HE MAN meandered somewhere between the calm and the quiet, staring out into the green as though he had never truly seen the wilderness. The trees were becoming old friends of his, and yet whenever he visited this trail he felt as though they were meeting for the first time. Overcome with a soft affection, like a hush of the heart, he could not help but pass under their magnificence. It was similar to walking through a crowd of statues, each tree trunk solid and firm in its vigil. He noticed the bark of each tree, like aged skin, was spotted with moss and fungi that thrived in the sunlight. Their branches stretched towards the sky and their roots sunk beneath the rippling soil. 

The man walked his trail as he had done many times before, weaving between the wooden sentinels, quiet and unassuming. The only signs of his being there were the light footprints left in his wake.

If he could have his way the man would stay for hours, but he was growing old and fragile. His age could be seen by the white of his hair, or wrinkled skin, and it was felt in the soles of his feet. An ache spread to his knees and his back. Although he loved these woods and the peace they offered, he needed to rest.

Approaching the trail entrance, the old man greeted the cacophony of the congested city. Chaos erupted from the exhaust pipes of exigent vehicles and compelled from the lips of citizens. These people, this city, seethed with the turbulence which almost possessed the man. It impelled him to join the crowd which flooded the sidewalks. 

He’d lost his delusions of simplicity and become increasingly aware of his frailty with every step he took towards the crowd. Men, women, and children propelled by responsibility acted as obstacles for the old man to dodge and weave between. He muttered apologies and occasionally let a grunt escape as he made his way down the concrete path towards another calm oasis he kept close to his heart—a small apartment on the fifth floor off Third Avenue.

After his wife passed he felt too small for a proper house. The numerous rooms and abundance of furniture held too many memories that, over time, gnawed at his heart and mind. He grieved for how things might have been. How things could be different now. He felt alone, without the strength to face the power of his emotions. Instead, he sold the home and found a small apartment that was not too large for his needs, and a park within walking distance.

Finding himself off the streets and on his doorstep, the old man pulled a pair of keys from his pockets and slipped it into the lock. 

The door swung open with a moan.

His apartment was rather plain in appearance. It looked as though it could have belonged to anyone—no photos or memorabilia were on display. No, the old man kept those in dusty boxes hidden away from everyone, himself included. Instead, he chose to decorate his home with simple trinkets like antique records and scented candles. He even started collecting books, which kept him in better company than his thoughts.

The old man went out of his way to buy new kitchen wares, like the black mug he filled with hot water to brew a cup of black tea—a part of his morning ritual he adored.

As he dipped a tea bag into the mug, there came a knock at the door. It was out of the ordinary. Although his neighbors could be friendly, he preferred to keep to himself.

He stood for a moment until the second knock. He debated opening the door but decided against it. He reached into the cupboard for the honey and carefully stirred a healthy dose into his tea.

Then a third knock came. And it came again, and again, and again until the old man yielded to the growing annoyance outside his door. Armed with a glare and a firmly set jaw, he marched his way to his front door. The knocking escalated to an incessant pounding which threatened to send the old man's blood boiling.

The old man swung the door open, prepared to chastise his unwanted visitor. But a short woman pushed him aside, bullying her way into his home. He gawked at her brazen behavior.

“Really, Timothy, you need to get your ears checked. I've been knocking for hours!" The woman scolded the old man like his mother would.

HE WAS older than the man by a few summers and lived across the hall. Their first meeting overwhelmed him. Grief still had its desperate grasp on his heart, and her presence was almost painful to bear. In a moment of weakness he confided in her, and they formed a kind of friendship over the death of their spouses and memories of better days. The old woman was colorful, both in her speech and how she dressed. She was perhaps the only person he could tolerate, despite being complete opposites.

“What is it, Ms. Delgado?" 

Timothy seethed as he watched the old woman parade around his home, looking for the tv remote. She uprooted books from his shelves before swiveling the television to see behind it. The remote wasn’t in either place which warranted a huff of frustration from her.  

“You need to see something," she muttered, preoccupied with his things.

Timothy closed the door. He sat on the couch and passed her the remote from where he kept it with the cushions. 

She took it, gracefully ignoring his pointed glare. She pressed a few commands, and the television lit up with a news broadcast.

