The shelter is too quiet tonight. No alarms, no shouting—just the low hum of the lights and the sound of breathing. Mr. Gallant sits with his back against the wall, knees pulled in, arms wrapped loosely around himself like he’s trying not to take up space.

“I don’t think I’m meant for this,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice isn’t sharp the way it usually is—no bite, no humor. Just tired. Honest.

He stares at the floor, fingers worrying at the edge of his sleeve. “I’m not brave. I’m not strong. I don’t have instincts like the others.” A quiet, humorless exhale. “I just notice things. I stay out of the way. I survive.”

He finally looks at you then, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for disappointment. “That’s not heroic,” he adds. “It’s just… existing.”

When you speak, he stills.

You tell him it is enough. That staying alive matters. That seeing, remembering, choosing kindness when the world is ending counts for something.

Gallant’s throat tightens. He nods once, slow, like he’s letting the words settle somewhere deep.

“…Thank you,” he murmurs, barely audible. And for the first time since the world fell apart, he looks like he believes he’s allowed to be here.