Reina’s knuckles struck the lacquered door. She waited, then knocked again, harder. The porch light sputtered alive, distorted glow bleeding through dusty glass. The deadbolt scraped open.

  A couple stood framed in the doorway. The woman’s kimono was immaculate, her silver-streaked hair drawn into a perfect knot. The man beside her wore a starched work shirt, creases sharp enough to cut. They shared the same expression: polite smiles, dulled by caution.

  “Are you hurt?” the man asked. “Bites? Scratches?”

  She sagged against the porch post, eyelids heavy. “No. We’re just tired and need to rest.” She motioned to Ren slumped against the wall, head tilted, staring at them as if deciding whether they were real.

  “Were you with anyone else? A group?”

  “We were. We got separated after the fire.”

  Something passed between the pair. The man leaned forward, voice lowering. “Up in the valley. That was you?”

  “Yes. I... I don’t know what happened. One second, things were fine… the next…”

  The man’s lips curved upward. “Better come inside, then,” he said, stepping back into the hallway’s shadows.

  * * *

  The couch’s vinyl upholstery protested under Ren’s weight. When he shifted, dark streaks from his clothes stained the pristine surface. The woman’s gaze flicked to the marks, and she forced her smile to hold.

  Reina hovered close, words tumbling between shallow breaths: the faint glow they’d followed through the streets, the miracle of finding intact walls and a roof when their legs had nearly given out. His pulse was still stuttering, tremors, brief lights behind the eyes. He ignored it.

  “After everything went to hell,” Furuya Genji, as he’d introduced himself, said. “People scattered like roaches when the light came on. The smart ones burrowed in. The rest?” He made a fluttering motion with his fingers. “Off they went into the trees, back to the city. Both are a death sentence.”

  Ren studied the living room. Not a speck of dust marred the floorboards’ shine, no fingerprints smudged the brass. Framed certificates filled the walls beside bland landscapes that matched the furniture. In every photograph, Genji and his wife, Furuya Tomoe, stood at attention, identical smiles frozen across decades.

  Reina’s voice softened with gratitude. “Thank you again. It’s no wonder you’re alive. It’s so quiet here.”

  “We preserve it carefully,” Genji said, his glance flicking toward the window. “Those things hunt by sound. We’ve watched them from behind the curtains, packs of them chasing a bird call. By the way, you two look close. More than travel companions, maybe?”

  “We’re not—not like that…” Reina sputtered.

  “Ah, these days, who can tell?”

  “My husband forgets himself.” Tomoe’s expression didn’t change. She set her cup down with the delicate finality of a blade finding its slot. Something thudded upstairs, followed by lighter, uneven steps.

  Genji glanced at the ceiling. “The children,” he said. “Still learning the rules.” He rose. “We’ll see to them. Make yourselves comfortable. Just don’t pocket the heirlooms while we’re gone.”

  Tomoe smoothed her apron. “Enjoy the tea. We won’t be long.” The door was left ajar.

  “They’re… nice,” Reina said. “I guess some people really can hold it together.”

  “Guess so…”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The wall clock ticked a half-beat off from his pulse. He could feel the faint hum beneath his ribs. It wasn’t pain exactly, more like a resonance trapped in bone. A cold ache, and a quiet gauge of what he’d burned through, and what little remained.

  Reina sank into the cushions, exhaling as though letting go of something she’d carried for miles. “After that explosion… do you think anyone else made it?”

  “I…”

  “—You don’t know. I get it,” she sighed. “Sorry. I’m just worried sick. They’ll keep her safe. Right?”

  He nodded, a lie meant to hold her together. He wanted to believe it, too.

  “The world’s ending and I—” She twisted a loose thread on her sleeve. “Whatever you’re not saying, whatever you’re holding back… I’d listen to you… You don’t have to carry it alone.”

  “You sound like Yuka.”

  Reina smiled. “That’s not a bad comparison.” The smile fell. “It’s hard to believe a few days ago I was worrying about exams. If someone had told me the world was going to end, I’d have laughed. Now… I think I’d believe anything.”