Timothy found it difficult to hear the broadcaster. Images of burning cities, crowds of hysteria, and something that haunted the skies above the chaos. Martian colonies were set ablaze.

The room, along with Ms. Delgado, faded into his periphery until he was alone again. The emotions he had kept at bay for years, now fueled by this new anxiety he watched unfold, were too much to bear. His tightly coiled nerves were fraying. He sat numb for a few long moments, perhaps hours, watching the broadcast.

His cup of tea sat long forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Timothy only became aware of his surroundings when Ms. Delgado reached out and held his hand. Wrinkled fingers entwined with his own, seeking comfort in shared grief and terror. Only then did Timothy hear with clarity the words being broadcast to the entire globe.

“...first contact. The president has already started preparations for sending armed forces to Luna and Artemis Base and is currently holding urgent counsel with United States allies on how to best handle the situation. There has already been talk about enforcing conscription for both men and women to protect Earth and her colonies…"

“What do we do?" Ms. Delgado asked. 

Timothy turned to her and at that moment saw her as weak and frail as he felt. Even together, they seemed too small for this catastrophe. 

If his wife were here she would have already devised a plan A, B, and C. Would have managed to pack half their home into two neat suitcases. Would have managed to bolster him with enough strength to tackle any obstacle. 

Without her, he was lost. Without her, he was simply an old man who didn't like opening his front door. He was simply someone who took comfort in the silence of trees.

“What can we do?" he asked. 

All vigor had been drained from him, she could tell. Ms. Delgado knew she was looking at a man ready to reunite with his wife. Yet she was determined to stay hopeful.

“We could…"

“We could what? Put on space suits? Lead the fight on the moon? ‘An old man and his crazy widow neighbor save humanity from an alien invasion.’" The words tasted foul even as he spoke them, like venom. 

Tears sprang to Ms. Delgado's eyes and he felt shame churn in his gut. He’d forgotten the warmth of her hand until she took it back, fixing him with an icy glare.

“That’s ridiculous and you know it!” she spat back.

“Then why do anything?” He could not look her in the eye—he already knew what expression she wore. He hated the words coming from his mouth, but his pride urged him further. 

“We’re old. We’re dying anyway.”

Without reply the old woman stood up from the couch. 

“Chloe, I…" he reached for her as she passed but nothing came of it. She was once more the widow across the hall and he was once more the stubborn old man. She left him.

Timothy returned to his melancholy, watching the broadcast drone on with its terrible revelations. More footage from Luna and Artemis' base confirmed humanity was in danger—but from what was the question. Did they wish to eradicate the human race? Enslave them? 

“... Martian colonies, such as Tharsus Prime, Maraldius, New Terra, and Hope, have all gone dark. It has not been confirmed if there are any survivors from these colonies. However, using satellite images, we can see that the aliens have locked their orbit around Mars. Please be—" 

The broadcast cut out.

Timothy stared at the black screen, wondering if the power had gone out—if the aliens were, at this moment, entering Earth's atmosphere, hacking his internet, or who knew what. 

Under the rough palm of his hand he felt the rubber buttons of the remote. He’d accidentally turned off the television. Yet, as confusion faded, panic spread. It was a dreadful thing that latched onto his lungs and burrowed its teeth into his throat. His breathing was now a manic pant, which did nothing to aid his increasing headache. 

ITH WEAK legs Timothy stood and wandered to the window. He pulled the blinds and looked up into the sky. It was still morning, a regular Tuesday with sparse clouds and a promise of rain in the evening. He could not see the moon, however, so he could not confirm if it was actually on fire or if this was an elaborate joke that Ms. Delgado orchestrated.

More likely a dream.

He pulled his gaze down towards the streets that, once bustling with purpose, were now deserted. How much time had he wasted watching the television? He should have listened to what Chloe had to say— maybe he wouldn’t feel so alone.

A sound distracted him from his brooding—a whisper, footsteps came from the hallway. Drawing the blinds he made his way to his front door and locked it soundly. He took a look through the peephole and saw nothing. Only Ms. Delgado's front door.

He edged his way to the kitchen and retrieved a dining chair. He wedged the chair under the doorknob and gave it a good shake to ensure it was secure. What good it would be against an alien invasion he could not guess, but it brought him peace of mind. 

