"Ulk?"

I've been watching him for some time now, pondering our situation all the while, and summoning up the courage to actually confront the subject. Something doesn't quite fit, and I don't know why.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

The head of his silhouette turned, framing his profile in a dusty white glow. He doesn't look at me, instead to the floor. "I don't know," he replied bluntly, and I knew it as the truth instantly. I somehow knew how honest he truly was, and took it as the truth. I looked back to my hands resting in my knees, and tugged the piece of paper from my pocket. I scanned the names, welcoming any recognition. I then compared them to the picture, alternating my gaze between the two.

"You look like an Ichigo," I whispered to the orange haired boy grinning at me. I must have known him to make the match. After that, I was blanked.

"Do you remember any more of your name yet?"

"You ask…many…questions."

"I thought it might help trigger something."

I glanced back up, and found him leaning back on the windowsill, watching me with a blank expression. I didn't expect anything else.

"Sorry. If I hurt you with the questions, i-"

"You do not…hurt me with the ques…tions-s."

I sigh again, and abandon the photo and names list on the floor next to my spot. Standing, I sit on the edge of the closest desk.

"You seemed like you had something of the name out there, you starting talking. 'Ulku'?"

"Ulkui."

"Oh. Well, that's progress!" I jump of the edge and clap, but even I hate the motion. I regret it instantly. The boy just looks at me with that unreadable expression. I shake off the shame and revert back to smiling. "So, what now?"

…

"What now?"

What now indeed. Does she expect us to move? To explore for survivors? To scavenge for food, which would be awkward based on our differing preferences and palate? I have forgotten my hunger now, only reminded of it by the simple matter of sustaining her life force.

"We wait," I reply, silently satisfied by how my speech is coming along. Maybe her human influence of life is helping me relearn. Not that it would make much difference to my state of 'living'. Id just be the world's first eloquent zombie.

Her shoulders don't slouch in disappointment, but the light in her eyes fades at the prospect of atrophy. As for the possibility of food in the building, It would be as rotten as my kidneys by now.

"Okay then, no use just standing around. We should make weapons, anything to help us."

She says 'us' like we're equal.

…

I catch myself saying 'we' or 'us' every so often, cringing after minutes, not seconds. As time goes by, breaking down desks and chairs and anything else, the idea of him being dead is becoming less and less convincing. He talks, he thinks, he moves like someone who's just woken from a week's sleep. I keep imagining that, if he were actually a corpse, the room would smell. Maybe that's only if its warm, but its anything but.

As we work in silence, the light grey daylight fades into dark, almost black. Not the electric blue it should go. Just like a washed out landscape photo, the colourless remnants of the city are bathed in more shade. We lose the sunlight that was our only heat source, replaced by the frosty beauty of the clouded moon.

Gradually, we both slow, him after me, surrounded by dozens of sharpened or splintered sticks. I laugh at the image of us carrying them all under our arms.

"S…sleep, now."

I nod, concealing a yawn with my hand. "You too?"

He thinks, and shakes his head. "No. I…keep watch." He slowly rises to a stand, and I catch a couple of crunches emanating from his joints. "Happens."

I sadly smile, and connect my eyes with his. They seem different. Not so grey. Maybe it's the lack of light.

"Night Ulk..ui."

He hums in response, and the last thing I hear are his less than rhythmic footsteps, each getting slightly further away.

…

A hand washes away in the dry atmosphere, as grey as the sandy substance beneath my feet. The pale hand ahead of me stretched to grab what it can, but the phantom limb disappears before I can feel it. I follow the arm as it disintegrates with my eyes, and they freeze on the melancholy emerald orbs. Just as they are about to fade away, my mind takes an image, lasting, of the emotion that colours them. For the first time, I can see that they feel. I take comfort in that, but I still leave the tear streaking down my face, in memory of the heart he found, all too late. I lower my hand robotically, scared to clench it in anger, frightened to crush the fragile object he'd observed there.

…

Why a teacher felt the need for matches in a class room, I doubt even a human could fathom. They are resting atop the desk like a signal, and I lumber over to them, cautious of waking the woman on the floor, guarded by fallen spikes. Why I should trust her with a spike again, I'll never know that either.

I grab the matches, slide the box open, and stare at the little sticks within, rattling within my shaking hand. What now? I stare for a minute longer, ignoring the seconds ticking by on the clock up ahead. I feel stupid just stood, staring at such simple objects. Finally, I slide them back in and place them back atop the desk. I check the clock, but that tells me nothing; each of the hands have fallen, laying on the bottom of the frame, with only the second hand ticking aimlessly. How does that happen?

I make my way back over to the window, but I don't look out. Instead, I think about the matches. Why? Because such simple little things, and I couldn't even fathom them.

…

Upon seeing Ulk for the first time that morning, I know that I know him. Not just since yesterday, but before. Like Ichigo, like the other faces without names and names waiting for faces. But, judging by my dream, his face is once that I shouldn't be seeing. It what really happened had happened, he shouldn't be sat in the corner when I opened my eyes.

But was that him? Was it even real? With only both of us in the dream, I had no lead. I doubt he'd even remember if the event had taken place if it actually had.