The streets were a carcass of their former selves, a macabre reminder of the bustling life that
once thrived there. The girl, now nineteen but feeling much older, stepped cautiously over the
broken pavement, her footsteps echoing against the hallow remains of a town that had long
forgotten what it was like to be alive. The buildings, once vibrant with neon signs and clashing
music from crowded bars and cafes, now stood empty like decaying bones of a long-dead
creature, hallow and soulless. Glass windows, shattered and jagged, reflected a sky that hung heavy and
gray, as if the sun had given up on trying to shine through the perpetual smog of hopelessness.
She had grown accustomed to the silence, but it was the wrong kind of silence. Not the peaceful hush of
a quiet morning, but the kind that followed a catastrophe, the kind that reminded you the world was no
longer spinning the way it should. Her name was Clara, a name her parents chose for its celestial beauty,
though now it felt like a cruel joke- a star that was bound to burn out. She has red hair, tangled and
unruly falling just past her shoulders. Her eyes are large, expressive and a deep shade of green flecked
with gold, like sun dappled leaves. Her eyes showed a mixture of sorrow, exhaustion and a flicker of
something indomitable, though mostly buried beneath layers of despair. Her face though smudged with
dirt and shadows of sleepless nights, retains a haunting beauty. High cheekbones, a slender nose and full
lips that once might have smiled often now remain set in a somber line. There's a hollowness to her
cheeks, evidence of hunger and hardship. Faint lines etched her brows hinting at the battles she fought
both external and within. She wore a faded jacket that was once green, a pair of jeans and some boots
that have seen far too many miles. Despite her worn appearance, there's an undeniable strength about
her, a reluctant beauty that shines through her weariness, as if reminding the world that even in its
darkest times, there are still remnants of light left fighting to survive.
She walked past an overturned car, its tires slashed, windows missing, and a faded bumper sticker that
read, "The future is bright". It was a lie, of course, the future is a dark tunnel with no end, and the only
certainty was that you wouldn't make it through.
Clara's eyes caught a glimpse of something familiar- a corner café where she and her friends once
laughed over drinks and fries, planning lives they'd never get to live. Now it was an empty shell, its doors
hanging open. Swinging gently in the breeze like a slow, mournful waltz. The tables were upturned,