Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 9
Day 221: Why Us?
The cooler weather, of course, didn’t last. Nearly two weeks later, the typical Florida warmth was back in full force, and we decided another two-day vacation at the coast was in order. We packed up the Toyota, left everything at the beach house, and made a beeline for the marina and our boat.
The sun was already high by the time we finished our pre-launch check. The boat looked good — no damage, no surprises. Just our little floating escape pod from whatever version of reality we were supposed to be living in.
We eased her out into the Intracoastal, passing the half-collapsed docks and sun-bleached yachts that had become like landmarks to us. Then through the inlet, past the old lighthouse, and into the wide blue of the Atlantic.
It was calm — almost unnaturally so. The water glinted like someone had spilled diamonds across a pane of glass. A warm breeze was blowing in from the southeast, and gulls circled lazily overhead. We killed the engine about a mile offshore and just let the boat drift.
Amara spread out the big striped towel across the deck and flopped onto it with a dramatic sigh. She wore that black bikini she’d scavenged from a boutique store months ago — the one she’d tried on “just for fun” and then decided to keep because, in her words, “why the hell not?”
Me? I was in a faded NASA T-shirt and nondescript swim trunks. But we didn’t have to impress anyone. Just each other.
I settled in next to her, propped up on one elbow, and she turned her head to look at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand.
“You ever think about ... why us?” she asked.
“Every damn day,” I said. “At first, I thought maybe it was random. Then I started to wonder if maybe I was dead, and this was some weird in-between place. But then you showed up, and that theory got complicated.”
She smirked. “So, you’re saying I’m proof you’re not in hell?”
“Exactly. If it were hell, they wouldn’t have given me you.”
That earned me a sweet little smile.
We went quiet for a while, the boat rocking gently beneath us. I traced patterns on her arm with my fingers and watched the clouds drift by like lazy ghosts.
“Do you think it can be reversed?” she asked after a while. “Like ... one day everything will suddenly snap back to how it was?”
I let the question hang there.
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe the universe hit pause and one day it’ll press play again. Or maybe this is just ... it.”
She nodded slowly, then looked out at the endless water. “Would you want it to be reversed?”
I hesitated. That question was harder than it should’ve been.
“I miss people,” I said. “I miss music festivals, and crowded coffee shops, and being anonymous in a room full of strangers. I miss my parents. My old friends. But...”
I looked at her. “This life? With you? It’s the most peace I’ve ever known. So, I don’t know. I guess I’d want to be able to choose.”
She smiled, soft and real. “Same,” she told me. I leaned in and kissed her.
We lay there for a long time, warm and quiet, my arms wrapped around Amara, the sea stretching out around us like a secret. We didn’t know what caused the shift, or if it was permanent or temporary.
But right then, on a lazy boat in the Florida sun, everything felt right.
Day 232: Secret Shopping
I told Amara I was heading out for a solo scavenging run — “just want to check a couple of places I’ve had in mind,” I said over breakfast. She didn’t ask many questions, just nodded and handed me one of the canteens. Maybe she sensed I had something up my sleeve. Maybe she let me have my secret.
Tomorrow was her birthday. Her twenty-fourth. The first one in a world where birthdays didn’t really matter. Except this one did. It mattered to me.
I headed toward the little boutique she always stopped in front of when we were out together— the one with the faded pink awning and the cracked glass window. It had a name, once. Something French, probably. But the letters, clearly not crafted for the long haul, had already peeled away.
The inside smelled like dried perfume and dust. But it still had that vibe — that glint of glamour tucked into every corner. Scarves draped on vintage mannequins. Jewelry on velvet stands. A row of handbags lined up like loyal soldiers.
I wandered the aisles slowly, looking for something that felt like her. Not just pretty — personal.
Near the back, I found it. A delicate gold chain with a small charm shaped like a crescent moon. Subtle. Not too shiny. Something she could wear with anything. It looked like something she might have picked out herself, maybe on a normal birthday, in the world that used to be.
I pocketed it gently, then walked out into the sun and headed for stop number two: the beauty supply store. The same one I’d visited a few months ago, with the smell of cocoa butter and old shampoo still lingering in the air.
I recalled an offhand comment Amara had made a while back. Said she used to treat herself to “good” lotion on her birthday, not the cheap stuff. And I’d remembered — tucked away that little scrap of intel like it might matter someday.
Today, it did.
I found a bottle of lavender-scented hand cream — the same kind she mentioned she liked — surprisingly untouched, tucked behind some toppled boxes. I grabbed some nail polish too — deep burgundy, almost black in the light. I’d seen her admire that color before.
As I turned to leave, something else caught my eye. A sleek little bottle of perfume in an intact display case. No idea what it smelled like, but the label said Midnight Fig, which somehow sounded like her. I sniffed the nozzle. Sweet, earthy, unexpected. Yep. Definitely Amara.
I made the drive home with my loot stashed in a canvas tote bag, grinning like an idiot the whole way. She’d probably see right through me the second I walked in, but I didn’t care. For a few minutes tomorrow morning, in this strange world we now called home, I wanted her to feel completely seen. Not only seen, but celebrated.
Even if there wasn’t another soul on Earth — there was me. And I was going to make damn sure she knew how loved she was.
Day 233: Amara’s Birthday
She was still in bed when I walked in with the tote bag. Hair a little messy, blanket pulled up under her chin, blinking at me like I’d just interrupted a dream.
“Happy birthday,” I said, holding out the bag.
She looked at it like it might bite her. “What’s this?”
“Just a few things I came across yesterday,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my heart was thudding like I’d just robbed a jewelry store. “Figured you should open it in bed. It’s the law, I think.”
She sat up slowly, pulling her legs beneath her, and reached into the bag. The gold chain came out first, glittering softly in the morning light. Her fingers froze. Her eyes met mine.
“Charlie,” she said, quiet, like my name was something delicate.
“There’s more,” I said, nudging the bag closer.
She dug in again, pulling out the hand cream, the nail polish, the perfume. One by one, she held them like they were made of glass. Her expression was somewhere between wonder and disbelief.
“I kind of guessed yesterday,” she said eventually. “You were all mysterious and weirdly upbeat.”
“I wasn’t that weird.”
“You asked me twice if I liked the color burgundy.”
“Okay. Maybe a little weird.”
She laughed, and for a second I saw all of twenty-four glowing on her face. That joy, that light. The kind of birthday smile people used to take for granted. She leaned in and kissed me softly.
“These are ... perfect,” she said. “You really saw me, didn’t you?”
“Every day,” I said.
We didn’t make a big event out of the day. We worked a little in the garden. We took a slow walk through the neighborhood. At sunset, I kicked her out of the kitchen and made dinner — nothing fancy, just a good solid meal made with everything we had that felt like a treat. Grilled vegetables, some beans cooked in broth, even a tiny bit of fish we’d kept frozen. No cake, obviously. I wasn’t that good.
But after the plates were cleared and the fire was crackling outside, she ended up in my lap, her arms around my neck, wearing the gold chain against her collarbone and smelling faintly of fig and lavender.
I opened a fresh can of peaches — birthday peaches, now canon — and she laughed, leaning back just enough to let me feed her one slice at a time.
“This is the dumbest birthday,” she said through a mouthful of syrupy fruit.
“Best dumb birthday ever,” I said.
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