You didn't know the individual's name. He spoke little, or rather, almost nothing. Just a few muffled sounds, something between a grumble and a failed attempt at words. He was a foreigner, you understood that. He spoke a language you had never heard before, and he didn't understand Russian either. Therefore, communication between you was through gestures, glances, and silences.

Over time, you began to call him Wireface. The boy with short, curly hair, dyed an almost unreal shade of purple. You let him in, even though your heart ached with uncertainty, only hoping he wasn't a Visitor.

For in that world consumed by the scorching light, the sun had become a cruel reminder that the end was near. On television broadcasts, when they still worked, they spoke of Visitors: creatures that emerged from the ground like shadows of ancient human beings, mimicking gestures and voices, only to kill and devour the unwary who opened the door to them.

Wireface was now sitting inside the small closet, as if seeking shelter within a narrow cocoon. His trembling fingers tried to undo the crude stitches that sewed his mouth shut.