Final Days

Grave

Journal Entry – Day 12

I found it.

It took me all day, but I found his grave.

It's tucked away in an overgrown cemetery on the outskirts of Sacramento, surrounded by rusted fences and cracked tombstones. The place feels abandoned, forgotten—like everyone buried here. I had to push through the weeds and broken branches to find it, but there it was, just as I imagined.

Michael Winston

The name was barely legible, worn down by time and weather, but it was there. I stood there for what felt like hours, just staring at the name. My father's name.

And then it hit me—he's really gone. All this time, I've been holding on to this hope, this stupid, impossible hope that he might still be out there, surviving, fighting. But he's not. He's here, buried beneath the dirt, just like everyone else who didn't make it.

I fell to my knees, the weight of it all crushing down on me. My chest tightened, and before I knew it, I was crying—really crying. I hadn't cried like that since I was little, since Mom told me he wasn't coming back.

But now, standing in front of his grave, I couldn't hold it in. All the anger, the fear, the loneliness—I let it out. I let it all out.

I don't know how long I stayed there, but eventually, I noticed something—a figure in the distance. A boy, maybe a little younger than me, with dreads and a wary expression. He was standing by a tree, half-hidden by the shadows, watching me.

I wiped my eyes and stood up, feeling a little embarrassed that someone had seen me like that. But then I realized—the kid looked scared. Maybe he thought I was some kind of threat.

I reached into my bag and pulled out an apple, one of the few pieces of food I had left. I held it out to him, a peace offering. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked over, eyes darting around like he expected a trap.

"Here," I said, my voice still shaky from the tears. "You hungry?"

He took the apple, his fingers brushing mine. He didn't say anything at first, just nodded and took a bite. After a few moments, he finally spoke.

"Thanks," he said quietly, his voice soft but clear. "My name's Marcellus."

"Michael," I replied, trying to smile but not quite managing it. "Michael Jr."

We stood there for a while, not saying much. He told me he'd been on his own for a while, just trying to survive. No family, no home—just wandering from place to place, like a ghost.

I didn't tell him much about me. Didn't feel like talking about the Commonwealth or what I was doing out here. But I did tell him about my dad, about the grave.

He didn't say much, just listened. But I could tell he understood.

After a while, the sun started to set, and I knew I had to find a place to sleep. I asked Marcellus if he wanted to come with me, and he nodded. I think he was relieved to have someone else around, even if it was just for a little while.

We found an old house nearby, half-collapsed but still standing enough to keep us dry for the night. We didn't talk much, just ate what little food we had left and tried to get some sleep.

But as I lay there, staring up at the broken ceiling, I kept thinking about that grave, about what it meant. I don't know what I'm going to do now. I don't know where I'll go or what I'll find. But at least I'm not alone.

At least I have someone who understands.