The dim candlelight danced across her features, highlighting the soft cheekbones and the subtle curve of her jaw. She just stared at me, her sightless eyes fixed in my general direction, as if trying to pierce the veil of the darkness we were huddled in.
"How quiet you are," I said, the words echoing slightly in the small, makeshift shelter.
"You have to get used to it. We'll be stuck here for a while," she replied, her voice a low murmur. She took my hand, her fingers cool and surprisingly firm, and offered a flat, almost apologetic smile.
Then, she turned her back to me, her dark hair catching the flickering light, and started the familiar process of boiling water in a thermos. The scent of warmed milk filled the air, a small comfort in our desolate reality.
I drifted back to sleep, exhaustion pulling me under. Yesterday had been a blur of scavenging and securing the place. Despite her blindness, Kira had done a remarkable job taping the gaps with her sensitive touch, but I still spent the rest of the night double-checking, fixing the spots she'd missed.
I woke again to find two faces hovering over me. A steaming mug of hot water sat beside me. Kira was in the corner, writing in a small notebook.
"I am Keith, he is Austyn. We are Kira's brothers," the boy closer to me announced. He had a seriousness that belied his age. "My sister explained everything to us. Look," he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "my sister may look strong, but you need to protect her, alright? Don't let her make hasty decisions." A strange sadness clouded his young eyes.
"I promise you, kid," I said, the vow feeling solid and true.
That night, after she tucked the boys into their makeshift beds, Kira and I sat down to talk. She explained her plan: a week, at least, for the radioactive dust outside to settle. She'd somehow managed to fill every bathtub in the building with water, enough for us to bathe. Then she turned to me, asking if I could draw a map of the city. Thankfully, being a traveler, I knew the place as well as anyone. She traced routes with her finger, marking the safest paths for when we eventually ventured out.
The fourth day was much like the previous ones. Kira wrote in her journal, her pen scratching against the paper. I entertained the boys, weaving stories and playing games. Kira and I weren't friends, not yet anyway. We were simply two people thrown together by circumstance, sharing a space. That morning, she surprised me with a mug of hot cocoa instead of water. "You look cold," she said simply. I was, profoundly. "Thanks," I managed, my heart warming with the unexpected gesture.
"Hey, what are you writing?" I asked, unable to suppress my curiosity. She just looked away, her silence a firm dismissal. I had the feeling that I must annoy her, her thoughts seemed deep and intricate, and I wanted to give her peace, especially now. I decided to speak less and observe more.
I noticed how she looked at Keith, her younger brother, a complex mix of sadness and what seemed like anger simmering in her expression. She was often cold to him, yet the care was always there, a flickering ember beneath the surface.
That night, I sensed her restlessness, the constant tossing and turning a counterpoint to the quiet of the shelter. I didn't want to disturb her, to be a nuisance, yet the urge to offer some form of comfort was there. A battle waged within me, between wanting to respect her space and needing to help. Instead of words, I decided to use my hands.
The next morning, I rummaged through the basement, discovering bits and pieces of discarded materials. My hands, calloused from years of travel, worked quickly and deftly, crafting a simple string instrument. As I worked, I felt her eyes on me, filled with a quiet curiosity.
That night, as expected, Kira was restless again. And so, I started to play the instrument, a melody I had known since I was a child.
I watched her from my corner, her back to me. She remained still, listening, or perhaps not. I played for what felt like a lifetime, hoping the music was a balm, and not an irritant. Eventually, her breathing deepened into a slow, even rhythm, a sure sign that she had finally fallen asleep.