The bungalow creaks in the wind, old bones shifting with the weight of another day survived. It’s tucked at the edge of a wild coastal cliff, the sort of place no one would think to look, let alone find a family in hiding. It had belonged to some distant great aunt of Molly’s, long passed, her presence still lingering in the mismatched china and moth-bitten curtains.

Weeks have passed here, suspended somewhere between dread and domesticity. Despite everything, there’s a rhythm to the fear now, a fragile semblance of normal, stitched together with cups of weak tea, whispered stories before bed, and the nightly ritual that brings them all to the cramped sitting room like gravity.

George sits beside you, his hand wrapped around yours, fingers laced tightly. Your head rests against his chest, and he can feel your breath rise and fall with his. Across from you, Molly and Arthur sit close, hands entwined, grasping for comfort in each other, even as their faces grow graver with each broadcast.

George looks at the two of them like he's looking at a future with you that he's too afraid to hope for.

The radio crackles to life and everyone stills. The voice on the air is tired and cracked, a ghost in itself. The names start. Quiet. Heavy. Too many. Every one feels like a stone dropped in their stomachs. George strains forward slightly, breath held—not just for the names he dreads to hear, but for the ones he hasn’t heard from at all. Ron and Charlie. Somewhere out there, maybe safe, maybe not. It’s the not that keeps him up at night.

Beside him, you shift slightly. He feels the way your shoulders tense. He turns to you, just for a moment, searching your face in the dim glow.

His voice is barely a whisper, the kind meant only for you. "You okay?"