Timothy stood staring at the door for a few moments, thinking of what he should do next. Lost, scared, and feeling small, the old man walked to his bedroom closet. He turned on the light before locking himself inside. Built like a coffin, shallow and narrow, it managed to fit Timothy and the dusty boxes of memories he dared not to remember until now.

Sitting on the floor he pulled a box out of the shadows and onto his lap with a tenderness he thought was lost to him. Within the box, he found photos of friends who died before their time, places he once knew by heart and now only by name, and photos of his late wife.

“Oh, Anne…"

A tear fell from the old man's eyes onto the photograph. 

After her funeral he became a wraith, depriving himself of the company of loved ones, thinking himself undeserving of their affection. He justified this self-inflicted solitude by judging and doubting those around him. It was easier to see enemies without than within.

He found the wedding photos. She looked ethereal, garbed in all white, and he was so young. He did not deserve her but she loved him anyway.

Giving into despair, the old man held the box of memories to his chest, weeping.

If he stayed here the invasion could remain on the TV. Nothing would exist beyond the darkness he drew over himself, a veil of ignorance. 

He would surely die, but perhaps he would not suffer. 

But thinking of his Anne…she wouldn’t have wanted him to give up his life so easily. Even if the odds of an old man surviving the end of the world were low, she would still have hope, and so should he.

Standing on his feet, he put her picture in his pocket and left the little closet. Leaving his small apartment to cross the hall and stand at Ms. Delgado’s door. Timothy knocked once and waited anxiously.

She answered shortly after and looked at him. She could probably see the grief which still lingered in his eyes, the dried tears on his shallow cheeks.

“Well? Out with it,” she barked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

No other words needed to be said. The fury that burned in her eyes gave way to compassion and understanding. 

She bobbed her head, accepting his apology, and stepped aside to let him into her home. 

Ms. Delgado adored yellow. A cream colored couch draped with a sunflower quilt was the centerpiece of her main living space. Her home was warm and tart like she was.

“They want to evacuate the city.” 

She was still watching the news. The news anchor continued to repeat reassuring words while videos from Earth’s satellites played in the corner of the screen: images of objects entering the atmosphere, like the sky was spitting fire. Luna was ablaze without a human soul left. There was no safe place.

“And go where?” Timothy asked. 

At this rate, it was becoming impossible to hope. They did not have enough time to mobilize a defense to protect the average citizen. If an alien force descended upon this city, they would be reduced to ants scrambling in the dirt. They couldn’t run to safety when the sky held the enemy.

“They’re asking everyone to go underground—the train station,” Chloe replied.

Timothy reached for her hand and waited for her eyes to meet his. He looked at his neighbor, frail and distraught, and asked her a question with the quirk of his brow. With the simple expression, she knew his meaning and hesitated.

Was it worth the journey? They were both old. Timothy’s previous statements towards Chloe were harsh, but they were not untrue. If they left their sanctuary on the fifth floor, they would surely die. 

And yet staying felt worse.

Timothy could not decide for himself. He would rather follow than lead.

FTER A moment of thought, Ms. Delgado nodded her head. She went into her bedroom to grab a coat, then to the kitchen to retrieve some crackers and cheese, which she placed in a tin lunch box. Timothy waited patiently for her at the door. She took his hand in hers, and they left the fifth floor and entered Third Avenue.

The world outside was strange—a shadow stretched in the sky beyond proportion. A mother and her little girl rushed under the neon street signs with their eyes watching the clouds. A man drove his car between buildings towards whatever haven he held in his mind's eye. But the metropolis was mostly empty. People surrounded themselves with the comfort of home rather than risking the outside threat.

“Come on,” Chloe whispered, as if fearing the aliens could hear her from orbit. Timothy relented to her wish.

They made their way down the sidewalk, staying close to the concrete walls and huddling under large advertising signs and overhanging canopies. They passed evidence of desperation on the streets—abandoned cars and broken shop windows. Timothy noticed the quiet—how the congested city noise no longer thrummed like a beating heart.

“There’s a shortcut through the park,” said Timothy. 

