They said on the news that the world was ending, so we loaded up the car and drove. They did not say how long we had, so we packed like we were going on a weekend trip. We drove up winding streets until the road ran out and we arrived at a log cabin on top of a mountain.
When we arrived, we knew it to be the place we had hoped. A strong building, far from everything, waiting for us to arrive. Our friends met us there, it was good to see them, it was good to be together.
The cabin was cold and the air was thin, but we were there and we filled it up. We started a fire and made ourselves food. Sitting by the fire for hours we told all of our old stories, the good ones, the bad ones, and the good ones again because they were good, because they were ours. Afterwards we lay down on the floor and watched the fire, sitting quiet and still.
And then we got our guitars, our accordions, our zithers and we sang a song. An old song, about a time we used to think of as better. And when we finished we sang it again and again until the words had no meaning left at all.
When we woke the sky was gray and a thick fog had risen up the mountain. We walked outside but our cars would not start and our phones would not turn on. So we went back in and stoked the fire some more, waiting for that which we did not understand. We waited there for hours, or maybe days, there was no way to tell.
The fog got thicker and soon we could not use our words any more. So we held one another close, closer, until we barely recognized one another, could barely tell ourselves apart. I remember looking up at your face, a face I had looked into countless times. It took everything I had but I remembered your face; I remembered you, but only for a moment and then you were gone and so was I.