The silence from yesterday clung to the walls like mold.
I barely ate just half a sandwich and some water. Not because I wasn't hungry, but because everything felt too heavy to swallow. Mizuki hadn't said a word, and neither had I.
The house, as beautiful as it looked, felt like a trap. Clean, untouched, like it hadn't realized the world outside had ended.
Did it end?
That morning, a knock pulled me out of bed like a gunshot. My heart jumped. For a moment I thought, what if something got in? But it was her.
Mizuki stood in the doorway, a paper bag in each hand, a plastic one hooked on her fingers filled with drinks and snacks. She wore a plain gray hoodie and black cargo pants, still faintly dusty from whatever run she'd just been on. Her hair was tied up lazily, damp from a quick rinse, and her face calm, too calm.
I stood there like an idiot in my wrinkled clothes, still smelling like panic. I hadn't washed in days. I hadn't even brushed my hair. I suddenly felt like a child in front of her.
"You hungry?" she asked.
I nodded and stepped aside as she walked in, brushing past me with a kind of silent authority. She set the bags on the sleek desk near the corner.
Everything in here still looked expensive, hardwood floors, velvet curtains, a wall-mounted TV, framed photos of people who probably didn't make it. It was like being inside a luxury coffin.
I stared at the food. It wasn't a feast some canned goods, bread, a few bottles of juice, a bruised apple but it felt like a miracle. Or maybe bait. I didn't know what to think anymore.
"You could've asked me to come with you," I mumbled.
"You were asleep," she said, not looking at me. "And you'd slow me down."
She said it so flatly, not I stepped closer, arms folded tight around myself. "We should be doing more than this. There are still people out there, maybe people like me. Maybe they need help."
Mizuki looked at me.
"They're gone," she said. "Or worse."
My chest tightened. "What do you mean worse?"
She hesitated, then walked over to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to peek through. Outside, the trees swayed, the streets cracked and quiet. No screams, no sirens. Just stillness.
"Some of them are still moving," she said. "But they're not them anymore."
"Cannibals?" I said the word like it was a joke, but my voice broke halfway through.
Mizuki turned to me, raising a brow. "Call them whatever you want. Doesn't matter what they are if they're trying to tear your throat out."
I swallowed hard.
"I need to see them," I whispered. "My parents. I need to look for them"
The moment spilled out of me and I hated the way my voice cracked, how my eyes burned. Mizuki didn't say anything. She just stepped forward again.
Her hands, rough reached up cupping my face like I was breakable. Her thumbs brushed just beneath my eyes. I didn't flinch. I don't know why. I should've.
"Then live," she said softly. "Don't waste it."
I stared at her. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because I saw the look on your face when you ran into me," she said. "Like the world had already ended. It hasn't. Not yet."
My throat felt tight. "But it's ending, isn't it?"
Mizuki's expression darkened. "Yeah. It is."
I looked around the room again, the polished surfaces, the ticking clock, the dim light filtering through stained glass.
How could a house so perfect exist in a time like this?
"What if I had woken up sooner?" I muttered. "What if we never got in that car? What if I'd gone with them instead?"
Mizuki pulled away, her warmth fading with her touch.
"You can sit around thinking about the 'what ifs'," she said. "Or you can stay close and survive."
I hesitated. "But this place it's too quiet. How is it even safe?"
"We're surrounded by trees and private driveways. No main roads. No signals to lure them in. Most of the lurkers follow sound, movement, traffic noise." She paused, her gaze meeting mine again. "We don't have much time, but this place buys us some."
"That's why I'm trying to keep you safe," Mizuki said. "So you can live. We just keep moving. One step at a time. No one's coming to help."
I nodded, but something about her words felt hollow, like they were trying to hold together a dam that was already cracking. They weren't enough. Not for the questions still twisting inside me.