Tom woke to the sound of voices. At first, he thought it was the usual morning chatter, but the tone was different. Excited, restless, so many footsteps for this hour.
He sat up on his cot, rubbing his neck, and saw that the bunker wasn't quiet anymore. Survivors crowded near the center, pushing close, whispering sharply, some with wide eyes as though something rare had happened.
Tom dragged his feet across the cold floor, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. "What now…" he muttered under his breath.
Grace spotted him, waving him over. She had a small pouch clutched to her chest, fingers pale from holding it too tight.
"What's all this?" Tom asked.
"A merchant," Grace answered softly, almost like saying the word too loud might scare him off. "He just appeared. Walked straight into the bunker like he belonged here."
Tom raised a brow. "A merchant?"
She nodded. "They say these people cross deserts like ghosts. No caravans, no guards. Just themselves. They sell, then vanish before the sand even remembers their footprints."
That made Tom pause. His stomach sank as his mind ran through possibilities. A System pawn? Or worse?
"What's he got?"
"Not many but rare...." Grace whispered. "Weapons, armors, even… lores. He showed Vera four. Can you imagine? Four."
Tom's brows furrowed. "Vera believed him?"
"At first no. But then…" She didn't finish. She didn't need to. The crowd's hunger for whatever he carried said enough.
Tom sighed, shoulders slumping. "Let me see this ghost, then."
He pushed through the bodies, their warmth pressing against him. Whispers clung to the air, coins being counted, desperate bargains being rehearsed. And then he saw him.
The man stood calmly in red sentinel robes, pink hair falling in waves, brushing his jaw. Handsome, young, but something in his poise was far older. An exhaustion that couldn't be hidden under pretty skin.
He wasn't selling just yet. He wasn't even speaking. Instead, Rosario Enrico held a violin beneath his chin, bow sliding slow across the strings.
The sound crept into the room like smoke, soft at first, then sharp, a blade made of sorrow.
The survivors froze. Even Vera, arms crossed, jaw stiff, had gone quiet.
After that, Rosario's voice joined the melody, not sung, but spoken like confession.
*"They promised us tomorrows.
But tomorrow never came.
It rotted before sunrise,
like bread left too long in the open air.
I've carried blades for kings that they held,
gold for liars that most of them failed,
and the prayers of mothers who never saw their sons again.
Every city burns the same.
Every god speaks the same silence.
And every man believes he is different
until the dirt welcomes him."
The violin's cry deepened, dragging pain out of the strings until it seemed the sound itself might break.
Rosario lowered his eyes, his voice hushed now, almost tender,
"What do we trade in the end?
Wandering roads where shadows creep, my heart's a map of losses deep.
Knowledge burns, a truth too raw to chew, each step unveils a world of awe.
We trade pieces of ourselves
and when enough pieces are gone,
we call it life, loss and disgrace."*
The last note lingered, then fell off, like a sob swallowed.
No one clapped. The survivors just stood there, each with their own ghosts crawling back into memory.
Tom stared at him hard. He didn't trust this man. He didn't like the way he bent the air. Still, he couldn't deny it.
Rosario had the room in his fist without ever raising a hand. That was more dangerous than any blade.
Rosario lowered the bow. He set the instrument on the table as though it were something fragile, something sacred. His face gave away nothing. Not pride, not grief. Just silence.
The survivors whispered again, but softer now, like his music had broken something in their throats.
Rosario finally spoke. "I'll stay here, for a while," he said simply. His voice was clear, calm, but had an edge that made it hard to pin down. "I had a camel once. She carried my burdens. Somewhere between storms and silence, I lost her." He let out a small breath, neither a laugh nor a sigh. "Now I walk."
The words hung in the air. Some nodded, some looked away. Nobody knew if it was truth or performance.
Vera stepped forward, his trident gleaming faintly as though it wanted to remind the merchant who was in charge here. His eyes narrowed. "And why should we let you? This isn't an inn."
Rosario tilted his head, gaze steady, unbothered. "You shouldn't," he said. "But every settlement I pass burns to ash. Yours still stands. Perhaps that's reason enough."
Tom, standing a little apart, studied him quietly. He didn't like the man's ease, the way he seemed to peel the tension off everyone's shoulders and wear it himself. Yet something in Tom's gut spoke differently.
He rubbed his chin, then said, "You can stay. A few days. No longer. You need rest, and we… might need trade, my friend."
It was the first time anyone had called him friend. The room shifted at that word " Friend " as though it had been misplaced all this time and now suddenly found a place to sit.
Rosario only bowed his head slightly, pink hair sliding into his face. His face carried no emotion.... just acceptance. "Then I will."
Grace, who had been hovering by the wall, stepped in. "I'll show you a room," she said. Her voice was warm, though her hands twisted in her coat pocket as if even she didn't know what she felt.
Rosario followed her without another word.
Vera stayed behind, still frowning. Tom caught his look and shrugged. "He's strange, yeah. But maybe strange is what we need."
Vera just stared at the corridor Rosario disappeared into, as if waiting for the shadow he left to show its true shape.
The bunker smelled of smoke and spice. Grace and a few others moved between tables, arranging bowls of cactus fry, dried fruits, and roasted meat.
Even Vera, despite his silence, was helping carry clay pots to the corner where the drinks were cooling. There was laughter, faint and cautious, as if the walls themselves might not believe it yet.
Tom excused himself to Grace "I'll be back," he muttered, slipping outside into the desert light.
The air was dry, the sun high. He carried a single wildflower he had picked earlier on the edge of the dunes. Its petals were fragile, already bending against the heat. He walked slowly toward the grave.
Elior's grave stood quiet under the guava tree Vera had planted. Its leaves swayed faintly in the wind, carrying a softness that didn't belong to the desert.
Tom stood there for a moment, unsure what to say. He crouched down, lowering the flower carefully.
As he bent, something slipped from his coat pocket. A faint glimmer tumbling onto the mound of sand....
.....The Yellow Rune.
Tom frowned, reached for it, then stopped. He closed his eyes instead, hand resting on the grave. "It would've been good if you were here," he whispered, voice low. "This party… this quiet… they all miss you."
Guess what? the corpse took it seriously.
The sunlight shifted. A golden beam cut through the guava leaves and fell directly across the grave. The rune caught it, shining brighter, sinking half into the sand like it belonged there.
Tom blinked as his breath hitched. He reached to pick it up, slipping it quickly back into his pocket and then the earth coughed.
The grave shuddered. The sand came up like fountain.
A pale hand burst upward through the soil, fingers clawing at the open sky.
Tom staggered back, eyes wide, the flower falling from his grip.
The hand twitched once, twice and then stopped, half-buried in the light.