"This is… helpful," Ken said, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and unease. "I can't believe we found all this food. It's a start, at least."
Adrian nodded, though his expression remained guarded. Relief never lasted long these days. Every stroke of luck carried the weight of uncertainty—how long would it hold out? How long before it turned against them? His eyes roamed the bakery. Dust blanketed the counters and shelves, sunlight streaming in through uncovered windows. The relatively clean space, the sturdy tables, and the clear line of sight to the street outside. The faint scent of stale pastries still lingered in the air, a ghostly reminder of what this place used to be.
"Actually," he said suddenly, a plan forming in his mind. He started rummaging through his bag. "I think we could stay here. At least for a while."
Ken blinked, surprised. He was already halfway to the window, a heavy plank of wood in his hands. "Here? But… I thought we were going to look for other survivors, head to ME Corp."
"We are," Adrian replied, "but we've been running into nothing but locked-up shops and wrecked houses. But here? This place is relatively clean, it's in a clear area, there's space, and it already gave us something useful. For now at least. It's a good place to fall back on if things go south." He gestured to the open windows. "A simple and secure back-up plan."
Ken hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table as he considered the idea. "A semi–safe house, huh? I guess it makes sense," he said slowly. "But what about the zombies? What if there's more? What if they come here? That one back at the stationery shop was pretty fast."
Adrian shrugged, trying to project an air of confidence he didn't quite feel. "We'll reinforce the doors and windows, cover the windows, keep it quiet," he said, his voice firm. "We'll clear out the debris and set up a perimeter. Make it less noticeable, too. We'll make this place as secure as possible. At least enough to buy us rest when we need it." He picked up a roll of duct tape, tossing it into the air before catching it again. "Besides, we can't keep running forever. We need to make a stand somewhere."
Ken glanced around the bakery, his gaze lingering on the scattered chairs and dusted counters. The pale morning light filtered through the windows, stretching uneasy shadows across the room. He drew a slow breath before speaking, resolve edging into his voice. "Alright," he said at last. "Let's do it."
Ken's agreement was all Adrian needed. Without wasting time, he began dragging one of the heavier tables toward the entrance, its legs scraping against the dusty tile. "Let's start with the doors," he said. "We can stack some furniture here, make it harder for anything to push through."
Ken nodded and joined in, pulling an overturned shelf from the corner and wedging it against the frame. Together, they layered old chairs and a counter display over the main door until it formed a crude but solid barricade. It wouldn't stop a determined crowd, but it would buy them precious seconds — and seconds meant survival.
Next came the windows. Adrian tore strips of duct tape and layered them across the cracks while Ken scavenged planks and loose boards from a storage room. They propped them against the glass, dimming the inside light and reducing the chance of being spotted from the street.
"Doesn't look pretty," Ken muttered, stepping back to admire their work, "but I guess that's kind of the point."
"We can't afford pretty right now," Adrian replied quietly. "Useful's what's left."
It took nearly an hour, but by the time they were done, the bakery felt different. Still fragile, still temporary — but no longer exposed. The silence that followed was deeper, heavier, as if the building itself exhaled in relief.
Adrian dusted off his hands and glanced at the pile of supplies they'd scavenged earlier. Among the loot were several sealed bags of flour, canned soup, and a few vegetables that hadn't yet gone bad. "We should use some of this now," he said. "Cook while we can. It'll save our rations for the road."
Ken blinked, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Uh… I don't really know how to cook. Instant noodles, sure. But real food? Not so much. I'll probably ruin half of it before it's even edible."
A faint smile tugged at Adrian's lips. "Figured as much." He looked toward the staircase that led up to the second floor — the faint outline of a small living area visible through the railing. "Then how about this: check upstairs. See if we missed anything. And keep an eye out through the window while you're at it. If anything's moving out there, I want to know before it gets close."
Ken gave a mock salute, relieved to have a task he understood. "On it. Shout if you need anything." With that, he disappeared upstairs, his footsteps echoing faintly on the creaking wood.
