You in the Ruins

The footsteps grew louder, deliberate, the familiar creak of old floorboards announcing their arrival before the door even opened. Sage squeezed her eyes shut tighter beneath the quilt, as if darkness alone could buy her a few more stolen moments of sleep. The door swung inward with a soft whoosh of cool morning air, carrying the scent of dew-soaked hay and woodsmoke from last night's fire. "Sage Marie, if I have to count to three you're mucking stalls by yourself today," came the low, no-nonsense voice of her mother. Not angry—just inevitable, like the sunrise itself. Sage let out a dramatic sigh that turned into a muffled laugh despite herself. She threw the covers back and sat up, hair a wild tangle around her face, blinking against the pale gold light now spilling across the room. "I'm up, I'm up," she muttered, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Five more minutes was all I wanted. Five." Her mother—Ma, as everyone called her, even the neighbors—stood in the doorway with arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in that way that said she'd heard this excuse approximately seven hundred times before. She wore her usual morning armor: faded overalls, boots already dusted with barn dirt, and a wool sweater that had seen better decades. "Rooster's been at it since before the sky turned pink. Horses are stamping, goats are yelling like the world's ending, and your little brother already fed the chickens half an hour ago. You gonna let him show you up again?" Sage groaned again, this time theatrical enough to earn a small, reluctant smile from Ma. "Fine. But if I fall asleep in the feed bin, it's on you for waking me up so cruelly." Ma snorted. "Bring the buckets in when you're done. And don't forget the water for the goats—they knocked over the trough again last night. Little terrors." Sage swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold plank floor. She tugged on yesterday's jeans and a worn flannel, the fabric soft from countless washings and smelling faintly of lavender soap and horse. By the time she laced her boots, the last traces of sleep had fled, replaced by the quiet hum of purpose that always settled over her once she was moving. Outside, the world was waking in earnest. The rooster strutted across the yard like he owned every inch of it, chest puffed, letting out another triumphant crow just to remind everyone who was boss. Mist still clung low to the ground, softening the edges of the barn and the fenced paddocks. Somewhere a goat bleated indignantly, probably demanding breakfast five minutes ago. Sage grabbed the dented metal buckets from the porch hook and headed down the path, the first real breath of morning air filling her lungs—crisp, alive, smelling of earth and animals and the promise of another day. She didn't hate it, not really. The early hours, the endless rhythm of feed and water and clean. It was just... relentless. But as she pushed open the barn door and was greeted by the soft nickers of the horses and the curious stares of the goats poking their heads over the stalls, a small, secret part of her felt something like gratitude. The day had her now. Might as well make it a good one. She started with the horses—because of course she did. They were the biggest, the hungriest, and the absolute worst at waiting their turn. The second she stepped into the barn aisle, a chorus of impatient nickers and hoof stomps greeted her like she was late for their royal breakfast appointment. As she tipped the grain scoop into each trough—measuring just right so nobody felt shortchanged—she caught herself humming one of Ma’s old bread-kneading songs. The melody was half-forgotten, a little wobbly, but it felt good rolling around in her chest anyway. Maybe today wouldn’t be a total disaster after all. She paused at Titan’s stall to check his water and caught her own reflection wobbling in the trough. Thick, dark hair spilling everywhere like it had its own wild plans for the day, framing eyes so bright green they sometimes tricked people into thinking turquoise in the right light. Her face, though? Pure farm-girl evidence: a smudge of dirt across one cheek, a faint streak on her forehead, probably from wrestling hay bales last night. She rubbed at the worst of it with the heel of her hand, laughing softly at herself. “Glamorous as ever,” she muttered. Right on cue, Titan—her giant, velvet-nosed sweetheart—ambled up and plunged his muzzle into the trough. The water rippled and danced, shattering her reflection into a dozen little pieces. He lifted his head just long enough to bump her shoulder with that broad, warm forehead, asking in the politest possible way for scratches behind the ears. She obliged, of course. How could she not? Titan was their only intact stallion, kept because he was far too much of a gentleman to ever live up to the “stud” stereotype. The big draft horse practically purred when she scrubbed just the right spot, his enormous body swaying slightly with contentment. “Morning, you big softie,” she said, pressing her forehead to his for a gentle second, breathing in the warm, earthy scent of him. “At least one of us started the day looking presentable.” Titan was a Percheron-Friesian cross, which meant he was basically a walking masterpiece of horse: towering, powerfully built, with that signature feathering around his massive hooves and a coat so deep black it gleamed like polished obsidian even on the dullest mornings. Not even a full-body roll in the muddiest pasture could dim his handsome presence—he’d just shake it off, look twice as majestic, and come trotting over like he knew exactly how impressive he was. Sage had seen people stop and stare the first time they caught sight of him, jaws slack, like they’d stumbled across a legend that decided to live on her little patch of dirt. He huffed a soft, hay-scented breath right against her neck in reply, the warm puff tickling her skin and making her grin wider. She scratched under his jaw one more time for good measure, feeling the low rumble of contentment in his throat. Yeah. Maybe today really wouldn’t be so bad. Sage had grown up on the stories, the ones Great-Grandma used to tell on quiet evenings by the fire. Life before the end—when lights flipped on with a switch, water came hot from a tap, and people zipped around in machines that didn’t need hay or oats. Great-Grandma always got a faraway look when she talked about 2030, the year the sun threw its worst tantrum in living memory. A massive coronal mass ejection, or maybe an EMP storm triggered by solar fury—no one could agree on the exact science anymore, only that the sky lit up like the end of the world, and when it faded, so did everything electric. Circuits fried, grids collapsed, and the machines that once ruled the planet rusted into silence. Sage had never known anything else. She’d only ever seen the remnants: cars half-buried in vines and wildflowers, their paint long peeled away to reveal skeletons of metal; buildings from before her great-grandparents’ time, crumbling under ivy and time. The closest thing to “intact” tech was in The City, a day’s hard ride away—where gangs had claimed the old towers and kept a few ancient vehicles as trophies or barricades. They didn’t run, of course. Nothing did. But the stories travelers whispered (or shouted in panic as they fled) painted a grim picture: raiders sweeping out from those concrete ruins, hitting small settlements like hers. They took what they wanted—food, tools, livestock—and worst of all, people. Able bodies for labor in the fields. Women and children for… other reasons. Breeding stock, some called it bluntly. The words always made Sage’s stomach twist. She gave Titan one last affectionate pat on his broad neck, pushing the darker thoughts aside for now. The horses were fed, the sun was climbing, and there was still a whole day of chores ahead. Worrying about raiders before breakfast never made the eggs collect themselves.