Atlantis

Atlantis can't remember "the good old days". She goes back and forth on whether that's easier or harder. Easier because you can't miss what you never had. Harder because it would be nice to have something to look back on fondly. Especially in the middle of the night, when sleep is a fickle friend and the "what if" demons are at the height of their power.
It's no easy thing, being born as your world dies. Being raised on grand tales of old, imaging yourself in them, followed by the dawning realization that adventure and glory are not for you. Survival, scraping by, making it through at all will be a feat in itself.
"What was the point?" she often wonders. "Why? Why did it come to this?"
She was young when the city sank. Too young to have to witness such a thing. Fate, capable of divine kindness and unthinkable cruelty in equal measure, had been the latter on that day. For while she was, by any standard, young, she was also just old enough. Just old enough to grasp what she was seeing. Just old enough to feel the weight of what was lost. Just old enough to decide, instinctively, to commit as much of that time as she could to memory. Just old enough to understand that someone would have to tell the story.
Someone would have to tell all the stories.
Atlantis. A name. A place. A destiny. An idea .The name she took to honor the lost. Her lost. The place she had come from, but could never return to. The destiny to be forever unique, forever alone. The idea that maybe, just maybe, if she told the stories, and if others listened, rather than the last of her people, she could be the last of her fate.