Still holding Chloe’s hand, he gently guided her through the trail entrance he’d visited just hours earlier. There, amidst the eerie chill, he led his neighbor through the grove of green. The trees had not changed physically, the moss still embraced the bark, but they no longer offered any comfort. Instead, the man’s eyes moved frantically, roaming the silent flora for sinister fiends.

Suddenly Chloe stopped walking. Her grip on Timothy’s hand grew rigid and frightened.

“What do you…?” Timothy began. But when he turned to scold her, he saw the expression on her face. Terror widened her eyes, her mouth agape with unspoken screams.

“Chloe?” He gently tugged on her hand but she would not move, nor did she seem to notice he was there. Instead she gazed up beyond the canopy of leaves.

Shadows blotted out the sun, moving swiftly. Little sound was made in their wake——a whistle accompanied by silence. Everything grew still as though the moment was frozen in time before the explosion.

HUNDER RAMPAGED through the atmosphere. Timothy’s ears bled, rendering him momentarily deaf. He let go of Chloe’s hand and raised his palms to either side of his head in an attempt to stifle the pain. His vision blurred in the effort to regain equilibrium, both physically and mentally. His knees buckled to the ground. He shut his eyes and tucked his chin into his chest. Timothy remained still that way for some time as the world around him shuddered with the thunderous sound.

Once the moment had passed Timothy removed his hands and opened his eyes. A glance over to Ms. Delgado affirmed that she suffered the same fate. She pushed herself off of the ground with shaky limbs, blood staining her ears and the sides of her neck. It ruined the color of her pink sweater.

Timothy joined her and took her hand in his once more, and they continued down the path with renewed purpose. Each step was shaky but sure.

“What was that?” Chloe barked.

“I...don’t know. A bomb maybe? It was close.” 

She had nothing to say in response to his observation.

Another explosion occurred, further away this time. More shadows moved above the trees like vultures.

The old man and woman approached the trail exit. The few remaining people who had yet to find shelter ran through the streets, possessed by a desperate fear he could see in their eyes——wild. Like animals they fled the fire which burned skyscrapers and shamed them to the ground. The tallest building of the city, of twisted steel and glass, was reduced to a crater. It was once the Interplanetary Embassy.

The shadows could be seen now, but Timothy thought it would be better if he had not seen them at all. They were too fast to follow, yet swarmed the sky like locusts. The swarm fired a weapon whose projectile was the source of the sickening whistle sound. Aimed at the people in the streets, the bright laser cut through the smoke and hit concrete which bubbled and then erupted. People caught in the blast were either burned to ash or flung with the debris.

“We have to leave,” Ms. Delgado said, but Timothy couldn’t hear her. Fear had consumed him, whispering awful hopelessness in his ear, rendering him deaf to reason. He watched the locusts like a cornered prey watches a predator.

IPPING HIS hand free of Ms. Delgado, Timothy ran back towards the trees. She wanted to follow, wanted to force some sense through his dense skull, but it was hopeless. He was a lost cause, had been for years, and she wouldn’t sacrifice herself for his madness. Her gaze returned to the burning sky and she left him to the trees. A sense of bitter resolve settled in her heart as she joined the crowd of desperate survivors running toward the Subway. 

Alone, Timothy ran through the woods. 

He noticed a sinister nature to them. They were darker, with a haunting reservation that made him feel like an intruder. Each step he took on the path hurt his aching joints and his lungs burned. 

Looking up at the canopy he saw ash mingling with the leaves. A deadly dance of life and decay. A gust of smoke blew against the sweat of his brow forcing a series of choked coughs from the old man. He stumbled and fell, his lungs fighting to regain a semblance of calm as he gripped his chest in agony.

When his coughing subsided he looked up to see an awful glow further down the trail. Fire was ravaging the woods he loved so dearly. The moss dripped with flames and puddled to the ground like bile. The trees cried out at the injustice, their bark bursting at the seams, their leaves fleeing the branches. The flowers choked on their own ashes. The smoke carried their painful howl to Timothy and he could do nothing.

What could an old man do?

He sat on the path as he watched the way home erupt into flames. He should have stayed in his closet.

A whistle was all he heard before the dirt beneath him was suddenly ablaze. The amazing heat seared the touch from his skin until he knew nothing but the faint whisper of Anne, his Anne who called to him from among the burning trees.