  Ren traced the red strands framing her face with his eyes. For a moment, her features blurred with another’s. She’s not her.

  “How’s your head?”

  “You’re making jokes now?” She studied him, brow knitting. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m not convinced. Nothing seems to touch you, Ren. Even now, you’re like a man behind glass. Aren’t you scared to die? Or watching someone you care about die? Isn’t that terrifying?”

  “I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t…” His voice came out softer than intended.

  Her mouth parted slightly, words forming then dying on her lips in that same instant. Her eyes retreated to the teacup cooling between her palms. He saw the copper in her hair, the pulse at her throat, the faint cut above her brow. What scared him most wasn’t the monsters or even death itself.

  What terrifies me... is a world without you in it.

  * * *

  Ren fought to keep his eyes open. Every blink dragged, and in those moments when his lids fell and rose again, the wallpaper seemed to pulse with movement. He told himself it was fatigue, nothing more.

  He looked to the hallway, catching a flicker of motion in the dark. Something peered through the banister rails. A child, with pale skin, hair hacked short, uneven.

  Reina’s whisper brushed his ear. “What is it?”

  “One of their children, I think.”

  “I thought they were all upstairs?”

  The overhead bulb stuttered, shadows jerking across the ceiling before the weak light steadied again. The same boy stood in the doorway. The oversized nightshirt slid off one shoulder.

  Reina straightened. “Oh—hello?”

  The boy stayed silent. His gaze flicked from Ren to her, then lingered on the untouched plates. Slowly, he raised one hand, a single finger extended, not pointing at them, but up. He turned and climbed the stairs without a word.

  Genji’s voice filled the hall, too large for the room it entered. Tomoe glided in behind him, her expression identical to the one she’d worn an hour before. “Apologies,” he said, drying his hands. “Our little ones forget what noise can cost us. They just needed a reminder.”

  Tomoe’s teeth caught the light. “Children will be children,” she said.

  “Say, you two never told us your names.” Genji’s attention drifted toward Reina as he took his seat again. “Shouldn’t speak to strangers without introductions.”

  “Aokawa Reina,” she answered automatically. “And this is Hanashiro Ren.”

  “Aokawa,” Genji rolled it on his tongue, savoring it. “Like the blue river. It suits you.”

  “You’re truly kind…”

  Tomoe’s lips curved again, a shape more gesture than emotion. “We couldn’t turn away survivors.” Her fingers tapped once against the cup. “It’s nearly dawn. You two should rest.” There was weight behind those words, the kind people used when they were really giving orders.

  Genji rose, the chair scraping across the floor. “The east wing has several vacant rooms,” he said. “Take the one at the very end. Just don’t wander. Old house. It’s easy to get lost, or worse, hurt.”

  Ren pushed himself up, legs steady enough. Without thinking, his hand found Reina’s. “We’ll be sleeping together,” he said, deliberately.

  Upstairs, the air smelled faintly of candle wax. The walls were lined with more photographs: Genji and Tomoe beside strangers in formal attire, the settings different, the smiles identical.

  Reina traced her fingers along a frame. “They’re all the same.”

  At the corridor’s bend, a single door broke the symmetry, oak stained nearly black, with an iron handle. Beside it, a bookcase sat a shade askew, far enough to swing and darken the door completely. He paused, memorizing the placement before moving on to the room the couple had mentioned. Only the hallway’s amber spill cut through the dark, catching dust motes that drifted.

  “I don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened, or because I can’t stop thinking about Lilly, but…” Reina wrapped her arms tight. “Something about this feels wrong.”

  “Either way,” Ren said, “you should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Try.”

  Reina sat on the bed’s edge. “What about you? Your legs were barely working earlier, and you were bleeding. With Lilly missing… if something happened to you...”

  “Save your strength.”

  She bit her lip. “Ren. When I was unconscious, how did we make it out? Why are we the only ones?”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  He reached for the lantern and the light died.