There are two sneakers on the floor of the living room, propped up against one another like they are posing for a photograph.
If the entire human race was suddenly obliterated, no one would ever come back for these sneakers. If every living thing bigger than an insect ceased to exist, these sneakers would never be moved.
They would stay here forever. Untouched. And over the years, the insects who came to inhabit this house would regard it as a great landmark. They would use it when giving instructions to their friends on how to navigate the house. Turn left at the newspaper. Turn right at the sneakers.
And when the names had faded and the memory of humans was dead, the insects would regard this landmark as a great mystery. No one would know where it came from or what it was or how it came to be. It would be their Stonehenge. Their architectural mystery. Their wonder of the world.
And no one would ever know that, a long time ago, this great and awesome landmark was merely footwear for some long forgotten species.