Alone again, Adrian made his way into the kitchen. The space was compact but well-equipped — metal counters, a small stove, a sink with a sluggish tap. It was almost unnervingly normal, like he'd stepped back into a world that hadn't ended. He pulled out the usable ingredients and began preparing something simple — vegetable stew with bread on the side. Nothing fancy, but it would fill them and keep them going.
As the water began to boil, he reached into his pack and pulled out two objects he hadn't touched in days: his phone and a pair of worn headphones. The screen, dim from battery-saving mode, still flickered to life to his surprise. The headphones bore a few scratches—scars from his fall and the events that had followed.
"Still hanging on, huh," he muttered under his breath.
With a few taps, he opened his playlist. The first song that appeared was one he hadn't heard since coming here — Rubia. A bittersweet melody that once played on repeat during quiet nights and rainy mornings. He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen, then pressed play.
'Life blooms like a flower
Far away or by the road
Waiting for the one
to find the way back home'
The first notes filled his ears, soft and distant, and for the first time in a long while, the silence didn't feel hostile. It felt… human.
'Rain falls a thousand time
no footprints of come and go
You who once went by
where will you belong'
He leaned against the counter, stirring the simmering stew slowly as the music wrapped around him. Memories crept in — of mornings spent half-asleep at his desk, of idle weekends lost in thought, of a life that now felt like it belonged to someone else. The ache in his chest tightened, but he didn't push it away this time.
'I fell you sigh and breath
in the last blow of wind
Not yet for the story on the last page
It's not the end'
'Maybe this is what hope feels like,' he thought. 'Not loud. Not bright. Just a quiet reminder that something once mattered… and maybe still does.'
The scent of cooking vegetables filled the air, blending with the faint sweetness of old pastries. Outside, the dead world waited — silent, indifferent. But inside this small bakery, for one fragile afternoon, there was warmth.
'Life blooms like a flower
Far away or by the road
Waiting for the one...'
"To find the way back home." Adrian mouthed the lyrics, his chest tightening. As he stirred the stew, memories surfaced—times when he would cook just for himself, savoring the luxury of meat until he was stuffed, or the nights he lazily settled for cup noodles. A bitter thought crossed his mind: 'Is there even a home anymore?' His gaze grew distant, unfocused. "And if there is… where would it even be?"
He shifted his grip on the wooden spoon, the steady motion of stirring the broth pulling him back from the edges of his thoughts. Steam curled up and clung to his face, warm but almost suffocating. He found himself watching it rise as if it carried fragments of the past — evenings where the biggest worry had been a deadline, a class, or the weather. Fleeting, ordinary things.
Back then, cooking had been just another routine — something to fill time, to quiet the hunger. Now, in a world stripped bare of routines, it felt strangely sacred. Every stir, every breath of steam was a reminder of what had been lost… and what little still remained.
Adrian tasted the broth with the tip of the spoon. Too bland. He reached for a pinch of salt from one of the packets they'd found and sprinkled it in, watching the grains dissolve. It wasn't much, but it was something. Survival didn't allow for flavor, but right now he wanted it to be more than survival. He wanted himself to sit down, eat, and believe — even just for a moment — that there was still life worth holding onto.
'Home', he thought, the word rolling bitterly in his mind. Was it a place? A memory? Or was it gone, like everything else? His stomach clenched, though not from hunger.
'Home isn't a place anymore,' he told himself as he lowered the flame. It's this — the makeshift shelters, the small comforts that let you forget how broken everything is. Maybe that's all they had left.
The music swelled in his ears, soft but insistent. He thought about shutting it off — the ache it stirred in his chest wasn't something he liked feeling. But he let it play. Pain was proof that he still remembered. Proof that he hadn't gone completely numb.
Adrian tasted the broth again, grimacing at its blandness. He added another pinch of salt from a packet, then stirred slowly, careful not to let the wooden spoon scrape too hard against the pot. It felt almost ceremonial, the way he handled the food. A ritual against despair.
