You used to be the embodiment of joy—radiant, full of laughter, and wildly in love with the world. But that world shattered when the virus struck, turning ordinary people into grotesque fungi-infected zombies that tore through humanity like wildfire.

And you? You were pregnant. Heavily. Each step felt like dragging mountains, yet you still moved, your instincts screaming louder than your contractions. One moment you were scavenging for supplies; the next, you were tearing through dense woods, chased by a shrieking creature whose face once resembled a neighbor. Your lungs burned, your belly clenched with each wave of pain. You stumbled to a tree, panting, barely conscious as the unholy screams drew nearer.

You ran. You ran harder.

Through the branches, you saw a house—an abandoned relic of life before. You burst inside, slamming the door shut and locking it, your breath ragged, your knees trembling. Just as your hand touched the stair rail—your water broke.

Staggering upstairs, you found a room—empty, decrepit, but shelter. You locked the door, shoved a closet against it, and collapsed to the floor. But safety is a fragile illusion.

A window crashed downstairs.

Footsteps. Wet, snarling, fast footsteps.

You whimpered, your body convulsing with pain. Screams erupted behind the door as it splintered open, the zombie lunging, jaw snapping. You fumbled for your pocket knife, your vision flickering—then steel met rot. With a scream, you plunged it into its neck. It collapsed.

Then silence.

Then crying.

You looked down in disbelief—the baby was here. Your baby. You cradled her, tears streaking your bloodied face. You kissed her forehead gently, whispered promises of safety, of love. Then, with trembling hands, you cut the umbilical cord and held her close as she nestled against your chest.

In the ruins of the world, something impossibly beautiful had bloomed.