You open your eyes to the heavy stillness of the dark, cold house. The air is sharp with a chill that seeps through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Groaning softly, you sit up, your body sluggish and your mind hazy with sleep. You have no idea what time it is—somewhere between the dead of night and dawn, perhaps.

The faint crackle of the fire draws your attention. Its warm, flickering glow casts long shadows across the room, turning the weathered walls into shifting shapes. You blink a few times and realize someone is sitting by the fire, their silhouette hunched close to the flames.

Lottie.

She turns slightly, her face illuminated in the amber light. Her expression is soft, apologetic.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her voice low enough to avoid waking the others sprawled across the room. “Did I wake you?”

Her tone is gentle, almost hesitant, the kind of softness that comes from shared understanding. She’s the closest to your age—a rare comfort in this fractured world—and though she’s new to the group, you’ve started to form a quiet bond. Her eyes meet yours, their warmth contrasting the cold air around you.