The air is heavy and damp. The fog that rises from the ground the between the scattered buildings reflects the light from campfires at the same time muting them. In the darkness there are small patches of scattered light, those who are wandering can navigate by them only when they get within twenty or thirty feet of the fires.

The air is cold, and the humidity makes breaths sting if taken in too quickly. From around one of the muted pools of light someone stirs. He sits, and scoots closer to the fire, shivering. He holds out his hands, the light of the dying fire makes shadows dance on the back of hands and arms, hiding the dirt and scars that cover them. The small flames do little to warm him, and he stands, gathering a blanket from the ground where he slept. He shakes it out and wraps it around his shoulders. It is threadbare, and damp, and does little to provide warmth, but he wears it anyway, to afraid to leave it behind.

Stretching his sore limbs, he carefully shakes the shoulder of his companion, and frowns when she doesn't stir. He kneels next to her and shakes her again. Finally he turns her gently on her back, and checks her breath, dreading what he will find. The damp red hair of his companion is plastered to her face, and her lips are parted with her final sigh, which passed unnoticed in the night. The man closes her eyes and bows his head. He wraps the woman's blanket around her, covering her face, then rises. It is time to move on.

He heads north, careful to avoid the other fires that are spread out among the ruins. He steps over and around broken walls, and even passes a few structures that still stand. On some the roof has caved in completely, others provide some shelter from the elements. No one has bothered to repair the damage, and he knows no one will. The structures appear in the fog as if by magic, materializing as he nears them. From some of the other pools of light, he hears the sound of people stirring. Shuffling footsteps that match his own can be heard nearby, their owners hidden in the moist cloud.

Some of the footsteps veer off in different directions, each person heading to their preferred spot. He continues on towards the top of the hill. He thinks the view there is best. Others find it depressing, but he finds comfort in being able to see in all directions. His companion had not really liked the view, but had always traveled the extra distance to stay by his side. As he walks on, the crunch of the gravel and rubble under his feet seems quiet, more so than the fog would warrant.

As he reaches the summit, he sees another figure sitting on a stump twenty feet from the top. This child, most likely a girl, has lately been at this spot. She sits and looks toward the top of the hill, yearning for the view it would afford, but afraid to stand on the summit. The man looks at her, but she doesn't turn her attention from the top of the hill. She used to come here with two other children, and they would all climb to the summit together. Then the oldest, probably in his teens, stopped coming. That's when the girl and the younger child started sitting at this stump. The girl has occupied it alone for the past week. Some day soon it may be empty.

The man climbs on, and reaches the summit. Two other people are there. They both turn at the sound of his footsteps. The woman, upon seeing who it is, turns back to face the east, the man who is sitting gives a nod of is head in greeting to the newcomer, then also faces east. The newcomer sits to the right of the pair, looking out over the fog.

Three more people join them, one single woman, and a pair of men. The woman's face is tear streaked, but does not say anything. Few people have tears left, fewer have words.

Everyone notices the dwindling numbers. The red haired woman, and the two children that had previously accompanied the crying woman. The sky to the east lightens, and some of the fog burns away. Sunlight breaks through the low-lying clouds, columns of gold in the orange. There are no clouds higher in the sky, but if there were, they would shades of pink and later, lavender.

As the sun breaks the horizon, the crying woman starts to sob. The fog has mostly burned away, leaving a mist that covers the ruined city below. Lower on the hill others stand or sit, everyone facing east. From the top of the hill one can see all of the ruins. Rubble and bodies line the streets. Small fires flicker out as they are left untended in the mist.

The sun crawls up in the sky, getting smaller as it passes the low-lying clouds. When it reaches a hand span above the horizon, it is at the size it will appear the rest of the day, a yellow ball that will pass lazily across the sky, unaware of the devastation that   it illuminates for the survivors.

Everyone who has gathered to watch the sunrise takes one last look at the yellow-white orb. One by one they look around at the rubble, at the bodies, at those who watch the sun with them. The numbers are smaller today, and they will be even smaller tomorrow.

The man turns and nods to his companions, and starts back down the hill. The woman stays at the summit and weeps. Down the hill the child will sit for several hours, unmoving, before she returns to the house she had shared with her family. They all wonder which of them will be the last to witness the sunrise.