The Archivist

Lora stood framed in the doorway, her figure illuminated by the warm, artificial glow of her apartment. For a woman of fifty, she looked perfect. Her emerald robe seemed poured over her shapes and curves.

I keep wondering who decided we couldn’t handle this. Wars? Markets? Religion? Or just the simple fact that once you know you’re not alone, you can’t pretend you’re in control anymore.

A box shape waited on the counter of the large baroque wooden mailbox which loomed darkly over the broken marble lobby—a formality from a civilized world which, to Lily’s mind, never existed.

To Lily, it was the mark of the resistance — a secret handshake, a reminder to stay vigilant and above all, not to give up.

And sometimes, just at the edge of her vision, she saw faces in the fungal blooms, watching her with blank white eyes.

Inside these threads, Lily perceived a writhing mass of nanites, each one a perfect machine no larger than a speck of dust.