A dirty, folded piece of paper with the words 'Brother Neutrino' crudely written below a carefully drawn picture of a mushroom cloud.
October 11, 2051
My Dearest Nephew:
Thank you for honoring an old woman’s final wish. I’m sure the doctors kicked up quite a fuss, but not even those old buzzards would dare say no to you.
I’m sure it must be hard for you to understand why I would want to return here, of all places, as my life draws to a close. Your generation tends to think of bunkers (we called them shelters in my day) as little more than elaborate crypts. But for me – and many others – this place was a refuge, an island of hope in the middle of a vast and terrible storm.
Your grandfather Abraham spent a fortune building this shelter in the 90’s. It earned him no small amount of ridicule at the time, but my brother was not the sort of man who concerned himself with the opinions of others. And when that awful day came, we were ready, when so many others were not.
The first few months were the hardest. It was difficult to accept that the world we’d known was gone. Abraham had invited the families of several close friends to join us, so privacy and personal space were hard to come by, but the desperate pleas of those on the other side of the hatch were the worst. They haunt me to this day.
But as the months passed into years, this shelter became our new world. We learned to laugh again. I fell in love with a boy, and Abraham married us on Christmas Eve. I taught the children of the other families, and we planned for the future.
I’m the only one left now who remembers those days. When I’m gone, you may well be tempted to seal this place up and leave it behind. I pray you won’t. Because this is your history, as much as it is mine. Whatever you are, whatever you may become, it began here.
You’re destined for great things, Saul. I’m sure of it. Just don’t forget where you came from, and the sacrifices others made so you could be where you are today.
Your loving aunt,
Old Survivalist Bunker: In the lounge, northern area.