We knew we'd never live enough to grow old, but our children never even grow up. Between cannibals, plague and the black wind howling in our minds, the souls of our young are snatched from our homes nearly every day.
Except for that one, the youngest. The last one born, who looks at you like they say the sun used to, before all of this. Don't speak of kill or be killed, this one has other means, so strange to see. Is this child really the last of us, or the first of something else?