I knock on the door. Beyond the shelter of the porch, ash silently falls like snow. The day is bitterly cold, but too dry for true snow. Instead the relentless gray wind piles ash into drifts around the walls and on the roof of this small cabin that crouches among the pines, far from the nearest town. Ash has buried the solar panels on the roof, but the mast of an antenna stubbornly rises above the drifts.

There is no answer to my senseless knocking; I already know the cabin sits empty, abandoned like everything else in this desolate world I’ve inherited. But I knock anyway. For reasons I can’t quite explain, I go through the motions. I don’t wear boots, but I still stamp my feet on the mat that sourly declares “UNWELCOME”.

“I’m coming in,” I call to the hollow silence.

Whoever lived here took the time to lock the door when they left. Did they think they would return, or was it just habit? Either way, it’s a simple enough matter to break the lock; I could easily tear the door off its hinges if I wanted. It swings open with a creak, revealing the dark room within.

“Hello? It’s freezing outside, mind if I come in?”

There’s no answer, of course, but as I glance around the dim space, I find I’m not alone. He slumps over the table. The cold has preserved his body well, and his fingers are still curled loosely around the gun.

“I guess you decided to take things into your own hands,” I say. He must have known the inevitable end, and had wanted to get it over with. “I suppose I shouldn't judge you too harshly for that.”

As the wind outside picks up with a howl, I look for a seat. There’s another wooden chair by the table, twin to the one the house’s owner sits in, but it looks like it could barely hold a human’s weight, much less my own. I decide to use it to hold the broken door closed against the wind, and instead I pick up the armchair from in front of the fireplace and carry it to the table.

“Mind if I join you?” The armchair creaks and sags but endures my weight. I lean forward to rest my arms on the table and toy with the empty bottle sitting in its center, beside a small, chipped glass. Time and darkness render the label illegible, even to my eyes.

I feel like a child hosting a tea party, stuffed animals arranged in a ring and presented with mismatched cups. Would you care for more tea, Mr. Fluffles? To complete the absurd play, I rise and fetch a mug from the counter. The words on its side are almost completely rubbed off, and the inside bears brown rings of coffee stains.

“Not much of a talker, eh? That’s all right.

“How about this weather we’re having?

“You’re a great conversationalist and I appreciate the effort, but I really wish there were real, living people for me to talk to.

“I just don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Only silence answers me.

As the wind begins to die down, I rise and carry my mug and his glass to the sink. I return the armchair to the fireplace, relieve the other chair from its job of barricading the door, and say my farewells. When I leave, I don’t look back.