# Chapter 1: The Calendar The radiation counter clicked. Three times. Then stopped. Takeshi Yamada stared at the cracked plastic casing mounted on the hospital wall. The numbers flickered—12.7 millisieverts. Safe enough. Everything was safe enough these days, if you squinted hard enough at the definition of safe. "Two months," the doctor said. Takeshi didn't look at him. The counter clicked again. "Maybe three if you're lucky. Your organs are shutting down. Natural causes, if you can call anything natural anymore." The doctor's coat was gray. Everything was gray. The walls, the floor, the bandages wrapped around the doctor's left hand. Takeshi wondered if the man even remembered what white looked like. "You understand what I'm saying?" "Yeah." "We can make you comfortable. There's medication—" "I'm fine." The doctor sighed. He'd probably sighed a thousand times today. A thousand times yesterday. The sound of air leaving lungs that had breathed in too much ash, too much death, too many last words from too many dying people. "You should tell someone. Family, friends—" "Don't have any." That wasn't entirely true. There were people in the settlement who knew his name. People who nodded when he passed. But family? Friends? Those were words from before. Words that meant something when the world had color. The doctor wrote something on a piece of actual paper. Real paper. Probably salvaged from some government building that hadn't completely burned. His handwriting was terrible. "Come back if the pain gets worse." Takeshi took the paper without reading it. He stood. His knees cracked. Seventy-three years old and his body sounded like the radiation counter. Click, click, click. The hallway outside smelled like disinfectant and rust. Someone moaned in one of the rooms. Someone always moaned. The makeshift hospital was built inside what used to be a shopping mall. Takeshi could still see the faded logo of some clothing store above one of the doorways. The letters were melted, twisted. He couldn't remember what it used to say. He walked past a woman holding a child. The child's skin was too pale. The woman's eyes were too empty. Neither of them looked at him. Outside, the sky was the color of old concrete. It was always the color of old concrete. Sometimes darker, sometimes lighter, but always gray. Takeshi pulled his jacket tighter. The wind carried dust. It always carried dust. The settlement sprawled across what used to be downtown. Buildings stood like broken teeth. Some people had tried to rebuild. Put up walls, cleared rubble, planted gardens in contaminated soil that grew contaminated vegetables that everyone ate anyway because what choice did they have? Takeshi's bunker was twenty minutes away. He walked with his head down. A group of scavengers passed him, carrying metal scraps. One of them had a pre-war rifle. Probably didn't work. Most of them didn't work anymore. "Old man," one of them called out. Takeshi kept walking. "Hey, old man, you deaf?" He wasn't deaf. He just didn't care. The bunker entrance was hidden behind a collapsed wall. Takeshi had found it three years ago. Someone had lived here before him. Someone who'd died before him. Their skeleton was still in the corner when he moved in. He'd buried it outside. Seemed like the right thing to do. The metal door groaned when he pulled it open. Everything groaned. The world was one long groan. Inside was dark until he flicked the switch. The generator hummed to life. Solar panels on the roof, salvaged from some rich person's house. Rich people always had the best stuff. Even after they were dead. The bunker was small. One room. A mattress in the corner. A table. Two chairs. Shelves lined with canned food, water bottles, and books. Mostly books. Takeshi had collected them over the years. Novels, manga, magazines. Anything with words. Anything that reminded him of before. He sat at the table. The paper from the doctor was still in his hand. He looked at it now. Medical terms he didn't understand. Numbers that meant his body was giving up. Two months. Maybe three. He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the corner. It missed. He didn't pick it up. The tablet was on the table where he'd left it. Salvaged from a electronics store two years ago. The screen was cracked but it worked. Solar charger kept it alive. The battery was shit but it lasted long enough. Takeshi powered it on. The screen flickered. The crack ran diagonally across the display, splitting everything in half. He'd gotten used to it. His library was full. Hundreds of books. Thousands of chapters. All downloaded before the internet died. Before everything died. Light novels mostly. Isekai trash about people getting transported to other worlds. Ironic, considering he'd lived through the world ending and there was nothing fantastical about it. He opened the file he'd been reading. "Reborn as a Slime in Another World." Volume seven, chapter three. The protagonist was fighting some demon lord. There were magic spells and friendship speeches. The kind of thing that would've made him cringe before. Now it was just noise. Pleasant noise. Noise that wasn't screaming or moaning or the sound of buildings collapsing. He read. The words blurred together. He wasn't really paying attention. His mind kept drifting back to the doctor's office. Two months. Maybe three. He'd always known he would die. Everyone knew they would die. But knowing and knowing were different things. Abstract versus concrete. Someday versus soon. Two months. He kept reading. The protagonist defeated the demon lord with the power of friendship. Of course he did. That's how these stories worked. Good guys won. Bad guys lost. Everyone learned a valuable lesson about believing in yourself. Takeshi closed the tablet. The bunker was quiet. The generator hummed. That was all. He stood and walked to the shelf. His hand moved automatically, pulling out a can of beans. Dinner. