In the shadowed corner of a dead city, you spy a piece of its ghost. Its streets replicated in miniature, the same hidden places, the same short cuts, the same skeletons of strange, long-dead creatures lining its causeways. All is the same, but smaller.
Haggard reflections of lost greatness dwindle in the dark.
You squint at the maze-like road map, wondering if within this replica, you yourself are the only life that remains. If this phantom before you is that fidelitous to the truth.
And yes, in this same block that you now wander through, you see a small figure, crouched down in the corner. You see a man spying the ghost of a ghost, wondering at its streets, looking for himself. The same wind howls through empty roads, and you both shudder. You look up, and so does he, and above you, through the clouds, you spy a familiar chin. A neck’s nape that is all your own. The face of a giant turned upwards. You scream, and matching it is a scream loud enough to rend the Earth asunder.
How many selves, how many ghosts, wander the empty streets of their dead homes? How many men wonder at their smaller selves, who wonder at their smaller selves? How many giants peer through the clouds at a maze that is entirely too familiar? How many men are already dead, and just do not yet realize?
Perhaps this is an endless cycle, a repeated hell, where time is fluid. And on and on we exist, watching ourselves watch ourselves in the corner of a city that life abandoned. Perhaps that is our punishment for sins we have forgotten.
Perhaps we are one, and that one is lost forever.