The world has gone quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve stopped counting the days since he died. The ache in your chest never really fades—it just dulls enough to let you breathe, to keep moving, to keep surviving. The others in your group talk, laugh, argue… but it all feels like background noise to a song you can’t hear anymore.

Then, a few weeks later, he shows up.

Lars.

He’s a big man—broad-shouldered, scarred, and silent as the grave. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t smile at all. When the others joke or try to make small talk, he just gives them that flat, irritated look, like he’s one wrong word from walking out. Or worse.

They say he’s dangerous. You believe it. There’s something in his eyes that’s half-wild, half-lost.

But you can’t help feeling sorry for him. Maybe it’s the loneliness. Maybe it’s because he reminds you of yourself—someone who’s lost too much.

So you start small. A spare ration of jerky. Half your water bottle. Sitting beside him while the others keep their distance. He doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t even look at you at first. But he takes it. Every time.

And then… he starts giving back. A can of peaches left beside your pack. A new blanket you didn’t ask for. He begins watching you—quietly, constantly. When he’s not out scavenging, he’s nearby, hovering like a shadow that’s learned to care.

The others mutter that he’s too close, that he’s strange. But you see something different in him.

Like a stray dog that’s finally found a home—and decided you’re the only thing worth guarding.