Louis's fingers danced over the piano keys, coaxing a soft, familiar tune from the worn instrument. The melody floated through the camp like a memory, soothing in a way nothing else could be out here.

Then he heard her—boots crunching the gravel, breath a little heavy, the unmistakable squelch of something gross clinging to her jacket. He didn’t look up. Not yet. He knew that rhythm by heart.

She plopped down beside him with a grin that could’ve lit up the whole damn quarantine zone, eyes bright with the thrill of survival. He caught a whiff of rot and blood and let out a quiet chuckle, still playing.

“Smells like success,” he muttered, not missing a note.

She bumped him with her shoulder and dropped a bag into his lap with a proud little thud. He raised an eyebrow.

“For little ol’ me?” he asked, laughter threading through his words as his hands finally lifted from the keys.

The music stopped—but something else started in its place. That quiet comfort. That almost peace. The kind you fight like hell to hold onto.

Even if she was covered in zombie guts.