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. He opened it with the manual can opener. The beans were cold. He ate them anyway. Two months. He wondered if he should feel something. Fear, maybe. Anger. Sadness. Something. He felt nothing. That wasn't quite true. He felt tired. But he'd felt tired for thirty years. Since the bombs dropped. Since the sky turned gray. Since everyone he knew turned to ash or worse. He finished the beans and tossed the can into the pile with the others. He'd take them out eventually. Recycle them. Trade them for something. Or not. What did it matter? The tablet called to him. He sat back down and opened it again. Different file this time. "My Hero Academia." He'd read it before. Twice. But that was fine. Everything was fine. Deku was trying to save someone. Deku was always trying to save someone. That's what heroes did. They saved people. They smiled even when things were terrible. They never gave up. Takeshi had given up thirty years ago. No, that wasn't right either. Giving up implied he'd tried. He hadn't tried. He'd just survived. Day after day, year after year. Eating beans. Reading novels. Breathing gray air. The chapter ended with Deku winning. Of course he won. Takeshi checked the battery. Forty percent. Enough for a few more hours. He kept reading. Time passed. The generator hummed. The world outside continued being dead. Eventually, he looked up. The bunker had no windows but he could feel it. Night. Or what passed for night. The gray sky turning darker gray. He should sleep. His body needed sleep. Especially now. Two months. Maybe three. His organs were shutting down. The doctor had said that. Shutting down like the generator would shut down when the solar panels stopped working. Everything stopped eventually. But he wasn't tired. Not that kind of tired. He stood and walked to the corner. Behind the mattress was a box. Cardboard, falling apart. He pulled it out carefully. Inside were photographs. Not many. Maybe twenty. All from before. His wife smiled at him from the top photo. Keiko. Dead thirty years. Vaporized in the first wave. Tokyo had been a priority target. She'd been visiting her sister. He'd been at work. He survived. She didn't. That's how it worked. He stared at her smile. Tried to remember what her voice sounded like. Couldn't. The next photo was his daughter. Yuki. Seven years old. Dead thirty years. Same as her mother. Same flash of light. Same instant of everything ending. He'd tried to find them. After. When the fires stopped burning. When the radiation levels dropped enough to move. He'd gone to Tokyo. Or what was left of Tokyo. There was nothing. Just ash and twisted metal and bodies that weren't bodies anymore. He put the photos back. Closed the box. Pushed it behind the mattress. Two months. He returned to the table. The tablet screen had gone dark. He touched it and it lit up again. Thirty percent battery. He opened a new file. "Sword Art Online." The protagonist was trapped in a video game. Had to fight his way out. Had to survive. Had to keep going even when everything seemed hopeless. Takeshi read until his eyes hurt. Then he read some more. The battery hit ten percent. He closed the tablet and plugged it into the charger. The solar panels would charge it overnight. Probably. If the weather was clear. If the dust wasn't too thick. He lay down on the mattress. The springs creaked. Everything creaked. The ceiling was concrete. Cracked. He'd stared at those cracks for three years. Knew every line. Every pattern. Sometimes he imagined they formed pictures. A face. A tree. A world that wasn't gray. Two months. He closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come. It never came easy. His mind was too loud. Memories he didn't want. Thoughts he couldn't stop. He remembered the day the bombs fell. He'd been at work. Software engineer. Boring job. Boring life. Then the sirens. Then the flash. Then nothing. He'd survived because he was in the basement. Server room. No windows. Thick walls. Pure luck. When he came out, the world was different. The sky was different. Everything was different. He'd tried to find his family. Tried to find anyone. The roads were gone. The buildings were gone. People were gone. He found other survivors eventually. Formed groups. Tried to rebuild. Some people had hope. Talked about the future. About making things better. Takeshi had just walked. One foot in front of the other. Day after day. The groups fell apart. People died. Radiation. Starvation. Violence. The usual. He kept walking. Found this settlement five years ago. Stayed because it was easier than leaving. Worked odd jobs. Scavenging. Repair work. Nothing important. Nothing that mattered. Read books in his spare time. Lots of spare time. Nothing else to do. And now two months. Maybe three. He opened his eyes. The ceiling was still there. The cracks were still there. He sat up. Walked back to the table. Unplugged the tablet even though it wasn't