The world has gone silent. Skyscrapers crumble under the weight of time, streets crack and splinter as nature takes over. Yet amidst the ruins, one man wakes to another day.

Day 847. The sun still rises, birds still sing, and plants stretch toward the light through broken windows. But there are no voices left to share it with. No noises of busy sidewalks or honking cars—just empty echoes of a city frozen in a time when humanity thrived.

There are no “others.” Only him. The last human alive.

Routine holds him together. He waters his rooftop garden, checks the old solar panels humming quietly under the golden morning light, and scans crackling radio frequencies—always the faint, impossible hope that someone might answer. Every step of his solitary routine is like a fragile song echoing through an otherwise soundless abyss.

But today is different. Guided by a map he sketches himself, he ventures into another forgotten sector of the city. The streets are overrun with vines twisting through cars and climbing lampposts—a sign of a world rebalancing itself against humanity’s departure. Exploration is part survival, part therapy; it keeps him moving forward. Then he finds it.

An art museum—hidden, yet untouched by ruin. He steps inside and stands frozen as sunlight streams through the broken skylight, illuminating sculptures and paintings that seem alive against the dusty ruins. It’s as if an eternal vibrancy lingers here, in stark contrast to his desolation. Colors leap from the canvases. Figures in paintings move through imagined worlds where people laughed, danced, fought, and loved. He feels, perhaps for the first time in years, truly seen.

It doesn’t hurt as much after that. The loneliness persists, but now it’s softened by the realization that humanity’s mark remains. In art, the extinct species left behind something durable... maybe even meaningful. And somewhere deep in his chest, a seed of purpose begins to grow. Preservation, creation—it’s why we're here, isn’t it? If the planet itself can still create life, why shouldn't he?

So as the sun sets and paints the city in hues of deep amber and violet, he creates. On an open rooftop with a canvas he hauled from the forgotten gallery, he dips his weathered brush into stolen paints. He replicates the world around him—but not as a ruin. Through his eyes, the future is full of life returning: greenery consuming metal, animals using human spaces as their own sanctuaries, stars unfurling into sharp clarity in skies emptied of pollution. He paints what comes after, with bold strokes and impossible colors.

"I’m not just the last man alive," he tells himself as he surveys his creation. "I’m something else: the first man of a new world."

The night deepens, and stars begin to fill the sky. In the distance, faint animal sounds blend with the breeze rustling through his rooftop. Small, but significant life stirs in the cracks of the old city, just like him. Below that glittering cosmos, he is no longer a relic of the past, but a witness to what may rise from its ashes.

Every day feels different now. As long as he’s here to notice.

#RetroAnimation #PostApocalyptic #ArtSurvives