A man full of sorrow sat in his room, crying without pause until his eyes were the reddest that human eyes could become. His sobs came like waves, crashing and crashing again, until finally they broke into silence. It was then that something in him hardened. He stood, his hair tangled, his face swollen, but such things no longer mattered. He pulled on his jacket with trembling hands.
For the first time since returning from his long, exhausting journey, he opened the door to his room. The air outside felt heavier than memory. He told himself that tonight, he would make everything right. Slowly, as if dragging chains behind him, he walked toward the front door. His body sagged with exhaustion, his mind sagged with blame. He whispered in his heart that the only punishment worthy enough was death — not his alone, but shared, for the sake of the people.
He turned once to look at his family. His eyes were hollow, full of belittlement and void. He muttered to himself: "Pray that God slaughters me. If not, you all will be slayed."
Then he left.
He wandered the empty streets, screaming, making noise, desperate to be heard. His voice cracked with sadness, his face twisted with annoyance and despair. In his hands he carried a metal tube, which he struck against walls and the ground, the sound shrieking, scratching at human ears like rusted nails. He wondered if it would also draw out the others—the shadows.
With every ounce of his strength, he shouted into the night:
"Bastards, come to mama! Let's go!"
For a moment, there was nothing.
Seconds passed like hours.
Then, like a flood breaking through unseen gates, they came.
From every direction they emerged. At first, they looked human—neighbors, strangers, men, women, even children. But their movements betrayed them. Their bodies walked as though dragged forward by strings. And then the faces—those smiles. Wide, frozen, endless. Their eyes were glassy, never blinking, reflecting streetlamps with an oily shine.
They did not speak. They did not breathe like living beings. They only smiled, swaying faintly as if practicing the rhythm of being alive. A woman raised her hand in greeting, her fingers twitching unnaturally. A child skipped in place, each hop landing with the same force, the same angle, as though caught in a loop.
They were not shadows of the living. They were replacements. Substitutes. They came not to walk beside the living, but to take their places.
And they had come for him.
The man did not return that night. Nor would he ever. Those he had promised to kill would be spared, for his prayer had been answered in silence. His name was lost in the dark. Only a whisper remained: Prayers to the chosen one.
Back at the house, Arnold made his decision. The only solution now was to fortify, to protect. He shoved heavy furniture against the windows, dragged what cement blocks he could find to strengthen the walls. Every exit was sealed except for one door leading into the garden. If hunger came, at least they could reach the soil. Hunger was not the worst enemy—psychological ruin was.
His sister never stopped talking, her voice sharp with playfulness, never serious, mocking the silence that pressed in from outside. That girl needs help, Arnold thought bitterly. Something in her is broken.
Their parents clung to their phones, calling every family member, desperate to know who still lived. But the lines had died, strangled by the endless surge of voices trying to connect.
At 2:00 A.M., Edward finally spoke.
"Maybe we should sleep more, and fast longer. It might keep us alive."
His mother shook her head.
"Don't worry. Luck was with us. This morning, we went to your uncle Moke. You know how loving he is toward me. We could say we have a stock."
His sister smirked.
"Wow, such a weird coincidence. Maybe Uncle Moke is behind all of this."
Arnold's eyes narrowed.
Their mother scolded quickly. "Don't take her seriously. When she was a toddler, your father dropped her."
"Not intentional," their father muttered.
"Twice," she added.
"Drop it out," the sister snapped. "I'm still the highest IQ in this family."
Edward sighed. "Sadly, true."
That night, while the others slept, Edward stayed awake. He slipped silently into the storeroom, rearranging supplies, calculating how to keep them fresh for as long as possible. The house groaned around him, the night pressing close against the walls. And outside, somewhere beyond the garden, the smiling ones stood waiting.