My name is Azumi. I am a 26-year-old woman living atop an abandoned building with my boyfriend, Victor. Our home, an unusual makeshift shelter cloaked by an enormous tree, is perched on a rooftop surrounded by a rusted fence.

It is both our sanctuary and our cage. In a world where the human race is slowly fading into oblivion, this place keeps us alive. Yet, despite its safety, I often find myself wondering how I even ended up here.

Victor says he’s my boyfriend, and I’ve played along, but the truth is, I don’t remember him—or anything before the day I woke up next to him. My mind was blank, my memories erased.

He told me we were in love, that we’d been through so much together, but I couldn’t recall a single moment of it. At first, I feared he might be lying. What if he had ulterior motives? What if he wasn’t the person he claimed to be? To protect myself, I pretended to remember fragments of a life I didn’t recognize.

Over time, my apprehension began to fade. Victor wasn’t a threat. He was kind, gentle, and attentive. He cared for me as if I were the most precious thing in the world, and slowly, I stopped questioning his intentions.

He wasn’t just telling me a story—he was creating new memories with me, day by day. And despite my doubts, I found myself believing in the life he described.

“Love, why don’t you go inside and rest? It’s scorching out here,” Victor said one afternoon. His voice, deep and husky, carried a soothing quality that always made me smile.

“It’s not even noon yet,” I replied, chuckling as I reached for the basket hanging on the wall. “Besides, I need to keep busy. Idle hands, you know?”

Victor shook his head, a soft smile playing on his lips, before returning to the garden. Together, we had cultivated a small oasis amidst the ruins of the city—a patch of green that provided us with berries, vegetables, and a sense of purpose.

While I picked the ripest produce, Victor worked to irrigate the soil, his strong hands guiding the flow of water. Watching him was a comfort, a reminder that even in a world as broken as ours, there was beauty to be found in simple, shared tasks.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink, we retreated to our favorite spot on the edge of the building.

From here, we could see the city stretched out before us—a wasteland of crumbling skyscrapers and deserted streets. The silence was eerie, broken only by the distant rustle of wind and the occasional creak of the building beneath us.

Victor reached for my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, his voice soft.

“It is,” I agreed, though my eyes lingered on the desolation below. “Beautiful, and yet so tragic.”

He pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “At least we have each other,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”

I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. In moments like these, it was easy to forget the world we had lost. Victor’s presence was my anchor, a constant in the chaos that surrounded us.

“So, when do you think we’ll leave this place?” I asked suddenly, breaking the spell of our tranquility.

Victor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed back at our little home—a modest structure nestled beneath the sheltering branches of the tree that had grown through the building. Its thick roots had sealed off every entrance, creating an impenetrable barrier against the zombies that roamed the city at night.

“It’s been three years, love,” he said at last. “No one has come to help. I don’t think anyone will.”

“Do you think we’re the last humans alive?” I whispered, the weight of the question pressing down on me.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “And honestly, I don’t want to find out. We’re lucky to have what we need here—food, water, safety. Why risk it?”

He had a point. In three years, we had never been attacked. The tree’s roots provided a fortress, and the garden gave us sustenance. Yet, a part of me yearned to venture beyond these walls. I didn’t know why, but I felt an inexplicable pull to find others like us.

“You’re right,” I said finally, not wanting to argue. “We’re safe here, and that’s what matters.”

Victor smiled, his relief evident. He leaned down to kiss my forehead, a gesture so tender it made my heart ache.

“Let’s head inside,” he said. “The sun’s setting, and we need to turn off the lights before the zombies come out.”

As he stood and began gathering our harvest, I couldn’t help but watch him. Even after years of isolation, Victor’s strength and resilience were evident in the way he moved, the way he carried himself.

He was handsome, too—his chiseled features and sharp jawline a stark contrast to the harshness of our surroundings.

I followed him back to the house, but before I could take more than a few steps, a chilling scream pierced the air. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The sound was distant yet clear, echoing through the empty streets below.

“Victor, did you hear that?” I called, rushing to the edge of the building.

He joined me, his expression tense. “Stay here,” he said, his tone firm.

But there was nothing to see. The streets below were as empty as ever, the scream fading as if it had never existed. I searched the shadows, my heart pounding, but there was no sign of movement, no indication that anyone had been there.

“It’s nothing,” Victor said finally, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Probably just the wind.”

But I wasn’t convinced. The scream had felt too real, too human. And as I stood there, staring into the darkness, a strange sensation washed over me—a flicker of familiarity, a memory just out of reach.

“Was that—just a memory?” I whispered, clutching the edge of the wall as unease settled over me. What was happening to me?

Victor gently pulled me away from the edge, his concern evident. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside. It’s not safe out here.”

Reluctantly, I followed him, though my mind was racing. Who had screamed? And why did it feel as though that voice was calling to me?

Inside, Victor prepared dinner while I sat at the table, my thoughts consumed by the strange event. He tried to cheer me up with his usual humor, teasing me about how I always left the smallest berries at the bottom of the basket.

“You’re hopeless,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

I managed a weak smile, but my mind was elsewhere. Victor noticed, of course. He always did.

