An excerpt from 508.75UJ, section D of the Whitewick castle library. Translated by Guido Maniscalchi. 

I’ve finally done it. Last night I ran away from the shelter. I mean, calling it a shelter sounds so wrong—I feel like I should come up with a different name. A name that would actually describe that place. The Pen? I did feel like a caged animal in there, like a chicken waiting in line for the butcher. 

Thankfully, I managed to bring my journal along, so I guess I’ll keep writing down my version of the apocalypse. 

A girl came with me. She caught me sneaking out of the dormitory and she clung to the hem of my jacket like a stray clutching a bone. I didn’t have the time to shoo her away, and I didn’t want anyone to hear us in case of a fight, so I let her tag along. At the very least, if there’s two of us we can take turns sleeping. If one of those rogue surveillance bots comes at night, she can wake me up before that thing does. 

She’s an odd one, though. Well, most people seem to be acting odd since this whole thing started. It’s like they’re spacing out, or like they’re seeing the world for the first time ever and they don’t know what to make of it quite yet. Back at the Pen, only one of the adults in charge of us wasn’t like that. 

He thought that the world was reshaping itself, which means that magic is changing. I don’t know about that. If magic is changing, then why do I feel the same as always? Maybe I’m just resilient. 

The girl, she’s not resilient at all. All she does is walk around like a defective automaton, with that mass of tangled black hair and eyes so yellow they look like yolk sometimes. I haven’t gotten her name yet—she doesn’t talk much at all—but I’m working on it. 

If we’re stuck together at the end of the world, I might as well know who I’m talking to, right? And if I have to warn her from danger, I will need something to call her. Yolk Girl doesn’t sound very nice, and my mother always prided herself on having raised a nice, polite boy. 

At least my manners got me some extra food rations at the Pen. Those people hated well-behaved kids a little less than they hated the rest. You’d still take a beating if you weren't fast enough to dodge anyone in a foul mood, but you’d take it on a fuller stomach. Few things hurt worse than a kick under the ribs when you already feel like your innards are cannibalizing each other.

It’s getting late now, and I’m cautious about running out of ink too soon. I’ll write again later. 

Bruno