Hello, pineapples,’ he whispered. He bent his head toward his lap and punctured the can, listening closely. The pineapples whispered back. They told … - Hugh Howey

This was what happened to the dying soul; it scrambled for some perch, some stairway to cling to, some way not to fall.

Generations of people staying close to home, there for each other, doing what they knew best, enjoying being a burden to each other.

He nodded and dabbed at his forehead with his sleeve. “And every mistake. But every good thing we do as well. They are immortal, every single touch we leave behind. Even if nobody sees them or remembers them, that doesn’t matter. That trail will always be what happened, what we did, every choice. The past lives on forever. There’s no changing it.