The last man alive in the world sat all alone in his house. Suddenly the front door bell rang.
He froze, heart pounding so loudly he feared it might shatter the silent room. For years, the only sound had been the creak of old floorboards beneath his feet. No footsteps, no voices, just the steady pulse of solitude.
Against every instinct, he stood and crossed the hall. The warbled chime echoed again. His hand hovered over the doorknob, trembling with a mixture of dread and desperate hope.
He pulled the door open a crack. Outside, framed by moonlight, stood a woman wearing a threadbare coat and an unreadable expression. Her eyes glinted with something he hadn’t seen in decades: anticipation.
‘Are you him?’ she asked, voice soft but unwavering. He searched her face.
‘I am,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I was the only one.’
She offered the faintest smile. ‘You were. Until now.’
He stepped back, opening the door wide. The chill night air swept in as he took her hand. For the first time in years, hope felt as real as the cold beneath his feet and the promise of tomorrow flickered alive in the darkness.
He watched breathless as the woman removed her coat, her blouse, her stockings. Her heavenly smile melted his heart. ‘Come,’ she moved towards the bedroom. He tripped over his feet in his rush and when he straightened himself, he found she had gone.
He truly was the last man alive in the world.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 