead, he was facing the camera directly with his eyes tilted up slightly as if challenging the person on the other side. I ripped the paper carefully around the photo and slipped it into my pocket. Returning my gaze to the pile of papers on the floor I noticed another folder labelled ‘Scott’, it was a faded brown with a large red ‘X’ painted under the label. Inside was a circular metal disc with the letters ‘DVD 1’ scrawled onto one side. Turning it over I was surprised to find the other side reflective. My own face stared back at me. My hair had grown again and I tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe a large soot stain from my cheek. Alan Scott was clean in his photo, hair tied back neatly- I was embarrassed, but just for a second.                                                                                                       

I turned my attention back to the rest of my room. I had expected to be more excited, but as the storm calmed outside I felt a deep, sickly feeling in my stomach. I followed the wires with my eyes, and each screen led to a rectangular black box, which in turn connected to the sheet hung on the wall. As the red lights flickered on the ceiling, I briefly thought some of the technology might still work. My hand gripped the disc instinctively and I held my breath as I pushed a button on the side of the box. Something seemed to come to life around the room, fans began whirring and a tray opened in front of me. It had a circular indentation that fitted the disc perfectly. I hesitated but pushed the disc in, reflective side down. 

If Mag had not followed me that day, I think I would have been angry at her. I didn’t know how long I had been in that room, watching that video, but the sun was setting and the storm had passed. The city was all white and orange. It was beautiful, in a way, but I see now that it was dying, as were we.                                                                                                                       

As the fans continued to whine, all the screens in the room lit up suddenly and began to move. I recognised Alan Scott in the video, only he was smiling. The ground was green and he was laughing with another boy and a young woman. I could tell it was summer but it was unlike any summer I had known- instead of hot concrete and the unforgiving sun, there was life. Greenery exploded around them and something flew through the air, distracting the cameraman. The video shook slightly and they were running, kicking a ball between them.  Looking back, I might have been crying already, I felt an intense wave of jealousy for them. The girl turned to the camera and seemed to want to say something before all of the screens simultaneously froze. The trees and flowers were replaced with a recording of fire. I recognised that part of the city now- Mag had referred to it as a slum once, she had grown up near there- it was the same field as in the previous video only now it was engulfed in a hungry orange with the familiar sounds of gunfire. This was war.                                                   

 I felt arms around me and all of my emotions released at once. Through my tears I could see Mag who had walked through the screens on fire to find me standing alone, watching the very history she had tried to keep from me. A mother holding an infant rushed past the camera and it followed her, half her face was burnt and red as she ran from one inferno to the next, desperate to protect the child.

In that room, on that day, I faced two kinds of death. The orange of the fire and the sun reflected in an icicle as it fell alone onto burnt black stone.

Mag is gone now. I feel the wind, the sun, and the rain, and I am content with the knowledge that this history will die with me.