Fate Rewritten

But Ramses was not.

For months, he had lived in isolation, a solitary existence within an immobile world. He had painted, written, and played music, all in an attempt to fill the silence. And for a while, it had worked. The creativity, the act of creation, had been his escape. But there was a nagging thought, one he couldn't shake.

Does any of this even matter?

He stood at the edge of his apartment's rooftop, looking out at the city below. The world, once so full of noise and movement, was now silent. The streets were empty. The buildings stood frozen in time, unchanging, as if suspended in some cosmic void.

He closed his eyes, the wind brushing his face. The weight of the question pressed heavily on his chest. He had been creating art, music, and words for months. But who would ever see them? Who would hear the songs he played, read the stories he wrote, or understand the battles he fought in silence?

What was the point of pouring his soul into something if no one was there to witness it?

Does it even matter?

The Fear of Being Forgotten

For as long as he could remember, Ramses had felt like an invisible man. He had always been there, in the background, unnoticed by most people. He had lived in the shadow of others, fading into the background noise of the world. In school, he was the quiet one. At work, he was the invisible cog in the machine. He had always been just there, never truly seen.

But even in those times, there had been a sense of belonging. Even when he was invisible, he had existed in the lives of others. He had been a part of something larger. There had been people who saw him, if only for a moment.

Now, in this frozen world, there was no one left. The world had stopped, the people were gone, and Ramses was alone.

If no one remembers me, then did I ever really exist?

The question gnawed at him, a bitter realization that made the walls of his apartment feel suffocating. What was the purpose of growth, of transformation, if there was no one to witness it? He had fought so hard to overcome his inner demons, to become someone he could be proud of. But what was the point if he was the only one who would ever know?

He clenched his fists, staring out at the frozen city below. His eyes burned with frustration.

No. He wouldn't let himself disappear.

Not like this.

He had worked too hard. He had changed too much. There had to be something more than this. He wouldn't fade into nothingness, not while he had breath in his body.

If no one would remember him, he would ensure that his story was etched into time, into the fabric of the world itself.

The Book of a Lost Time

That night, Ramses began his work. He didn't just write for himself anymore. No, this time, he wrote with purpose, with intent.

He gathered all the notebooks he had filled in the months since the freeze, flipping through the pages. He had written down his thoughts, his struggles, his pain. He had written about the loneliness, about his doubts, about the moments of clarity that had come to him in the silence. But there was more to this story—more he had yet to express. His transformation wasn't just about surviving; it was about living.

And it was time to record it. Not just for him, but for the world that might one day return.

The world, frozen in time, would not stay that way forever. He believed that. Deep in his heart, he believed that.

But if it didn't—if he was to remain the only one who walked this earth—then he would leave something behind. He would leave a legacy that couldn't be ignored.

The pages began to fill with the story of the freeze—the eerie stillness, the silence that consumed everything. He wrote about his isolation, about how the world had ground to a halt. He described the panic, the confusion, and then the loneliness that followed. But he didn't stop there. He wrote about the change that had come after—the strange, painful, yet beautiful process of self-discovery.

He wrote about the art, the music, the fire that had sparked inside him when he least expected it. He described how he had learned to create in a world that had lost its rhythm. He wrote about his exploration of the frozen streets, the abandoned city, the way the world seemed to hold its breath while he learned to fill it with sound, with color, with life.

But he didn't stop there either.

Ramses wrote about something else. Something bigger. Something that had been growing inside him since the moment he first picked up a brush, strummed a guitar, scribbled his first journal entry. He wrote about the flickering power he had felt when his words had shifted, when the ink on the page had seemed to take on a life of its own. He didn't know if it was real. He didn't know if it was a hallucination, a result of the isolation and pressure. But it didn't matter.

What mattered was that he believed.

Carving His Name into History

As the days passed, Ramses' work grew more desperate, more intense. He wasn't just writing; he was carving his name into the fabric of the world.

He began marking the streets, the walls of abandoned buildings, the windows of frozen cars. Everywhere he looked, he saw a blank canvas. And everywhere he looked, he wrote.

"I EXIST."

On the cracked concrete of a city square. On the rusted side of a mailbox. On the faded doors of an old theater.

"THE WORLD IS ASLEEP, BUT I AM AWAKE."

Each word was a declaration. Each stroke of paint, each line of ink, was a testament to his defiance, his refusal to be forgotten.

His hands were raw from the paint, his voice hoarse from the cries of frustration and triumph. But he didn't stop.

Because this—this was his legacy. This was how he would be remembered.

And if no one else would ever see it—well, at least the universe would know that he had existed.

He wasn't sure who would find his words. Or when. Or if anyone ever would. But the possibility gave him purpose. The idea that his story could live on, even in the silence, was enough to keep him going.

A Message to the Future

Ramses' final act, the one he poured everything into, was the creation of a single journal. A chronicle of his journey. A record of his existence.

He opened a fresh notebook, the pages crisp and white, and began writing.

"To whoever finds this…"

He paused. His heart was pounding. His thoughts were racing. This was it—the culmination of everything.

"This is the story of the last man alive. And this is how I refused to disappear."