Stories don't need an antagonist to continue, do they?

"As deft as rocks swimming upstream." Words that forever marked her early teens. Spoken in these selfsame shores, back when the sand was just as golden as the city behind them; when the clear blue ocean only gave way to the white foam of the waves, the beautiful sounds of nature clashing with that of their boombox, their laughter, their taunts. They're gone now. The golden sand has turned grey, ruins lay where a great city once did. With the bay closed by the carcass of a great ship, even the water had turned dark and still. There was no laughter to fill the silence, no joy to fill the aching heart. They were all gone, she was sure of it. But for how long? For how long did she stay at sea, for how long did she wait for a signal? And most of all, how did all of this destruction come to be? "You were never one to sit and whither in self-pity." "Yeah, that's ever been his job, not mine..." She paused, having just replied to a voice that, for once, wasn't in her mind. The mare jumped to her hooves and turned, expecting to see the ghost of one of the many she had left behind. There was no one there, just the silent dunes and the broken spires of gold far away. Why did she hallucinate his voice, anyway? He would have died long ago, with or without the destruction of their homeland and the extinction of their kind. Wouldn't it be more believable to hear Milla or Newt? And so she turned once more towards the ocean, finally meeting his gaze. The cold blue eyes were tainted with green swirls, the navy blue mane had lost its vibrant crimson strands in exchange for passionflowers grown in twirling vines. His white clothes were tattered by their edges, and so was his once pristine grey skin, now stretched over a body that fit it no longer. She faltered at this sight, sickened and afraid. "Zerathur?..." "Welcome home, Mel. We were waiting for you."