The desert had quieted. No screams, no clash of steel, no boiling blood in the air. Only the soft, tender wind carrying a faint warmth with every sweep across the endless dunes.
Grace sat under the guava tree.
It was young, yet tall enough to spread its shade wide. Vera had planted the seed only hours ago, and already the branches reached skyward, leaves trembling lightly as though whispering to the sun.
The fruit had not yet ripened, but the sight alone was strange comfort. A living green in a world of gold dust and ruins.
Grace leaned back against its trunk. The bark was cool, and the ground beneath was softer than the dry earth she'd known for weeks.
The air smelled faintly sweet, as if the tree itself exhaled life into the dead land.
Her hands rested in her lap, her eyes half closed. She listened. The wind shifted the leaves into a low melody, rustling like an old lullaby.
The sky above stretched clear and endless, its blue so soft it almost hurt to look at.
She let her breath slow. The battles, the screams, Elior's broken smile.... they felt far, almost like a dream she had wandered out of. Here, under this tree, the world wasn't sharp anymore. The silence didn't weigh; it cradled.
Grace pressed her cheek against her knees, closing her eyes fully now. A single strand of her hair danced with the breeze.
The leaves whispered with the wind. She listened to them, holding the sound in her chest.
For a while, she let herself believe this was all there was. The sky, the tree, the quiet rhythm of air brushing across her face.
But peace never came to anyone without violence.
She took her head up, staring at the leaves. Elior's face came unbidden, the way he had smiled that last time. Broken but stubborn, as if bleeding was nothing to laugh about. His words lingered in her chest.
The way he forgave, even after being cast with stones. The way he bled for everyone, not once asking to be seen for what he carried.
She drew her knees closer, wrapping her arms around them. The guava tree's shade felt like shelter, but her heart felt raw. "You were too much like the sky," she whispered under her breath. "Always holding everything, but never asking anything back."
A leaf loosened from above and drifted down, brushing her hair before landing in the sand.
She watched it lie still, and for a moment, it felt like Elior's silence, the kind that left weight even after he was gone.
Grace closed her eyes again. The tree hummed with the breeze, the desert stretched forever, and in that mix of comfort and ache, she sat quietly caught between healing and memory.
....
The bunker smelled faintly of smoke and sand. The funeral had been quiet, just a handful of words and the dry crackle of fire as Elior and the others taken by Azmaik were laid to rest.
Tom leaned against the wall now, arms crossed, trying to lighten the air that had grown too heavy.
"So," Tom began, tilting his head toward Vera, "your horse still alive, or did it finally run off after seeing your face?"
Vera gave him the flat, cold stare that Tom had grown used to. "It is waiting outside," he replied evenly.
Tom grinned, refusing to let silence choke him. "Waiting? That horse doesn't wait. It tolerates you. Probably dreams of a better owner every night. I bet if I whistled, it'd come to me faster than it does to you."
Vera's brow twitched. "You are insufferable."
"Yeah, but charming," Tom shot back. He clicked his tongue like he was calling a horse. "Here, boy. Come to the man who won't make you walk through hell every day."
Vera stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape. "You talk too much."
Tom laughed and darted for the doorway. "Uh-oh, cowboy's mad! Better catch me before I steal your loyal steed."
Outside, the desert stretched beneath the starlight. Tom kicked sand as he ran, turning his head back to see Vera following at a brisk pace, not quite running but definitely chasing.
"You can't outrun me forever," Vera called out.
"Oh, I can run until your horse chooses me!" Tom shouted, his voice echoing over the dunes. "Then I'll ride off into the sunset and leave you pouting!"
Two seconds later....
The bunker walls still held the chills of quiet mourning. Tom sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, tossing a pebble up and down in one hand.
Vera leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms folded, staring out at the faint glow of the desert night.
"You know," Tom said, breaking the silence, "you could at least blink once every hour. People might start thinking you're a statue."
Vera didn't move his gaze. "Statues don't listen to you."
Tom smirked. "So you do listen. I was starting to think you'd tuned me out like background noise."
"I try," Vera said simply.
Tom chuckled and stretched his legs. "You're the only guy I know who can turn a full sentence into an insult without raising your voice. It's impressive, really. Terrifying, but impressive."
Vera finally looked at him, calm as always. "You talk as if silence is a crime."
"It is," Tom shot back. "A world without noise is a boring one. Imagine everyone being as quiet as you. Dead quiet dinners, no jokes, no arguments. Just… chewing. That's hell."
For the briefest second, Vera's lip curved
almost a smile, but gone before Tom could point it out.
"There," Tom said, pointing a finger. "I saw it. A smile. You almost broke character."
"You're imagining things," Vera said, stepping out into the open desert air.
Tom scrambled up and followed, grinning wide. "Nope. I saw it. You're human after all. You'll never live this down."
" Keep yapping kiddo. "
Vera kept walking, and Tom trotted beside him. Their shadows stretched across the sand, one steady, one restless. Since since the funeral, the moments didn't feel so heavy.
....
Here's the scene with Vincent and Sassy:
---
The desert wind carried the faint smell of dust and sunburnt earth as Vincent and Sassy walked side by side, each holding a small bundle of marigolds.
The flowers looked too bright for the bleakness of the land, their orange petals trembling with each step. Neither of them spoke at first, only the crunch of sand under their boots breaking the silence.
Finally, Sassy whispered, "It's strange… carrying something alive for those who aren't."
Vincent glanced at her, the corner of his jacket flapping in the wind. "Alive things remind the dead they're not forgotten." His tone was steady, but his fingers tightened slightly around the stems.
Sassy tilted her head, her voice softer now. "Do you think they'd forgive us? For not being strong enough back then?"
"They already did," Vincent said after a pause. "The question is if we'll forgive ourselves."
They reached a quiet rise in the sand, where rows of small mounds stretched into the horizon.
Wooden markers stood crooked, weathered by the desert. Some had names carved faintly, others were nameless, only stones set on top.
Vincent and Sassy knelt before one particular grave, its marker leaning but still standing.
Together, they laid the marigolds down, the color glowing against the dull earth. For a second, neither moved, their shadows long under the fading sun.
Vincent closed his eyes briefly, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. Sassy brushed her hand across the marker, then pulled it back quickly as if afraid to disturb it.
Without another word, they both rose. Their footsteps were quieter now as they turned away, walking past grave after grave, the desert swallowing their voices and leaving only the marigolds as a trace that they had come.