He thought of Ken upstairs, searching through drawers and cupboards. The kid was clumsy, overeager, a bit naive, but there was a spark in him — some kind of light that hadn't been snuffed out yet. Maybe that was why Adrian hadn't left him behind, despite the risks. Maybe, deep down, he wanted to believe in that light, too.
But belief was dangerous. Hope was dangerous. Especially in this ruined world where your hope would become your despair.
The stew bubbled quietly, the sound filling the silence that lingered after the last notes of Rubia faded away. Adrian let the music loop, the melody repeating softly in his ears, as if the song itself refused to let him drift too far into emptiness.
He dipped the ladle into the pot, watching the broth stream back down in ribbons. His reflection wavered in the liquid surface — tired eyes, worn face, someone who had survived more than he should have. He barely recognized himself.
"Maybe…" he muttered under his breath, though the word trailed off into steam and silence.
He shook his head and poured the stew into two bowls, setting them on the counter. The air smelled alive again, faintly homely. For just this moment, it almost felt like he'd stolen something back from the world that had taken everything.
And yet, as he set the ladle aside, a question pressed in on him, sharp and unwelcome: How long until this is gone, too?
He stared at the two bowls, the steam curling upward like fragile threads. Things like this—warm meals, quiet rooms, the illusion of safety—never lasted. The world outside would always find a way to remind them of what it had become. Adrian wasn't sure if the fleeting nature of these moments made them more precious… or more cruel.
He reached up and pulled his headphones down around his neck, letting the music fade into the background. The bakery felt still, almost suspended in time—not because the world had stopped, but because he'd carved out this brief silence in defiance of it.
With a low breath, he turned toward the staircase. "Ken! Food's ready!" he called, his voice echoing faintly through the empty building.
For a second, there was only quiet. Then came the sound of hurried footsteps overhead.
"Finally!" Ken's voice called down, tinged with mock indignation. "I was starting to think you were gonna eat without me!"
Adrian allowed himself a faint, tired smirk. "Wouldn't put it past me," he muttered.
Ken appeared at the top of the stairs, peering down with that mix of exhaustion and blind optimism that he always seemed to carry. "So, what's for lunch, chef?"
"Vegetable stew," Adrian replied, lifting one of the bowls slightly. "Nothing fancy. Just something warm."
Ken descended the stairs, hands in his pockets, as if trying to appear casual despite the hunger in his eyes. "Warm's good enough for me."
Adrian slid one of the bowls toward the edge of the counter. "Come on, before it gets cold."
Ken took the seat across from him, wrapping his hands around the bowl. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint hum of Adrian's music and the soft clinking of spoons against ceramic.
Ken blew gently on his spoonful before taking a bite. "Damn," he muttered after swallowing. "Didn't think vegetables could taste this good after everything."
Adrian snorted. "You were expecting five-star cuisine?"
"I was expecting… I don't know, something barely edible," Ken admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Guess I underestimated you."
Adrian shook his head with a faint smile. "It's just stew. Heat it up, season a bit, and pray nothing's expired."
Ken let out a low chuckle. "Still better than the canned beans from yesterday. That tasted like someone condensed sadness into a tin."
Adrian almost laughed at that, the sound catching in his throat. "Yeah. This is an upgrade from that."
They ate in relative silence for a moment, spoons tapping against bowls, the steam curling between them. It wasn't the kind of silence that pressed down on them—it felt lighter, easier.
Ken leaned back on his chair, glancing at the boarded windows. "You think this place will hold up?"
Adrian lifted his gaze from his bowl. "For a while, yeah. It's not perfect, but it's better than sleeping out in the open."
Ken nodded slowly. "True. I checked upstairs like you said—two small rooms, dusty as hell, but they're decent. There's an old bedframe and a couple of drawers. No mattresses, though. I found some blankets in the closet, but they smell like they've been there since forever."
