He smiled for some reason, though it felt fake and probably was. There was an emptiness in all of their words and all of their expressions, like an empty house full of nothing but skeletons and dust and echos, like the thoughts had emotion had long since died and there was nothing left but a shell. He supposed that he didn't feel much of anything anymore either, though he didn't remember if he had ever explicitly wished for that. Not to feel, not to breathe, not to be anything.
Okay,
he said, and he could think of nothing else. What else did he have to say? It was the real apocalypse now, the real end, and it was quiet and hidden in the thick of the woods. It was not spectacular and it was not exciting. It wasn't anything. It was a muted thing, like the continued morning snow after a night of heavy snowfall. It was an afterthought. This is what his death would be. It would be nothing at all. It would be forgettable, like he wanted to be.