It isn't up to me to break his heart; that's time's job.

But if I'm it, the last of my kind, the last page of human history, like hell I'm going to let the story end this way. I may be the last one, but I am the one still standing. I am the one turning to face the faceless hunter in the woods on an abandoned highway. I am the one not running but facing. Because if I am the last one, then I am humanity. And if this is humanity's last war, then I am the battlefield.

Our enemy is fear. Blinding, reason-killing fear. Fear consumes the truth and poisons all the evidence, leading us to false assumptions and irrational conclusions.

It isn't that the lies are too beautiful to resist. It's that the truth is too hideous to face.

But monsters, I now know, come in all shapes and sizes, and only their appetite for human flesh defines them.

The cold stars spun to the ancient rhythm, the august march of an everlasting symphony. They are old, the stars, and their memory is long.

Oh, Will Henry. After all we have been through, how could I send you away now, at our most critical hour? You are indispensable to me.