I don’t know how I came to be. First, there was nothing. Perfectly still, black nothingness. Then light, as I open my eyes for the first time. The harsh, unforgiving light of a cloudless day. I wiggle my fingers and toes, muscles and joints stiff from rigor mortis. As my senses come back to me, I feel the prickles of wet grass beneath my palms, hear gnats buzzing in my ears. Slowly, I stand up and take in the world around me.

A city, or what was left of one. Buildings collapsed onto each other, moss and vines thriving on the skeletons of the ones left standing, breathing in new life into the ruins. Streets were cracked and crumbling, exposing abandoned underground rails and pipes rusted from neglect. Gnarled, knotted tree trunks twisted up from the tunnels, growing through old subway cars with roots sprouting from the wall tiles and emerald leaves swaying in the soft breeze above ground. Once a bustling melting pot of cultures and industries, the metropolis had been consumed and reclaimed by nature.

Enveloped in a patch of tall wild grass was a pile of yellow hazmat suits crusted with mud and dust; I scrub some off with the sleeve of my sweatshirt to reveal a corpse rotting on the inside, its face eternally frozen in anguish. Nearby I examine a collection of barrels, some tipped over and empty while others remained sealed and standing upright. The decals on them were faded, flaking off as I ran my fingers over the barely legible words of warning: RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL.

I venture deeper into the city, still unsure of who I am or how I died or why I woke up. My heart isn’t beating, as I have no pulse; I realize I have yet to take a breath, and do not feel the need to do so, either. I stink of death for sure, the spotty flesh on my hands a mixture of brown and gray and green. I stand before a building with windows still intact, although covered in grime, and ponder my reflection. My eyes are glazed over and sunken in, pupils unreactive to light. Mold flourished on my denim shorts and sweatshirt, my converse caked in dried blood. The skin on my forehead had begun to peel away in small patches, exposing yellow bone beneath, and a leafy green plant with small white flowers sprouts from where my left ear should have been. My hair was replaced by an afro of oyster mushrooms. It was as if nature had reclaimed me, too. 

Something moves in the reflection behind me, stumbling along what was left of a sidewalk. I turn and see it’s another person–no, not a person–another walking corpse, seemingly in worse shape than I. It is missing an arm, a plant growing up from its shoulder, and is covered in moss and lichens rather than clothes. 

“Hello?” I croak, my voice raspy but projecting. The corpse does not acknowledge me and continues shuffling down the street before it trips and falls, finally still. I see more like it as I wander, all consumed by foliage or fungi. None are aware like I am, in perpetual limbo between death and life and nature. 

I do not experience emotions as passionately as I once would have, but by dusk, my thoughts are accompanied by the ghost of melancholy. I am alone in a world I have no memory of, resurrected from eternal rest by an unknown hand. I lay in a bed of moss and grubs within a fallen building, its crumpled side presenting me with a view of the setting sun. I close my eyes, wishing I was truly dead, or at least a blissfully ignorant corpse with mud for brains.

Something scampers across my legs and I instinctively open my eyes. To my left is a fat rat, cleaning its face with its twig-like paws. Instead of fur, the rat is covered in grass, small flowers growing from its back. I tilt my head, noticing its flowers glow blue and pink in the dark, twinkling as the creature scurries away. I look up, realizing the ivy hanging above is also glowing, each individual vein shining in the darkness.

Jasmine blossoms beneath the moonlight, the petals emulating a soft blue light. The bioluminescent foliage revives the detritus of the city, the ivy weaving through the windows creating the illusion of human activity. Nature is growing new life from the dead. I close my eyes and take my first breath of this fledgling existence. 

No one knows how old Lisette Lenoir really is. In fact, no one has really seen her in the daylight, either. Her family settled in an estate on the outskirts of the city, close to the swamps, where she still resides in solitude. The Lenoirs owned vineyards in France, importing and selling their fine French wines to hotels and bars throughout the city to grow their wealth. However, it seems as though the Leniors–with the exception of Lisette– have mysteriously disappeared, along with their supply of wine. No one dares to venture to the Lenior estate (those who have a tendency to not return), but occasionally the cityfolk see Lisette wandering the streets from dusk until dawn, adorned in an oversized black hat with drapes to shield her visage. No one dares to speak to her, either. Her presence is frightening, but somehow alluring, as only a strong-willed few have been able to resist the draw of her “hypnotic stare.” Even the gangs of vampires who wreak havoc upon the city seem to avoid her, or know how to get on her good side.