It’s been hours since the oozing yolk of a sun was swallowed by the foggy horizon. Now, the creatures of the night lurk behind the shrubs, prowl inside the empty houses, hide over there, in that hole behind the huge rock that we played on when we were young. I hear footsteps behind me, pattering on the cracked, black, black asphalt. Black like the soot from my chimney, that time that you helped me clean it. No, it can’t be. I keep on walking. Abandoned wind chimes sound dissonantly with the caw of the raven in that tree across the street, you know that one? It’s the dead pine next to the sprawling oak. It’s taller than the oak, though, and it sometimes creaks in the winter winds. I thought it would fall last spring. You remember. The raven glides to the very top of the tree, and looks for a moment as if it will fall; its unsteady feet clutch the trembling flimsiness. Surely it will fall. I imagine it lying limply on the dormant grass, impaled through its bird chest with the branch from the untrimmed bush over next to the tree. The blood flows thickly, congeals in pools on the ground. A curious creature sniffs, but slinks away, for the blood of the raven is too foul, even for the creature with the greedy eyes.
But no, the raven steadies itself, disappearing into the ghostly chimney smoke that hangs in the frozen air. Goodbye raven. I know. You, too, must leave.

Do you think I’m happy? Here? Alone? Without you? What do you care, anyways? You didn’t think about me. I’m scared. Alone. Alone. You forgot the animals. It doesn’t matter though. They’re getting weird. Everything is. How long will you be gone? I need you. 

The fluorescent light at the bus stop is too bright. I can see the stains the rain has made through the illuminated plastic. My Converse are brown now, the mud has seeped into the blue canvas and made it brittle; the white tips are puddle-colored. Four fifteen. The bus should already be here, but there is no one else, no one to talk to. What did you expect? Oh, here it is. The bus squeaks painfully to a stop. No driver, again. The doors bang open. I get on. It pulls away, pivots underneath the bridge, darkness in the tunnel. I guess the imaginary people are too lazy to turn the lights on.

And then I can see the skyscrapers. Dusky light frames their silhouettes, turning them into empty fingers, trying, like me, to bring them back. Bring you back. It’s too dark to see the gaping windows. Dark windows. Imaginary bus driver lets me out by Second and Main, just like every other day. The building I’m looking for stands out from the rest. It’s not that it’s taller. The metal that it’s made out of starts separated, but swirls together into an intricate, metallic wave. If the windows are the eyes to its soul, they say nothing, just stare blankly. Before, we would stare at the building and laugh at its strangeness. It made us happy. Now, all I feel is despair.
No one is here, but the revolving doors keep on revolving. Imaginary people at the front desk say hi as I enter. I wave. Our spot is over there, by the crack in the floor next to the elevator. I bet that’s where you’ve brought everyone. Stuffed the entire human population into an elevator shaft. It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve given me plenty of time to think.

On the desk lies an off-white telephone. I pick it up. The numbers are clogged with dust. Whoever I call, there will be no answer, only the endless dial tone.

Hello? Can you hear me? I know you can. Help me. Please. I’m alone.