2042
The fires still raged. The buildings still crumbled. And the Boy still walked. Forty years on. The fires still raged.

The ragged, lopsided, unshaven figure trudged on, each step a marathon to a cripple, flight to a penguin. Past the grey, bleak, dreary background that was ever unchanging, always there, always the same. Never changing, never changing.
He made a small grunting noise with each step, breaking the deafening silence that seemed so unnatural in the concrete jungle that had once swarmed with life. But that was before, this was now. As he made his way down the never-ending, perfectly straight road, a rain drop fell onto the man, and ran all the way down his white, wrinkled face. He took a moment to stare calculatingly at the great grey mass of cloud which loomed above him. It seemed too close to be real. However nothing seemed real anymore. Nothing. Everything was different.

Never changing. Never Changing.