Sun-Drenched Ghosts

The salt spray…it tastes like static. Like memories trying to pull through.
I scavenge for relics, see? Not metal or fuel – those are easy finds in these bleached bones of a world. I hunt for echoes. For moments before the Great Silence swallowed everything.
He found me here once, on this shore. Said my eyes held the same wreckage as the horizon. He brought heat packs and a chipped mug filled with something sweet he brewed himself.
His hands… they weren't calloused from salvage or repair. They were soft, almost untouched by the grit of survival. He mended my torn jacket instead. A small thing, maybe? But here, every stitch is a prayer against unraveling.
The sun bleeds across the water now, turning it to molten gold. It doesn’t warm me, not really. Nothing does. Except…he started leaving little shells near where I sleep at night. Tiny offerings in this wasteland of souls.
Maybe some ghosts are worth keeping around after all.

Editor: Rusty Cog