“You’re worried about the scream,” he said, sitting beside me. “Aren’t you?”

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the table. “It felt… familiar, somehow. Like I’ve heard it before.”

Victor reached for my hand, his touch grounding me. “We’ve been through a lot, love. Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.”

“Maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced.

That night, as we lay in bed, Victor held me close, his presence a comfort against the fears that lingered in the corners of my mind. But even as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was out there, waiting for me to find them.

It had been two days since I heard that scream, yet it echoed in my mind with a haunting persistence. The faint cry replayed over and over until I convinced myself it was nothing more than a fragment of my lost memory.

A figment of my imagination. I didn’t tell Victor—there was no point in worrying him. And if, somehow, my memory returned, I feared what it might bring.

What if it unraveled everything? What if the life we built together came undone? I couldn’t risk losing him, not now, not when I had grown to love him so deeply.

“Love,” Victor’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. His hand, rough yet gentle, caressed my cheek as we lay together on our old, weathered bed.

I turned to him, drawn by the intensity of his gaze. Even in the dim light, I could see the way his eyes softened as he looked at me, as though I were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

The thought made me laugh quietly to myself—was it love, or was it simply that he had no one else to look at? But even as I teased the idea, I knew the answer. There was nothing forced about the way he touched me, the way his eyes lingered on mine.

“Hmm?” I answered softly, a smile tugging at my lips.

Victor didn’t respond immediately. He just stared into my eyes, his expression unreadable, as though searching for something buried deep within me.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “When you remember anything… can you promise you’ll tell me?”

I hesitated, though I masked it with a soft smile. “Of course,” I said, my voice light despite the uncertainty weighing on me. “Maybe you’re the only one in my memories,” I added with a teasing tone, hoping to diffuse the tension.

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, and for a moment, the gravity of his question dissipated.

Then, he reached out, his hands sliding along my cheek as he leaned closer, his lips brushing mine. The kiss was unhurried, tender, yet filled with depth of emotion that made my heart somehow ache.

In the three years we had been together, intimacy had become a second nature to us. There was little else to do in our secluded world but nurture the bond we shared.

Yet, every time we made love, something stirred within me—a resonance, a flicker of familiarity that felt both comforting and terrifying.

It was as though his touch unlocked a door to a place I couldn't reach yet.

Victor's movements were slow and calculated as he shifted his weight over me. His hands, calloused from years of tending our garden, explored my body with reverence, as though each curve and contour deserved its own moment of appreciation.

The way he touched me wasn't just physical; it was worshipful, as if he were grounding himself in me, finding his solace in my presence.

His lips traced a line from my mouth to my neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that made my breath hitch. My hands instinctively found their way to his shoulder, gripping him as a surge of warmth spread through me as he gently entered.

There was a vulnerability in how he loved me in our shared rhythm, a quiet desperation that made me feel as though I were his lifeline. And perhaps, in a way, I was.

As our kiss deepens, the world outside faded into nothingness. In his arms, I felt safe, cherished, and desired. His lips traced beside my ears, his gentle moans as though music to my soul.

"I love you so much," he whispered.

Yet in this moment of closeness, a shadow lingered in recesses of my mind— a faint whisper reminding that there was a part of me Victor could never reach, a part of me still shrouded in mystery.

After the warm embrace of the night, Victor and I collapsed into a deep, restful sleep. The quiet safety of our home, surrounded by the ruins of humanity, felt like a small oasis in a world long destroyed.

It was a fleeting moment, though, shattered by a sharp, urgent knock at the metal door of our sanctuary. I jolted awake, confusion and fear gripping me. A part of me dismissed it as a figment of imagination—zombies couldn’t knock. Could they?

Victor stirred beside me, his instincts sharper than mine. His hand reached under the bed, pulling out the shotgun we kept hidden for emergencies.

“Stay in the room,” he instructed, his tone firm but calm. He handed me a handgun, something he had scavenged long ago, before quietly leaving the room to confront whatever—or whoever—was outside.

My heart raced as I sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the cold metal of the gun, ready to run to his aid if necessary.

Through the stillness of the predawn air, a voice called out. “Hello! Is anyone in there?” It was a man, clear and desperate.

Relief and unease swirled within me—this was no zombie, but was it someone we could trust? Victor’s stance didn’t waver; he aimed his weapon at the door, his gaze steely and unrelenting.

“Victor!” I hissed, rushing to his side. “You’re not going to shoot him, are you?”

Before he could respond, a second voice broke through—a woman’s voice, weak and trembling.

“P-Please... we just need shelter for the night.” Her plea sent chills down my spine.

Victor’s expression darkened. “We can’t take risks, love,” he whispered harshly. “They could be infected.”

I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling but resolute. “And what if they’re not? We have to help them.”

Victor reluctantly agreed, his jaw tight with tension. He activated the peephole viewer, a rarely used piece of technology that had been gathering dust since the apocalypse began.

On the screen appeared a young couple, both around our age. The woman was visibly injured, her face pale and contorted in pain, while the man looked equally exhausted but determined.

“Show me your bodies,” Victor demanded, startling me. I knew it was necessary to check for bites, but the phrasing made me glare at him in annoyance.