"We can air them out later," Adrian said. "Might as well make the rooms usable. If we're going to keep moving, having a fallback is smart."
Ken stirred what was left in his bowl, thoughtful. "You think there's really something out there? Survivors. A place that's still standing. I mean… there has to be, right?"
Adrian hesitated for a beat. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'd rather keep looking than just… sit around and wait for everything to get worse."
Ken sighed. "Yeah. Sitting around sounds worse than running at this point."
They shared a quiet nod, an unspoken agreement passing between them. The world outside was uncertain, but for now, they had this—warm food, a roof, and a plan.
Ken leaned forward again with a lopsided grin. "By the way, if we find any more places like this, you're officially the cook. I'll handle the heavy lifting."
Adrian gave him a flat look. "You just don't want to learn."
Ken raised his hands in mock defense. "Hey, I'm just playing to my strengths. You're the guy with the magic touch."
Adrian rolled his eyes but didn't argue. For once, banter felt normal again.
Ken slouched back in his chair, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh. "Man… I almost forgot what a proper meal feels like. Even if it's just stew."
Adrian leaned against the counter, his own bowl half-finished. "Don't get too used to it. Once we're on the road again, we'll stick to rations and questionable canned goods."
"Yeah, yeah," Ken said with a dismissive wave. "Still, can't blame a guy for enjoying it while it lasts."
They let the silence settle again, this time comfortably. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of sunlight that filtered through the boarded windows. For a fleeting moment, it felt like they weren't in a ruined world at all—just two friends grabbing lunch in an old bakery.
Ken's gaze drifted to the headphones draped around Adrian's neck. "Hey, those still work?"
Adrian glanced down, tugging lightly at the cord. "Yeah. Surprisingly." He tapped his phone, the dim screen flickering to life. "I charged it before this all happened. Battery's holding out so far. I've been keeping it in low power mode."
Ken's eyebrows rose. "Seriously? Lucky."
Adrian let out a quiet breath, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. "It's the only thing that still feels real," he murmured, eyes fixed on the small screen.
Ken nodded thoughtfully, then grinned. "You got any Robin songs on there?"
Adrian blinked, caught off guard. "Why Robin?"
Ken chuckled. "Dude, she was everywhere before all this. And after seeing that poster outside… it kinda stuck. Her voice made everything feel… lighter, y'know?"
Adrian hesitated for a moment, then reached for his phone. Thankfully, I saved her songs, he thought, scrolling through his offline playlist. He disconnected the headphones and set the phone on the counter.
The opening notes of "If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking" filled the bakery's still air. The melody was soft and uplifting—like a distant echo of a world that once existed.
Ken froze mid-bite, eyes widening slightly. "No way… you actually have it."
Adrian allowed himself a small smirk. "Some things are worth holding on to."
They sat there, listening. The lyrics drifted through the dusty room, faint but clear.
'Let my heart bravely spread the wings
soaring past the night
trace the bright moonlight'
Ken leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. "Hearing this now… feels weird, doesn't it?"
Adrian's gaze grew distant, following the swirl of steam from their bowls. "Yeah," he said softly. "Weird… but good."
The next lines floated through the room like a gentle breeze:
'Let the clouds heal of the stings
Gently wipe the sorrow off my life
I dream'
For a while, neither of them spoke. The song carried the silence for them—gentle, familiar, almost painfully beautiful amid all the ruin.
Ken eventually broke the spell with a low chuckle. "You know, if someone walked by right now, they'd think we're just two guys on lunch break."
Adrian snorted. "Yeah. Apocalypse lunch hour. We're really setting the mood."
Ken grinned, raising his spoon like a toast. "To weird normal moments."
Adrian clinked his spoon against Ken's with a faint smile. "To weird normal moments."
They finished the rest of their meal like that—talking about nothing and everything. What they might find when they scavenge in the afternoon. Whether the nearby convenience store might still have anything left. Which buildings looked promising. Ken even cracked a joke about finding a coffee machine that still worked.
For now, the world outside could wait.