The next day arrived almost too soon. The eight of them in their little group had talked of travelling the roads east as a group and of waiting another day or two here to rest a while, but of the woodsman there had been little sign. Eventually she'd left with the teenager and cobbler to go find him.

When the three of them did reach him it was in a large shed or garage that seemed to have been repurposed into an armoury of some sorts. There were tools and weapons lining one of the walls in dedicated, well organised racks. There were no modern or advanced weapons on those walls, she noticed. If she had to bet then all of these weapons were likely whatever the families of the people in this village had kept for hunting or clay pigeon shooting before everything had collapsed. The woodsman was in the last stages of cleaning his rifle as they entered, so they let him finish before speaking. As she looked around she noted the filled canteens, the packed kit, the jerry can by his feet and the determined look on his face.

"I thought they wouldn't give you any more fuel for an expedition?"

He answered without looking up to acknowledge any of them there, instead picking out a clip of ammunition from one of the drawers.

"They haven't."

He kicked over the can at his feet.

"That one's still empty. I don't reckon they'll allow me any fuel until the next trading caravan rolls in from the east."

"Have you given any thought to our proposition?"

"Of going with you?"

The three of them nodded.

"I'm undecided at the moment. I'll let you know this afternoon, if that's alright with you?"

The cobbler nodded by her side.

"Aye, take your time. We won't be going anywhere for a few days, so there's time."

If the woodsman heard the old man's words, he gave no indication. Instead he simply picked up a whetstone and begin to sharpen a knife. She nodded to the others, and they let him be.

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The woodsman met them in what seemed to have been a village square, now little more than an open space. He walked down the line, rifle slung over his shoulder, and shook the hand of each of them, wishing them well. Her heart sank as she realised he was staying, and they were going.

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He got to the teenager, who seemed to come to the same realisation of her.

"You're heading back down the road, aren't you?"

"Aye, that I am. I wish you all the best going forwards."

She spoke up.

"They decided to give you your fuel in the end then?"

He shook his head.

"Nope, I'll be going back without a drop."

"But you'll-"

"I'll be fine. Trust me, if I had to use fuel to light every fire I made out west the village would have run dry months ago. No offense to you all, but without the added dead weight I should be fine."

There was a teasing tone to his voice that the rest of them couldn't help but smile at. The teenager spoke again.

"What about a new life? You could still come with us, to the east."

The young man smiled sadly and shook his head.

"Not everyone managed to escape the shadows. If I could get you out, if you were still alive in there after all these months, maybe they are too. Maybe I can get them out."

The old cobbler gave him sympathetic smile at him as the clerk spoke.

"Who are 'they'?"

The young man sighed, sad smile still on his face.

"That's a story for another time. Keep moving east, and don't look back at us. This village, the sleepless in it, people like me, we're all that remains of the world that was. Let us go. Live your lives, and let this chapter of history come to a close. Let us be buried by time. Then you'll be free to love life unburdened by what's left behind."

The young woman shook her head.

"Why? You can come with us out east, live by your own words!"

He laughed. It was sad and melancholic, but still genuine and not at all mocking.

"You know how sometimes you tell yourself you have a choice, but deep down you know you there is no choice? Not because the choice isn't there, but because you won't ever be able to make it."

She nodded, only half understanding what the woodsman had just said. He continued, speaking in what sounded like bad poetry more to himself than anyone else.

"Just because there are alternatives, doesn't mean they apply to you."

She sighed as the pieces clicked together in her head.

"You just want to go home, don't you? Back to your little house on the western coast."

His voice hitched at that, and he froze momentarily.

"I just need to see it one last time. If I can just burn it into my memory, if I can just get my hands on my family's old photo album, then that will be enough. I'm so close to getting everything back. If I walk away now, I'll never forgive myself. I'll lie awake every night dreaming of half-remembered walls and faces shrouded by the fog of time. I couldn't live like that."

She made to speak again, but the old cobbler gently placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Their young woodsman had made his choice, no matter how much they all disagreed with it. They had to respect that.

"We won't forget you here. This place will be remembered, we swear it."

The young man nodded once, a mixture of pity and thankfulness on his face. His voice came as a tired whisper as he began to turn away, unshed tears glazing his eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved at them slowly, rifle slung on his shoulder, as he began to walk out of the village. Her last conversation with him had only served to give her more questions than answers, but that was the way of the world now, she suspected. She cupped her hands and shouted at his retreating figure.

"YOU'LL ALWAYS BE WELCOME WITH US IN THE EAST!"

He turned one last time and gave them a sad yet grateful smile, and then he was gone, back on the westward road where nary a hope remained, save only that which he carried with him.

The road was life. The rifle in his hands was life. The water in his canteen was life.

He was life.

And to all those he'd saved, she thought that would be hope enough.