Chapter 10

  Ethan’s legs were numb from hours of walking, but he pushed himself forward. He hadn’t stopped for much rest, determined to reach his destination. His home. The thought should’ve brought him comfort, but instead, it clawed at his chest like a slow, tightening vice.

  The city, though, was quiet now. The sounds of distant monsters and occasional gunfire had faded, leaving only the soft rustle of wind through the debris. It was a post-apocalyptic silence, one that felt unnatural and heavy.

  As he turned onto the familiar street, his breath caught in his throat.

  He was home.

  Or… what was left of it.

  The building still stood, somehow. But it was wounded. Chunks of brick missing, smoke stains up the sides. Windows shattered. The balcony railing gone. But it was unmistakable. This was it. His family’s apartment.

  He moved cautiously, his eyes darting between shadows. Every instinct told him to be careful—monsters, other survivors, who knew what lurked here now? But the thought of his parents, of their faces, of their last words, kept him moving forward.

  As he approached the old rusted door to their apartment, his hand hovered in front of it. It shook. He stared at the peeling numbers—3C. The same faded sticker his mom had put up still clung to the corner, sun-bleached and cracked.

  He pressed his palm to the door.

  “…Please be okay,” he whispered.

  Click.

  The handle turned with a rusty groan, and the door creaked open slowly, revealing the darkness inside.

  “Mom? Dad?” His voice cracked, uncertain. “It’s me. I’m here.”

  No answer.

  The smell hit first—putrid, sour, thick like a wet cloth over his face. His stomach turned, but he forced himself inside.

  The living room was a mess. The bookshelf was toppled. The TV smashed. The photos—frames broken, scattered on the ground. He saw one with all three of them, grinning on a beach somewhere. The glass had cracked right across his mother’s smile.

  “Mom?” he said again, softer now.

  He turned the corner into the hallway.

  And stopped.

  His breath caught in his throat. His knees nearly gave out.

  His parents. Lying side by side on the floor. Motionless. Their hands almost touching.

  He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred.

  He stepped inside, knees buckling as he dropped beside them.

  “…No,” he whispered, barely audible. “Please…”

  He reached out, his fingers brushing his mother’s hand. It was cold. His father’s chest didn’t rise. There was no heartbeat. No warmth.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Just silence.

  The kind of silence that breaks you.

  “I made it,” he whispered. “I’m here…”

  He lowered his head, forehead pressing gently to the back of his mother’s hand. Tears slipped down his cheeks, quiet and steady.

  “I was coming back… I was trying so hard to get here.”

  The apartment around him was still, filled only with the sound of quiet sobs. He didn’t wail. Didn’t scream. There was no strength left for that. Just a hollow ache that sank deep and refused to let go.

  He stayed like that for a long time. Minutes, maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to move inside that room. Or maybe it did, and he simply didn’t care.

  Eventually, Ethan sat back on his heels. His legs had gone numb, and his back ached, but the pain felt distant—like it belonged to someone else. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

  His eyes drifted across the room—not in search of anything in particular, just… taking it in. The aftermath. The remains of a home once filled with warmth and laughter.

  There was his father’s old mug on the counter, the one with the chip on the rim that he never bothered fixing. It still had faint coffee stains inside.

  His mother’s favorite sweater—soft blue, oversized, sleeves worn from years of use—lay half-folded over the back of the couch. She used to wrap herself in it when she was cold, when she was sad, or just when she wanted to feel cozy on a rainy afternoon.

  On the floor near the TV stand, a photo frame had fallen face-down. Ethan reached for it, turning it over with delicate fingers.

  The photo inside was bent, the glass cracked. But the image was intact.

  The three of them—Ethan, his mom, and his dad—standing outside in the backyard. Sunlight in their hair. Smiles on their faces. His mom had her arm around his shoulder. His dad had his hand on Ethan’s head, ruffling his hair. They looked happy.

  Whole.

  Ethan clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes. He didn’t cry again. Not then. The tears had dried up, or maybe his heart just didn’t have the strength left to shed more.

  He stood slowly, legs stiff. He took one last look around. Every corner held a memory. A conversation. A laugh. A quiet dinner. A lazy Sunday morning. Ghosts of a life that felt impossibly far away.

  He touched everything important—his clothes, personal items, and even his parents' belongings. As much as he wanted to take them all with him, he knew they'd only weigh him down. He could only settle on replicating them, if the need arises.

  He crossed the room and stopped beside his parents one last time. Kneeling, he adjusted the way they were lying—gently placing their hands together, fingers laced, as if they’d been holding on to each other in their final moments. It felt right. It felt like something he could do, even if it changed nothing.

  He whispered something to them. Not loud. Not even words, really—just a murmur of breath and grief and love, meant for no one else to hear.

  Then he stood and walked to the door.

  At the threshold, he turned back, his hand resting on the doorknob. He glanced across the room once more, trying to memorize every detail. Not the destruction, but the feeling. The warmth that used to be here. The people who used to be.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His voice cracked on the last word.

  He didn’t know what else to say.

  There was nothing else to say.

  He pulled the door closed behind him, the latch clicking into place with a soft, echoing finality. It was a small sound, but it felt like thunder in his chest. Like a chapter closing. One he wasn’t ready to finish. One he’d never be ready to reread.

  The hallway was quiet. Dust floated in the air, catching the dim light that filtered through a shattered skylight above. The world beyond the door didn’t care what had happened. It didn’t stop to mourn.

  Outside, the wind moved through the streets, soft and indifferent.

  Ethan walked down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the building. The weight on his shoulders was heavier than any bag he’d carried, but he didn’t stumble. He just kept walking.

  He didn’t look back.

  There was no one left to wave goodbye.

  But in his hand, he still held the photo. Folded gently. Tucked into his jacket pocket. A piece of the past he refused to let go of.

  Ethan walked away, quiet and alone.

  But he carried the weight of everything he’d lost—etched into his heart, step after step.

  [End of Prologue]