*Day 34.*
The cabin was quieter than usual.
Not in the peaceful, calming way — but in that way silence becomes heavy. Claustrophobic. Even the fire didn't crackle like it used to. It hissed low and tired, flickering against the stone as if it, too, was beginning to fade.
Ellie stood at the shelf, counting the last of the root vegetables. Two carrots. A single, soft potato. The dried meat was gone. The tea leaves were only dust now. The flintstone was nearly useless.
"We need to move," she said, voice steady but tight.
Kian sat nearby, lacing his boots.
He didn't look up, but he nodded.
---
The morning was cold. Breath visible. Sky blank.
They packed quickly, but with care — stuffing what little they had into two weather-worn satchels. Blankets, knife, extra socks, Ellie's notebook. Kian hesitated at the door, taking one last look inside the place that had been home, even for just a month.
The walls were still stained with smoke from that first week.
The corner where Ellie had kept a tiny flower she found in the woods was now just a dried stem in a chipped mug.
"Let's go," she said from behind him.
He stepped out into the snow.
---
They walked for hours.
The forest was familiar, but colder now. Thinner. As if the trees themselves were watching. The path wasn't hard to follow — crushed branches, broken bark, faint boot prints buried beneath the frost. Remnants of that night when they first fled.
Kian remembered passing a village on the way — not large, but built into a ridge, stone walls partly intact. It had been abandoned at the time. At least, they *thought* it had.
That was their destination now.
By late afternoon, the silhouette of the village emerged through the fog — stone walls, bent iron gates, a few crooked signs half-buried in snow.
But there was smoke.
From chimneys.
Not a lot, but enough to know: someone had returned.
---
They approached carefully, slow steps, boots crunching against frostbitten gravel. The village wasn't entirely destroyed, but it carried scars — blackened rooftops, collapsed balconies, splintered doors. But some homes were repaired. Crude patchwork wood. Reinforced fences.
A small outpost of survivors.
Kian stepped slightly behind Ellie.
Not because he was scared — but because she'd always been the voice when it mattered. The fire in her throat when they were cornered. The wall between him and the rest of the world.
A figure emerged from behind the gatepost — wrapped in tattered gray, face half-covered by a scarf, a wooden spear gripped in one hand.
"That's far enough," the figure said.
Ellie stopped.
"We're just passing through," she said calmly. "We need supplies. And a place to rest. Just one night."
The figure didn't lower the spear.
"You two alone?"
"We're not looking for trouble."
"That's not what I asked."
Ellie's jaw tightened. "Yes. Just the two of us."
A long pause.
Behind the figure, a second person appeared — younger, hood up, eyes narrowed beneath a makeshift cloak. Then another. And another.
Kian could feel it — eyes on them.
From the windows, from the rooftops. From the alleys.
The first figure finally lowered the spear, just a little.
"Don't make trouble. You'll get one night."
Ellie gave a short nod. "That's all we need."
---
As they passed the gate, Kian stayed close to her.
The village streets were narrow, littered with broken carts and half-melted snow. Makeshift tarps had been stretched across doorways. Small fires burned in metal barrels. A group of kids stared from the porch of an inn, quiet and unmoving.
Everyone watched them.
Men with patched coats, women clutching tools, older teens leaning against doorframes with makeshift blades at their hips.
They weren't hostile — not yet.
But this wasn't a welcome.
This was suspicion. Defense.
Outsiders weren't trusted anymore.
Not since the world broke.
---
They were led to a small, half-collapsed barn near the edge of the village. The roof was patched with canvas. A few crates had been dragged inside and covered with cloth to serve as bedding.
"It's not much," their escort said. "But it's dry."
"Thank you," Ellie said simply.
"You'll get a bowl of stew tonight. No seconds. No stealing."
"We understand."
The figure gave one last glance at Kian — eyes lingering just a second too long — and then left, sliding the wooden door shut behind them.
---
Inside, it was cold.
Ellie dropped her satchel in the corner and sat on one of the crates. Kian crouched near the wall, pulling off his gloves, flexing his fingers.
"They're scared," he said quietly.
Ellie nodded. "Wouldn't you be?"
He didn't respond.
"I don't blame them," she added. "Everyone's lost something. Maybe everything. Makes it hard to look at a stranger and see anything but danger."
He stared at the cracks in the floorboards.
"We'll leave tomorrow," she said. "As soon as we trade for what we need. The longer we stay, the more they'll start wondering about us."
He looked at her then.Briefly. And nodded.
That evening, they were brought a bowl of thin stew — watery, with only a few chunks of root and dried grain. But it was warm, and it tasted like something that wasn't ash and smoke.
Ellie thanked the girl who brought it.
Kian offered a silent nod.
They ate side by side, backs to the wall, listening to the muffled voices of the village echo through the barn boards. Laughter in the distance. Hushed arguments. The creak of wheels. The clink of metal.
Life.
Fragile. Guarded. But still burning.
As they lay down that night, Ellie pulled the blanket up to her chin, eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling that let in a sliver of starlight.
"Feels weird," she whispered.
Kian blinked toward the sky.
"Being near people again," she said. "Like we're ghosts trying to pass through the living."
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the wind carried faint voices.
And inside the barn, the silence between them didn't feel quite so empty.