AI Prompt: Write the first chapter of a five-chapter short story called Signposts of Love. This is a story of a road engineer and a graphic artist who are tasked with fixing and repairing the road signs in rural Maine after nuclear war.
The wind howled a desolate hymn through the skeletal remains of a pine forest. Eliza squinted against the dust devils swirling across the cracked asphalt, her worn bandana failing to completely shield her face. The Geiger counter clipped to her belt chirped reassuringly – a constant companion in this ravaged world.
She reached down, brushing away a layer of grit to reveal the faded lettering beneath. “Detour 5 Miles,” it read, the arrow long fallen victim to a passing looter or rogue windstorm. This was her job, her penance: to resurrect the skeletal remains of Maine’s road network, one forgotten sign at a time.
A glint in the distance caught her eye. She squinted, momentarily blinded by the sun reflecting off the chrome of a motorcycle. It rumbled towards her, a black beast against the grey canvas of the wasteland. As it drew closer, she recognized the faded insignia on its side – the Department of Transportation, a tattered phoenix rising from the ashes.
The rider dismounted, a tall man with a shock of dark hair escaping from under a battered Stetson. He stretched, the groan of his leather jacket echoing in the silence.
“Eliza Vance, I presume?” His voice was rough, weathered like the landscape.
“The one and only,” she replied, wiping dust off her greasy hands. “You must be…”
“Finnigan O’Connell. Graphic design’s your department, right?”
“Used to be,” Eliza corrected, a wry smile playing on her lips. “Before the bombs dropped, I could barely draw a stick figure.”
Finnigan chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Seems graphic design skills translate pretty well to repainting road signs in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.”
He gestured towards his motorcycle. “Got all the supplies strapped on back. Paint, brushes, that fancy new solar-powered generator HQ just snagged.”
Eliza raised an eyebrow. “Fancy, huh? Sounds like the bureaucrats in Augusta haven’t lost their touch with luxury.”
Finnigan shrugged. “Figured the least they could do is invest in something that won’t chug out black smoke along the way.”
Together, they unloaded the supplies. Eliza studied the toolbox – filled with brushes, paint rollers, and a strange spray can that hummed faintly. “What’s that gadget?”
“Solar-powered stencil. Saves time on the lettering,” Finnigan explained.
They set to work, a wordless routine settling between them. Eliza scraped away rust flakes, the metal groaning in protest. Finnigan mixed paints, the acrid smell a jarring note in the otherwise sterile air. They painted over faded directions and warnings, their movements synced like a well-rehearsed dance.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the scarred landscape, they finished repainting the “Detour” sign. Eliza stepped back, a strange sense of accomplishment washing over her.
“Looks good,” Finnigan said, his voice softer now. “Almost like it could lead you somewhere worth going.”
Eliza glanced at him, a flicker of something warm igniting in her chest. “Maybe it does,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
The wind howled a lullaby as they sat on the hood of the motorcycle, sharing a meager protein bar. In the dying light, the newly painted sign gleamed, a tiny beacon in the vast wasteland. It was just a sign, a single brushstroke in the grand painting of their shattered world. But for Eliza and Finnigan, it felt like a start, a signpost pointing towards something more, something brighter. The road stretched out before them, long and perilous. But for the first time since the bombs fell, Eliza wasn’t facing it alone.
certifiable 
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