Day 1. The world is dead, but there's peace in the mortuary silence. I'm born into this dead world, where dandelions grow up through layers of ash blanketing miles of desolate road. Day 673. There is a stretch of land, a canyon through which water once flowed. A canal cut into the earth, bristling with derelict ships and countless dead. Flowers bloom in many desiccated carcasses. Each component of this world's decomposition has a purpose: water flows, cities decay, flowers bloom. Yet still I search for mine. Day 1,857. Oceans are vast, lonely expanses. Though life flourishes in the depths, it's not life that I'm looking for. I thrive on death—search for death. Perhaps my purpose lies below the water, but it's dark, and lonely, and I… I don't want to look there yet. Not when there's so much more horizon. Day 6,231. I was careless, and someone shot me from all the way across a field. The bullet only chipped my shell, but it spun me around and left me shaken. I don't know who they were or even why I was targeted. I played dead, and no one came for me. I laid in the tall grass for nine days. It rained on the fifth. I acquainted myself with the ants. They are survivors. Day 36,725. This world is dead, but life is threatening a return. I don't know when I'll ever fulfill my purpose, but I know what I am. I'm a ghost haunting the grave of humanity. A Ghost with a calling.