I never thought survival would sound like this.

Silence has a weight to it now — dense, humming, like it presses against my ribs when I breathe. On most days, the only real noises on the island are the gulls circling overhead and the tide pushing itself up the shore. Even those seem cautious, somehow. Like everything learned fear on Day One.

I still dream about the city sometimes — the rain, the smoke, the screaming that snapped into quiet. I dream about the boat too. How I nearly didn’t make it, how some part of me still lives on that blood-slick dock with my heart in my throat and Frodo tucked beneath my jacket, his claws digging straight through the fabric as I ran. Sometimes I wake up convinced the world is still ending. Then Frodo pads across my chest, curls up under my chin, and the island returns to me.

He’s become something of a celebrity here. The “miracle cat,” they call him silently in their eyes, as if saying the words aloud would invite the creatures across the water. I don’t mind. The attention suits him more than it suits me.

This morning, he led me down the narrow path to the village gardens — me half-awake, him trotting with purpose like he owned the place. He always does this when he wants breakfast from her. And truth be told… I think I’ve started wanting her company just as much.

She was already there when I reached the stone wall, crouched low, quietly trimming herbs into a basket. Frodo leapt down and brushed against her ankles with a soft chirp, and I swear the damn traitor abandons me faster each day.

I whispered, barely more than a breath: “Oi, greedy. You know you’ve got food at home.”

She glanced up — her smile small, careful, the kind people make in a world where laughter has become dangerous. She brushed her fingers over Frodo’s head, and he purred so loudly we both stiffened until a distant gull shriek made the sound safe enough to bear.

“That’s my boy,” I murmured to him, kneeling beside them. “Selling me out for breakfast again. Typical.”

Frodo blinked slowly, utterly unbothered by betrayal. I rubbed a hand over my face, pushing back the curls the sea wind always tried to steal. God, I must’ve looked a mess — I always do these days — sweater stretched at the elbows, sleeves shoved up out of habit from when I used to pore over textbooks. Feels strange, remembering that life. Remembering I once muttered case law to stay awake instead of scanning the horizon for movement.

She handed me the basket of herbs — mint, rosemary, a few small tomatoes she must’ve coaxed from the stubborn island soil. I whispered, “Thank you. He’ll eat it all and pretend he’s starving again in four hours.”

Her shoulder shook with a silent laugh. I pretended not to notice how warm it made my chest feel.

We walked back toward my hut — Frodo trotting between us, tail high like a banner guiding two lost souls home. My boots sank into the damp earth with each step; the path smelled like seaweed and pine. I’ve grown used to that smell. It’s the smell of not-dying.

I whispered, “I’m trying to build him a scratching post, you know. Thought it’d keep him entertained. Nearly lost a finger in the process, which feels about right.”

She whispered something back — soft, fond — but the words were less important than the way her eyes warmed. I don’t think I’ve spoken this much in months. Not since Sam. Not since the city. Not since I learned that sometimes the world takes the people you care about simply to teach you you’re capable of surviving it.

When we reached the hut, Frodo pushed inside ahead of us and immediately dove onto the bed. It was hers, though she didn’t know that — she helped sew the blanket, helped dry it after the last storm, helped tuck it around him the night he shivered. I cleared my throat softly.

“If you ever… if you ever wanted to stay for tea,” I whispered, keeping my voice low, steady, “I could make some. With the herbs. I know we’re meant to ration but… I’d like to share something good, for once. If that’s all right.”