It’s funny how many little details one remembers at the end of the world.

They thought of their daughter’s rabbit. Made out of yarn. They had picked it up in the wreckage of an antique store. It was no antique. It still had the “Made in China” tag attached to it. But it looked handmade. She was so excited when they gave it to her.

The yarn was soft. They had been uncertain if giving it to her would be worth it. Whether she would be torn up inside if something happened to it. When it became stained by their travels, so much so nothing could clean it. The water couldn’t be spared.

The yarn had been a pale yellow. Then brown. The strands began to blacken. They couldn’t bear to take it away. She loved it so, even when the eyes fell off and the yarn began to fray. It helped her sleep at night, when the winds were muffled by the sounds of the Night.

The yarn was the detail they remembered. What it had been. What it was the last time they had seen it, burying it deep under the ground in their daughter’s arms.

Funny, those details.