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The morning light filtered through the trees, soft and golden, washing the world in a hue that almost felt too gentle to touch. For a moment, everything looked normal—like it had been before. Before the darkness. Before the running. 

I climbed out of the car, stretching my stiff limbs, the cool air biting at my skin but waking me up in the best way. A shiver rippled through me, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome. It reminded me that I was alive. That I could still feel something, even if it was just the sharp nip of morning cold.

I squinted into the distance, my gaze settling just down the cracked and faded road. There it was: an abandoned gas station. It sat there like a forgotten monument, the years weighing heavily upon it. Its rusted sign swayed faintly in the breeze, the groan of old metal faint but audible in the eerie quiet. Whatever name had once proudly crowned the station was now worn away, reduced to nothing but a series of jagged letters peeling from their hinges. A relic of something familiar yet unrecognizable.

The building itself was crumbling—one side of the roof had collapsed inward, pulling down parts of the walls with it. Pieces of shattered brick and twisted metal spilled onto the overgrown concrete below. The once-glass windows were smashed, jagged remnants catching the sunlight in sharp glimmers like fractured teeth. 

Vines and weeds curled around the edges, creeping through the cracks like they were reclaiming what humans had long abandoned. The gas station stood still, as if frozen in time, its silence deafening in the empty landscape.

The parking lot was cracked and worn, overrun with patches of grass and weeds pushing their way through the asphalt, relentless and alive in a place that had long since been abandoned. Fissures spiderwebbed across the surface, breaking apart what little remained of the concrete, as if the earth beneath was clawing its way back to freedom. In the center of it all, a single gas pump stood at an awkward angle, its base sunken, its metal rusted and flaking. It looked like someone had tried to pull it out of the ground—tried to uproot it from its final resting place—but ultimately gave up, leaving it there, crooked and broken. The hose hung limply, like an arm that had lost its strength long ago.

The air felt heavy here—thick with quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful but eerie, like the whole place was holding its breath. There were no birds, no hum of distant cars, no insects buzzing in the morning sun—just the occasional rustle of the wind through the tall weeds that brushed against the crumbling pavement. I felt like I didn't belong here, like I'd stumbled into a moment that wasn't meant for me. And yet, it was mine now.

I hesitated at the door, my fingers brushing against the rusted handle. The texture of it—rough and corroded—sent an uneasy feeling down my spine. I expected it to resist, to creak and groan when I pushed it open, but it moved easily, silently, as if it, too, had given up. The moment I stepped inside, the stale air hit me—a mixture of mildew, old metal, and something faintly rotten, like time itself had soured and curdled within these walls.

Dust floated lazily in the golden beams of light that filtered through shattered windows, catching the particles and making them glimmer like fireflies frozen in midair. The silence was deafening here, as if the building was listening, waiting. My boots echoed against the cracked linoleum, a hollow, rhythmic sound that reminded me I wasn't supposed to be here.

The shelves were skeletal, their metal frames rusted, leaning slightly in defeat. Once, they'd been filled with snacks and supplies—little things that families on long road trips would grab without a second thought. Now they were nearly bare, their contents either long pilfered or left to rot. A few empty cans and faded wrappers remained, half-hidden beneath thick layers of dust, like forgotten relics.

As I moved carefully through the aisles, my footsteps deliberate and measured, something crunched under my boot. I froze, looking down. Broken glass. A small, jagged sea of it spread across the floor like a warning, sparkling faintly in the light. I shifted my weight, stepping around it carefully, my breath shallow as I scanned the room.

The remnants of life—or what was left of it—seemed frozen in place. A toppled soda display lay in a sad heap, its cans long since emptied and corroded. Candy wrappers lay strewn across the floor, their colors dulled and edges crumbling. Near the back, where the light didn't quite reach, something caught my eye. In the far corner, slumped against the wall, sat a child's stuffed animal—a rabbit, maybe. Its fur was matted and filthy, the seams split in places, and its bright, cheerful colors had faded to an ashen gray. It looked like it had been there forever, left behind by someone in a hurry.

I turned away quickly, swallowing the ache in my throat. There was no point in thinking about who might've left it behind—no point imagining the child who'd once held it close. That kind of thinking led nowhere good.

I moved on, scanning the shelves with a focused desperation. After a short search, I found what little remained: a couple of old water bottles tucked toward the back of a shelf, their labels faded but seals still intact. I held one up to the light, checking for cracks, but it seemed fine. I set it carefully into my bag. Next, I found a small box of granola bars, shoved far behind an overturned rack. The packaging was dusty and crumpled, but when I shook the box, I heard the bars inside. I added them, too.

The last thing I found was a single can of beans—its surface coated in grime, but the metal unbroken. I wiped the dust off with the edge of my sleeve, squinting at the label. It was unreadable, the print smeared and faded, but I didn't care. Food was food, and this was better than nothing.

I tucked the can into my bag, slinging it back over my shoulder and letting out a slow breath. The building felt heavier now, like the silence was pressing closer, squeezing the air from the room. I didn't want to stay here any longer than I had to.

Turning back toward the entrance, I gave the room one last look. The shattered windows framed the world outside, the golden morning light pouring in like a promise that the day would carry on, whether I was ready for it or not. The stuffed animal in the corner seemed to stare at me, a silent witness to whatever had happened here before me, and to my fleeting presence now.

I stepped outside, the door swinging closed behind me with a soft groan. The cool air hit me like a wave, fresh and sharp, a stark contrast to the heavy, stagnant air I'd been breathing inside. I stood there for a moment, my eyes drifting across the parking lot and the empty road beyond. The gas station, with its tilted pump and crumbling walls, seemed even more desolate now. It had given me what it could, and I wouldn't ask for more.

I started walking back toward the car, my boots scuffing the gravel beneath my feet. The morning sun climbed higher, but it brought little warmth. I glanced over my shoulder one last time. The gas station sat still and quiet, a monument to everything lost and forgotten.

"Keep going," I thought myself, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The road stretched ahead, empty and uncertain, but there was no turning back now. I didn't know where I was going—I just knew I had to keep moving. Because that was all I could do. Keep moving. Keep surviving.