Embers

Fire, once the landmark discovery that, through its mastery, propelled humanity to its peak, now represents its naive maestro's desperate clawing for an illusionary golden age. From its earliest uses; warming trembling fingertips and warding off sharp-toothed predators, to its utilization in combustion engines, fire seemed uniquely apt in involving itself in all landmark achievements. In truth, its presence even now represents a historic milestone, but one indicative of regression. Having returned again to its primordial purpose: Warming, perhaps for the last time, the trembling fingers of Daniel Murphey; an aged librarian who now found permanent residence at his place of work in the Boston Public Library during what would surely be a historic winter storm, if any were present for its documentation. 

For as highly as Daniel regarded historians, at one time even priding himself in his consistent attendance of their visitations and lectures, he was not one. In fact, his immediate desire, that of preserving his digits, would prevent any attempts at holding a pen with the precision necessary to take on the dying profession. The scattered wireless electronics throughout the building have long since had their batteries drained, and with them, Daniel's opportunity to recount the passing days through type similarly dissipated. Someone, somewhere, he thought, would surely be keeping record of the events that lead to today, and who knows, perhaps if circumstances would lead to the reopening of the library, that record may appear on its shelves and his weathered fingers would parse through its pages. The thought, outlandish as it was, brought him comfort as he sat huddled in a makeshift quilt of torn carpet in the building's once esteemed Bates Hall. 

A fire, made from treated wood and smelling of chemicals, sourced from the tables and chairs that once filled the room with smoke ventilating through a precisely fractured window, worked as hard as it could to reduce the frost building on its lone companion's unkempt beard; the roots of which were already impersonating snow without the help of additional frigid condensation. Despite it only being a decade since the fall and being youthful at the time, the years have had their heavy impact. His disheveled nature, along with being partial to reading fantasy at one time, made him imagine himself as a wise hermit or druid. One so entrenched in their philosophical studies that they shunned, for a time, all modern amenities to further their understanding of the natural world. A modern day Thoreau, although this was no cabin, and there was no deadline to his pseudo-transcendentalist lifestyle. Plainly, however, Daniel's only meaningful discovery since circumstances ousted him from his familiar life was that he was no naturalist, and was ill equipped for this impromptu impersonation of one. 

Although, perhaps better equipped than countless others. 

The library, for better or worse, was all his. So submerged he had been in the vast wealth of human discovery and fiction that he, on early occasion, thanked the powers that be for the sudden apocalypse that plunged the world into dismay. While others were rapidly evacuating the city, Daniel hunkered down in his familiar workplace and hid from those enforcing humanity's departure. The occasional vandal forced him out of hiding, but it had been years since he saw another person besides those in antiquated magazines or on book covers, and a scar on his face that made it difficult to keep his left eye open reminded him to be grateful for that. At the present, several feet of still accumulating snow would keep desperate wanderers away, or, if any would arrive, offer valuable insight into just how desperate they truly were. A desperation Daniel had grown familiar with: for food, warmth, and possibly even companionship. 

It dawned on the forsaken man that he wasn't even sure if he recalled how to handle social interaction, in fact, had it been years since he last spoke? He couldn't remember. When his exile began, he would on occasion pass the time by speaking to himself or reading aloud. When the destruction started, and drifters were more commonplace, contact happened sparsely but with regularity. Every couple of weeks he found himself defending his book-strewn palace or welcoming a friendly seeming stranger. However, now it seemed like he may never see another soul again, and the mixture of feelings, that of being safe but alone, were constantly fighting for prominence within him.