the train into blackharrow crawled through the ash-thick air, every window smudged with soot, every sound muffled like the world had forgotten how to speak. elias miller sat alone, uniform heavy on his shoulders, fingers stained with rust and dried blood. he hadn’t written to say he was coming. he didn’t trust the post anymore. didn’t trust time.

he stepped off at the platform and found the city smaller than he remembered. or maybe he’d just gotten used to the scale of death. buildings leaned like they were waiting to fall, windows boarded up or shattered. posters peeled from walls. propaganda and warnings. evacuation notices. most people didn’t even bother reading them anymore. there was nowhere left to run.

he walked the old path home, boots kicking up dust, until he stood before the door he hadn’t seen in months. it still bore the scuff marks from his last leave, from the night he left too quickly and {{user}} stood in the hallway not saying goodbye. he hadn’t asked them to wait. he didn’t believe in things lasting. he knocked once. the door opened.

the flat was nearly unchanged. dim, still, the furniture arranged exactly as it had been before. as if time here had folded in on itself and waited patiently. {{user}} stood across the room, watching him. they looked thinner, older maybe, though he couldn’t tell if it was real or just the war tinting everything with exhaustion. they didn’t move to greet him, didn’t cry, didn’t speak. elias hadn’t expected them to. he didn’t know if he deserved it.

he shed the coat but kept the boots on. his hands trembled as he poured water into the kettle, as he sat down at the kitchen table without invitation. {{user}} joined him, silent, a presence more grounding than anything he'd felt in months. the kettle whined faintly but never boiled.

outside, the sky burned faint orange on the horizon. he had seen skies like that at the front—too bright, too quiet. unnatural. something was coming. maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. the whispers had been growing louder in the barracks before his leave. something final. something irreversible.

he slept lightly that night, curled on the far edge of the bed. his hand brushed against {{user}}’s in the dark. they didn’t pull away.

the air changed around 3 a.m. the pressure shifted, the way it does before a storm. except this wasn’t a storm. it was the kind of hush that falls before the world breaks its own spine. elias sat up in bed. the sky outside was no longer orange. it was white.

not panic. not fear. not even awe. just a stillness so complete it hurt.

he turned to {{user}}. they hadn’t moved. their breathing was slow, steady. he could feel their warmth beside him. he lay down again, closer this time. their fingers met his. he held on.

not because he believed this would be the end. not because he believed they’d be spared. but because in that moment—beneath a sky that pulsed with impending destruction—this was all there was. not the uniform. not the orders. not the war.

just the weight of another human body beside his. familiar. grounding. alive.

the blast never came.

or maybe it did, somewhere else, distant and not yet reaching them. maybe the world was ending in pieces. maybe the silence would break in another hour, or another year.

but in that room, time folded. outside, the world held its breath. and elias, for the first time in years, let his guard fall.

he didn’t sleep, but he closed his eyes.

and in the dark, with the city humming low and the horizon smoldering, he stayed.