A banana lay on a plate in the middle of a kitchen that had long since abandoned any attempt at order. The walls were dull with grease, the light quivered unsteadily, as if the lamp itself were debating whether to burn. Outside, the distant rumble of a world collapsing sounded—but here, among the empty cans, half-empty glasses, and crumb dust, lay it. The last banana. Its peel shone a dull yellow, with patches of brown like the scars of a long struggle. A small sticker still clung to its side—round, blue, immovable. A mark of a civilization that believed everything was controllable. That fruit could be labeled, ordered, named. Now that sticker was a relic of arrogance. The banana felt it as a burden: proof that it wasn't free, even at the end of it all. The wind through the broken kitchen window made the curtain wave like the flag of a fallen empire. The smell of burnt bread hung heavy in the air. Somewhere a clock still ticks, but its hands have stopped. And the banana—it lies there, it waits. Its time is almost here, but not like before, not as food. No, it's a witness now. The last witness of the ordinary.