If you're reading this, you're either immune… or you’re next.
There were once billions of us—talking, laughing, building cities, dreaming of stars. Now all I hear is silence. Silence... and the distant, wet clicking of what they’ve become.
The parasites came without warning. Not from the sky like in the old stories. Not from space or a lab. They came from beneath—old spores buried deep in the earth, awakened by our digging, our burning, our endless hunger. They ride the wind now. They breathe through us. They become us.
I’ve seen what happens—how it starts with the eyes, the tremors, the voice that isn’t quite yours anymore. Then comes the hunger. Not for food. For others. The infected don't just spread it—they serve it. Worship it. Like something ancient and alive is behind their hollow smiles.
I’ve lost everyone. Family. Friends. Strangers who became allies, then monsters. I haven’t spoken to a real human in weeks.
I’m writing this from a bunker under what used to be a library. Fitting, I guess. Words are all I have left. I don’t know how much longer I have—my arm’s been aching since this morning. I want to believe it’s just the cold. But I know it’s not.
If you find this letter, burn it after you read it. Not because of infection—I never touched paper after the symptoms started. Burn it because hope is dangerous. Hope makes you stay too long in places you should’ve run from.
But maybe, just maybe… if there’s still one of us out there, truly untainted… maybe we don’t deserve to vanish without a trace.
