sunset of the undead

It’s been a long time since I last watched a sunset. No, not because I’ve forgotten its beauty, but because the sunset—once a breathtaking sight—has now become a warning. A hazard. Darkness follows, and it is dangerous. Not because I’m unaware of what lurks within it, but because I know exactly what does. 

The undead. 

Humans, forever consumed by their insatiable greed for immortality, chased the dream of eternal life. But they failed to understand one thing. not being dead isn’t the same as being alive. We call them the undead because death, in its mercy, eludes them. They are cursed, tormented souls who brought this fate upon themselves. It’s as if God is punishing mortals for daring to play with fire, for trying to fly too close to the sun. And as always, nature’s judgment is as cruel as it is final. 

Only a few of us remain—those still blessed with humanity, with the gift of a natural death. I tried to gather them, to protect and guide them. We became a group, holding on to hope together in a world that had forgotten what it meant to dream. 

Among us was someone I cherished deeply—my grandmother. She is the kindest soul I’ve ever known, the only one who offers my wrecked mind a place to rest. In her presence, I feel a fleeting sense of peace. She is my shelter in this storm of despair. 

“Oh, next week will be the end of the month. April is just a few days away.” 

I smile when I hear her say that. She’s the only one who still keeps track of time. She takes the time to calculate and count each day, calling it a blessing. To know where we are and when we are—that’s what makes us different from the undead, she often says. She knows so much, and she shares it all with me. 

People’s ideas differ, and those differences create gaps. Even in a world riddled with fear—fear of death, fear of the unknown—people still move forward, chasing for an adventure. But those same gaps in ideology can drive people apart, both physically and emotionally. 

That is why Granny is all I have left. Everyone else leaves, sooner or later. Sometimes by choice, sometimes by circumstance. I can’t blame them—it’s every man for himself in this world. But Granny stays. She doesn’t fear death. She seems to welcome it, counting down the days with quiet acceptance, enjoying whatever scraps of life we have left. It’s as if she’s made peace with the end of the world. 

“What do you want to eat on your birthday?” 

I swallow hard. How dare I think about what I want when the world is in ruins? Do I even deserve that luxury—the luxury to crave, to dream? Such things feel impossible, almost offensive. 

“I’m fine,” I mutter. 

She smiles and pats my head, her warmth undeterred by my hesitation. 

“Come on now. It’s not a sin to dream. you should be better at daydreaming than an old woman like me. What do you want for your birthday meal? Dare to dream. Don’t let the apocalypse take both your life and your dreams. Don’t let it consume your spirit the way it has consumed so many of those poor, empty bodies.” 

At some point during her little lecture, I realize she isn’t just talking to me—she’s talking to herself. Her words are as much for her as they are for me. 

I gulp, nearly stuttering. It’s foolish to deny my cravings. She’s right. I’ve let this hellish existence consume me so completely that I don’t even dream when I sleep. Could I even have nightmares anymore, when my waking life is already one? 

“... pizza,” I whisper, barely audible. 

It feels ridiculous. Selfish. Saying it out loud feels like a sin. How dare I want something? How dare I dream? I should be grateful just to be alive. 

She laughs. 

“Pizza, huh? Same here. It’s been ages since I last had one,” she says so casually, as if we’re not sitting on the ruins of a building—once humanity’s defiance against the gods, now reclaimed by nature. 

I place my cold hands near the fire and smile. Words aren’t needed. In this moment, I feel safe. 

The next morning, Granny wakes me up. She says it’s not safe to stay in one place too long. “Being on the move keeps the mind and body sharp,” she explains, adding that we’ll find more food in the next town. I believe her. She always seems to know where we are and what day it is, thanks to the old watch on her wrist. I wonder if it’s as ancient as she is. She tinkers with it often, delicately adjusting its tiny springs and gears, as though it’s more than just a timepiece. It feels like a memorial to something—or someone—long gone. Something she must cherish, even as the world around us crumbles. 

I follow her, as I always have. 

One day, I woke to a sound that was unfamiliar—a rarity in itself. No, the familiar sounds were always bad news. The ones worth hearing, I could count on one hand. 

I saw Granny’s back turned to me. She was busy with something, her movements deliberate. She was making something. Then she looked back, catching my eye. I blinked in surprise as she handed me a slice of pizza. Her smile was radiant, her face alight with a rare joy I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. 

I grab the slice of pizza, my fingertips tingling from its heat. It’s perfect. I never imagined something so simple could bring me so much joy. For a moment, I was tempted to hug that slice of pizza—just to feel its warmth in an embrace. 

“Happy birthday, Sophia,” she says softly. 

But then I jolt awake—or perhaps I was never truly asleep, just lost in some fragmented state of being. My whole life flashes before me, years collapsing into a single moment. 

The apocalypse feels like a lifetime ago. I remember saving people, grouping them together for survival. Among them was a child I adored. She was shy and lonely, so I took extra care of her. One day, she was nearly attacked by an undead, and I saved her—at the cost of my own life. 

Since that day, I became... this. 

People left me. They couldn’t bear to be near the undead, even one who retained fragments of themselves. But that little girl, she stayed. She cared for me, nurtured me, and refused to abandon me. Her humanity must have rubbed off on me because, over time, I became something else—not fully undead, but not entirely alive either. 

The years have passed, warping my mind. Memories twisted and blurred. As time passed and years went by, green summer leaves turned red and her dark hair started to imitate the color of snow. She grew old while my undead body was incapable of growing. The little girl I once saved became like a grandmother to me. 

What a lonely duo we had become. I pity her, and perhaps she pities me too. She stayed with me out of some misplaced loyalty. I had saved her life, but in doing so, I had bound her to this half-existence, living like the undead. Together, we became something unrecognizable—neither fully human nor truly undead. 

I clung to my delusions, and I may continue to do so until eternity collapses into a single fleeting moment in the vast timeline of the universe. And she—a human—had forsaken everything that humanity stands for, all to stay with one who cannot truly live, nor truly die. 

I glance down at the “pizza” in my hand, finally seeing it for what it truly is—a piece of cut cardboard, shaped like a slice. 

I look up at her, my voice breaking as I mutter the only words, I still remember the meaning of. “so...rry Emma.”