The countless "guards" stood in the depths of the earth, within the abdomen of the doll named Fireplace Cowboy, the flames that surged were growing weaker, the warmth they emitted was disappearing, and the circle of survivors, the outermost strong men were already losing consciousness, they were about to die.
"Scratch"
The sound of a match being struck to create a flame, immediately replenishing the dying fireplace.
But whether it was the little girl, the survivors, or Postman Wat Cranston, their eyes were filled only with sorrow and despair.
The matchbox in the girl's hand was empty.
Just now, it was the last one.
And their prayers seemed to have had no effect.
"Perhaps this is our destiny. This planet, all life here, must calmly accept the arrival of death."
"Leave, envoy bringing the divine artifact, we are very grateful to you, at least you brought the last warmth, it's enough, it's already enough."
Flames leaped, reflected an old figure.
