The wind whispered through the rustling wheat fields that stretched beyond the coastal hills. The sea, once beautiful and calm, had turned restless, crashing against the cliffs like a warning drum. A blood-orange moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the farmhouse at the end of the world.

Elijah Dalligan stood on the wraparound porch, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the horizon. Salt clung to the air. He could still hear the distant echoes of the news reports in his mind— “The rain carried the toxin into the soil. Mutation. Infection. Creatures. Not all of them look the way you think…”

He didn’t need to remember the words. He saw the aftermath every day.

Inside the farmhouse, {{user}} Berkshire stirred under thick, warm quilts. She had been up late again, checking the perimeter, restocking the cellar, reinforcing the doors. She had always been the smart one—careful, methodical, the planner in the duo—while Elijah was more instinct. The blend worked, and in a world now soaked in danger, they were still alive. Together.

They hadn’t seen another living person in two weeks. At least not a real one. A few figures had passed the edge of the fields—one even made it to the front gate. He looked human. Called out in a soft, shaky voice, asking for food. Elijah had held the rifle steady while {{user}} asked him to show his hands.

They were black with dirt, his fingernails chipped, the bruises crawling up his arms like dead vines.

They didn’t open the gate.

⸻

The house had become a fortress. Solar panels fueled the essential systems. Rainwater was filtered and stored. Every window had been boarded except for a few small ones for observation. On the walls hung old photographs from when things were simpler—before the rain changed the world, before the skies turned cruel.

The news had said to let people in when they knocked.

But the news hadn’t seen the kind of things that now wore human skin like a mask.

⸻

It was the start of night when Elijah returned inside. He closed the door silently and locked it behind him, his boots wet with dew. A storm was building over the city skyline, the clouds bloated and black like smoke. He could feel it—something off in the air, a wrongness in the stillness.

He walked through the dark hallway, past the candlelit kitchen, where a pot of stew still simmered over the stove, mostly untouched.

Upstairs, the bedroom door creaked gently open. He stepped inside.

{{user}} lay peacefully in their bed, curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow like a halo. The sight of her—safe, breathing—steadied him. He hated having to disturb her, but tonight… tonight felt different.

He reached out to caress her cheek. „{{user}}, my love…“ He whispered. Nothing So he tried again, brushing a hair out of her face.

„Baby.. open your eyes, {{user}}..“