A new love story....

He was the last survivor of the crash. He had been wandering in the desert for days, looking for any sign of civilization. He had no food, no water, no map, no compass. He had only his wits and his will to live.He had seen the others die, one by one. Some had succumbed to their injuries, some to thirst, some to hunger, some to despair. He had buried them all, using whatever he could find: rocks, sand, pieces of metal. He had said a prayer for each of them, even though he was not a religious man.He had tried to follow the sun, hoping to find the coast or a road or a town. But the sun was merciless, burning his skin and blinding his eyes. The sand was endless, shifting and swirling with the wind. The horizon was always the same, a flat line of nothingness.He had lost track of time, of distance, of direction. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. He had no hope, no purpose, no reason to live. He had only one thing: a picture of his wife and daughter, the ones he had left behind, the ones he would never see again.He kept the picture in his pocket, close to his heart. He looked at it every night, before he fell asleep under the stars. He talked to it every morning, before he resumed his march. He told them he loved them, he missed them, he was sorry. He asked them to forgive him, to wait for him, to remember him.He knew they were probably dead, too. The plane had been hijacked by terrorists, who had planned to crash it into a city. He had been on a business trip, a routine flight, a normal day. He had kissed his wife goodbye, hugged his daughter, told them he would be back soon. He had not known it would be the last time.He had tried to fight back, along with some other passengers. They had stormed the cockpit, hoping to regain control of the plane. But it was too late. The terrorists had already set the course, locked the controls, activated the explosives. The plane had plunged into the desert, exploding on impact.He had survived by a miracle. He had been sitting in the back, wearing his seat belt, cushioned by his luggage. He had been thrown out of the plane, landing on a soft patch of sand. He had escaped with a few cuts and bruises, a broken arm, a concussion. He had been the only one.He had searched for survivors, for help, for anything. He had found nothing but death and destruction. He had cried, screamed, cursed. He had felt anger, fear, guilt, grief. He had felt nothing at all.He had decided to keep moving, to keep living, to keep trying. He had not given up, not yet. He had clung to his picture, to his memories, to his love. He had clung to a faint glimmer of hope, a vague sense of faith, a distant dream of salvation.He had walked for days, for weeks, for months. He had walked until he could walk no more. He had fallen to his knees, to his hands, to his face. He had closed his eyes, opened his mouth, breathed his last.He had died, alone, in the desert.He had been the last survivor of the crash.