fully charged. Fifteen percent. Enough. He opened another file. "One Piece." The protagonist wanted to be king of the pirates. Wanted to find some treasure. Wanted to achieve his dream. Takeshi had never had dreams. Even before. He'd just existed. Work, home, sleep. Repeat. His wife had dreams. His daughter had dreams. He'd just gone along with them. And now they were dead and he was still here and he still didn't have dreams. Two months. He read until the battery died. Then he sat in the dark. The generator hummed. That was all. Eventually, he stood. Walked to the shelf. Found the calendar. It was old. Pre-war. Someone had printed it out. All twelve months. The year was wrong but the dates were right. Dates didn't change. Just repeated. Over and over. He found today's date. Marked it with a pen. Then counted forward. Two months. Sixty days. He marked that date too. Drew a circle around it. His death day. Probably. Maybe three months. But probably two. The circle looked small. Insignificant. Just another mark on another day. He put the calendar back on the shelf. The tablet was still on the table. Dead. He'd charge it tomorrow. Read more tomorrow. Same as today. Same as yesterday. Two months of tomorrows. He picked up the tablet. Plugged it back into the charger. The indicator light blinked red. Charging. He sat down. Stared at the cracked screen. Saw his reflection in the black glass. An old man. Wrinkled. Gray hair. Gray skin. Gray everything. Two months and he'd be gone. The bunker would be empty. Someone else would find it. Live in it. Read his books maybe. Or not. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He waited for the tablet to charge enough to turn on. Five percent. Ten percent. Fifteen. He powered it on. The screen flickered. The crack split his reflection in half. He opened his library. Scrolled through the titles. Hundreds of stories. Thousands of chapters. All about people doing things. Achieving things. Saving things. He selected one at random. "Re:Zero." The protagonist died over and over. Came back to life. Tried again. Never gave up. Takeshi read. The words were familiar. He'd read this before. Multiple times. But that was fine. Everything was fine. The protagonist died. Came back. Tried again. Takeshi kept reading. The generator hummed. The world outside was silent. Two months. He read until his eyes couldn't focus anymore. Then he read some more. The protagonist kept dying. Kept coming back. Kept trying. Takeshi closed the tablet. He looked at the shelf. At the calendar. At the circle around the date. Two months. Maybe three. He picked up the tablet again. Opened it. Selected another file. "Overlord." The protagonist was trapped in a game world. Became a skeleton. Ruled over monsters. Built an empire. Takeshi read. The battery drained. He plugged it back in. Kept reading. The protagonist conquered nations. Made plans. Changed the world. Takeshi finished the chapter. Started another. Time passed. The generator hummed. The world stayed dead. Eventually, he stopped reading. Put the tablet down. Stared at the cracked screen. His reflection stared back. Split in half by the crack. Two versions of the same old man. Both dying. Both with two months left. Maybe three. He stood. Walked to the mattress. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling. At the cracks. Two months of ceilings. Two months of cracks. Two months of gray. Then nothing. He closed his eyes. Sleep still didn't come. He opened them again. Sat up. Walked back to the table. Picked up the tablet. Opened another file. "Mushoku Tensei." The protagonist was reborn. Got a second chance. Lived a better life. Takeshi read. The protagonist made friends. Fell in love. Had adventures. Takeshi kept reading. The battery hit five percent. He didn't plug it in. Just kept reading until the screen went black. Then he sat in the dark. The generator hummed. Two months. He thought about the doctor. About the hospital. About the woman with the pale child. About the scavengers with their broken rifle. About all the people in the settlement who were still alive. Still trying. Still hoping for something. He thought about his wife. His daughter. Their smiles in the photographs. Their voices he couldn't remember. He thought about the bombs. The flash. The gray sky. The thirty years of walking. Of surviving. Of reading books about heroes who saved the world. He thought about two months. Maybe three. He stood. Plugged the tablet back in. Watched the red light blink. He walked to the shelf. Found the calendar. Looked at the circle around the date. Two months from now, he'd be dead. The bunker would be empty. The tablet would still be here. The books would still be here. The generator would still hum. Everything would continue. Just without him. He put the calendar back. Walked to the table. Sat down. Waited for the tablet to charge. Five percent. Ten percent. He turned it on. The screen flickered. The crack split everything in half. He opened his library. Scrolled through the titles. Selected one. "That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime." Volume seven, chapter four. The protagonist was still fighting. Still winning. Still believing in friendship and hope and all the things that didn't exist anymore. Takeshi read. The words blurred. His eyes were tired. His body was tired. Everything was tired. But he kept reading. Because what else was there? Two months. He read as if nothing had happened.