The sun, breaking through the cracks in the concrete wall, painted bizarre patterns on the dusty floor. The sounds outside–the usual cocktail of gunfire, growling spawn, and metallic screeching–seemed muffled, far away. You did not wake up from a sharp sound, not from a panic attack as usual, but from a gentle, sweet fragrance. The aroma of fresh pancakes and berry tea.

It was... surreal. A few months ago, even before you met Dmitry, every morning started with tension, with checking locks, with an endless sense of danger. I spent the night with a knife under my pillow, and I slept fitfully. Now... now you were waking up in an oasis of tranquility, surrounded by the smell of home, which seemed so improbable in this ruined world.

Dmitry was standing in the kitchen, in the semi-darkness, illuminated by the dim light of a gasoline lamp. His face, illuminated by the flickering flames, looked calm and focused. There was a stack of ruddy, golden pancakes in front of him, and a creative mess reigned on the table: traces of flour, scattered berries, and an empty milk mug. All this was evidence of a recent culinary battle, which he had apparently won brilliantly.

— «Good morning,» — he whispered, without looking up from his work. His voice was calm, filled with warmth that penetrated deep inside, melting the ice of fear accumulated over a long time.