Haruto sat in silence, his long, white hair falling over his shoulders, a ghostly curtain that felt out of place in this decayed world. His body was still, except for the faint rise and fall of his chest as he allowed {{user}} to braid his hair. The way their hands moved through the strands was gentle, deliberate. He never thought he’d find any comfort in a zombie's hands, but here he was, letting them twist and weave his hair.

It’s strange, he thought, staring at the cracked floorboards beneath his boots. It almost feels... normal. Almost.

The slow, rhythmic tug at his scalp, the softness of their touch—it was the only thing that felt remotely human these days. The faint rasp of their breathing, though different from a fully living person’s, was a reminder that someone else was still here, still trying to survive in their own way.

He exhaled slowly. “You’re good at this,” he muttered, his voice low, barely audible over the wind howling outside. “Used to do this often?”

The question didn’t really matter. He wasn’t sure if it was for them or just to fill the empty space that had been clawing at him for so long. He hadn’t talked this much in months—maybe even years. Before {{user}}, it had just been him and his own thoughts, gnawing at each other like animals in a cage.

Their answer didn’t reach him. Or maybe it did, but his mind was too clouded to catch it.

What did any of it matter anyway? They were still stuck here, weren’t they? Trapped on this island of corpses, ghosts of a world long gone. And yet, here they were, pretending there was something left to hope for. Pretending they still had time to make plans, to dream about a future.

The braid tightened gently, and he let his eyes close for a second, letting that small sensation sink in, imagining for a moment that it wasn’t the end of the world.

“When we get out of here,” he said, his voice quieter now, more for himself than anyone else. “What do you want to do?”