Goodbye to a World | shane walsh

06 | the weight of silence

A lonely one it was.

But that was okay, really. 

She was okay with it. Loneliness settled over her like a second skin.

As the days bled into weeks, then months, Nola found herself strangely comforted by the quiet. It amplified everything—every creak of wood, every rustle of leaves, every breath she took.

The snow had melted away, leaving behind a cold memory. But that was okay. She'd stored away enough melted clean water in bottles to last for a long while.

The world outside turned green again, life slowly creeping back into the trees and the spaces they left behind, but that was okay. The animals returned to their nests and nooks, the wind whispered through the tall grass and trees. She listened to it all, found a rhythm in the solitude.

The sun stayed longer each day, casting a golden light over everything, but that was okay. It felt like a small kindness, the warmth reminding her she was still alive.

Nola started to see beauty in the smallest things—the way the light played on the water, the feel of the earth under her feet. She spent her days creating meaning out of the void. As winter loosened its hold, she planted seeds, working the soil with a kind of desperate hope. Spring brought warmer days, and she poured herself into the shack, building a smokehouse for meat, storing firewood, even tying a rope swing to a tree just because she could.

She built a wall of logs around her little world, a fragile barrier between her and the rotters that still wandered by. The alligators, now out of brumation and hungry, did their part, too, in keeping her safe.

When summer finally arrived, her garden blossomed—cucumbers, peppers, onions, tomatoes, potatoes. Nothing extravagant, but it felt like everything. She savored real meals, knowing the canned food would keep for the winter, for the lean times.

She stopped counting the days, letting time slip through her fingers. It didn't matter anymore. She knew it had been nearly a year since the world ended, but that, too, seemed distant. Life had narrowed to the essentials, and the weight of the past had lifted, and that was okay.

Nola rarely left her refuge. Only when the silence grew too loud did she venture out, searching for something—anything—that might spark a flicker of inspiration. On the rare occasions she encountered other survivors, she kept her distance, watching from the shadows, never engaging.

And that was okay.

Through it all, she had learned to be alone, to find solace in her own company and thoughts. Time had a way of making even her inner voice fade into quietude, leaving behind only the hum of daily routines. Each morning she awoke with a singular focus: the tasks at hand. It was enough to keep her occupied, to keep her mind from wandering too far into places she dare not touch.

Now, on her knees with bare feet, she dug gently into the soil, unearthing a few plump yellow potatoes. She imagined them boiled and fried, or perhaps in a fresh salad. Cooking had become a simple pleasure, a rare joy in her otherwise muted days. When she had the ingredients, she'd bake bread—still imperfect and a little dry, but steadily improving her recipe despite the missing elements.

A soft breeze brushed past, her long dark hair drifting with the wind as she tucked the potatoes into a cloth bag. The sun cast a warm glow on her tanned skin as she smoothed the dirt, rising with a familiar ache in her knees and calves. She stretched lightly, then ambled back toward the shack, passing the half-buried disco ball she had salvaged from a nearby town.

Her gaze drifted to the carved wooden sign above the entrance: 'The Swampy Shanty: Where the Fish Bite and the Roof Leaks'. She had etched the name into a piece of driftwood she'd found, a touch of home in the desolate expanse. Beside the entrance, Sir Wobblebottom, a rusted garden gnome rescued from a crumbling house, stood guard, a quirky sentinel against any unwelcome visitors.