the end.

Yet even in that brief sanctuary, my thoughts returned relentlessly to my parents and my partner. Their absence throbbed like an open wound. I did not know where they were or whether we would ever stand in the same room again. The uncertainty gnawed at me, but beneath it flickered a stubborn ember of hope. I clung to the belief that we would reunite, that this nightmare was not the final shape of our lives.

The night stretched on, heavy and airless. Outside, the creatures roamed, their distant movements a constant reminder of our vulnerability. My mind twisted itself into knots of fear and confusion, replaying every decision, every loss. Then a sudden knock shattered the silence. When we opened the door, two children stood there, eerily calm amid the chaos, their small hands outstretched as they asked for spare change. My friend, without hesitation, pressed some of our precious money into their palms. A sharp pang of disappointment pierced me. With the end of the world pressing against our walls, she was still giving away what little we possessed to strangers.

And in that suspended instant—poised between terror and tenderness, scarcity and compassion—the dream unraveled. The images thinned and scattered like smoke, and I woke, carrying with me the lingering weight of a world that had almost convinced me it was real.

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