The man quickly removed his shirt, revealing no visible signs of infection. I stepped forward, insisting on examining the woman myself. Her clothes came off reluctantly, revealing a long, jagged wound across her back.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my voice wavering between concern and suspicion.

“I... I fell on a rusty pipe while running from zombies,” she stammered, her pain evident. The man interjected, his voice firm yet pleading.

“Please, she needs help. If we were bitten, we wouldn’t be here.”

Victor and I exchanged a glance, unspoken words passing between us. But he's right. The virus spreads so fast, it could turn anyone into a zombie within two minutes in maximum as what Victor said.

With a heavy sigh, he opened the door, and the woman collapsed into her companion’s arms.

“Bring her to the couch,” I instructed, rushing to prepare warm water and our first-aid kit.

Victor secured the door, his movements fast yet precise, while I focused on the task at hand.

The man gently laid the woman on her stomach, exposing the wound that still oozed blood. My hands trembled as I approached her, not from fear but from an odd sense of familiarity.

The sight of blood, the methodical process of cleaning and stitching—it all felt second nature to me. Who was I before this? The question gnawed at the edges of my mind as I worked.

Victor brought the basin of warm water, his presence steadying me as I cleaned the wound with practiced ease. The man watched anxiously, his gratitude evident in his tear-filled eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice breaking. I nodded, barely registering his words, my focus entirely on the woman’s injury.

As I stitched her wound, a strange excitement bubbled within me, as though I was rediscovering a long-lost part of myself.

As I sat across from Victor, my eyes occasionally drifting to the sleeping couple on the couch, a peculiar thought nagged at me.

"Love," I began, my voice laced with curiosity, "could I have been a doctor?" The question lingered in the air, drawing his gaze.

His expression, as usual, was unreadable—he blinked, hesitated, and then looked away.

"You said we were together before the apocalypse, didn’t you? Surely, you’d know what I did for a living," I pressed, trying to unravel a thread of the life I could no longer remember.

His silence only fueled my suspicions. I leaned forward, crossing my arms. "Love, you better start talking before I bombard you with even more questions." My words were sharp, but he merely chuckled, his laughter frustratingly casual.

"You weren’t a doctor, love," he finally said, the humor still evident in his tone. "But you were a nurse."

The revelation hit me like a fleeting memory that refused to fully materialize. I narrowed my eyes at him.

"How come you never told me this?" I asked, my lips tightening in irritation.

"You never asked," he replied with an infuriating shrug before rising from his seat and wrapping his arms around me.

His sudden warmth momentarily dissolved my annoyance. "How are you feeling? Still agitated? Hungry?" His attempt to shift the subject was obvious, but his affection was disarming.

I pinched his shoulder lightly, making him chuckle. "Love, seriously," I said, stepping out of his embrace. "What do we do about them?"

I nodded toward the couch where the injured woman, Adelina, and her boyfriend, Hiroshi, were resting. Victor tilted his head, smirking.

"You tell me. It was your idea to let them in—" his sentence ended abruptly as I gave him a playful slap on the arm.

We waited for the couple to wake up, the stillness of the house amplifying every creak and rustle. When Hiroshi finally stirred, his bleary eyes darted around the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings.

"W-Where are we a-anyway?" he asked hoarsely, sitting up. Adelina remained asleep, her breathing deep and steady.

Victor wasted no time. "Nowhere, but you’re safe. We also need to know how you found this place," he said, his tone firm. "All the entrances should have been sealed."

Hiroshi rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant. "Not all of them," he admitted. "The side entrance we came through—it looked like someone had slashed through the roots that were blocking it. I didn't do it, of course. The roots looked thick, you'd probably need a chainsaw to break through."

Victor stiffened at the revelation. His jaw tightened, and his eyes darted to me, filled with unspoken worry. "Stay here," he instructed, grabbing his shotgun. "Hiroshi, you’re coming with me."

The two men headed toward the compromised entrance while I stayed behind, my heart pounding with unease.

Time dragged as I sat with Adelina, who remained unconscious. Victor and Hiroshi eventually returned, their faces pale.

"Someone’s been here," Victor said grimly. "We blocked the entrance for now, but it looks like whoever did this knew what they were doing."

Hiroshi nodded in agreement. "The cuts in the roots obviously looked like it was done on purpose and secrecy. This wasn’t an accident."

The weight of his words settled over us like a storm cloud. "We’ll need to keep a close watch tonight," Victor said, his voice low but commanding. He glanced at Adelina, concern softening his features. "How’s she doing?"

"Stable," I replied, though my voice betrayed my uncertainty.

There was something deeply unsettling about the situation. Whoever had slashed through those roots had done so with intent. But why? And were they still out there, watching us?

“I owe both of you my gratitude,” Hiroshi began, his voice unsteady as he lowered himself beside Adelina with visible effort.

His movements were sluggish, his words carrying the weight of an unresolved ordeal. “Everything happened so quickly last night. We only stepped out to grab some food, but then I got electrocuted inside a store. It knocked me out cold for hours,” he explained, his tone deliberate, almost pedagogical—like a teacher addressing young pupils.

Perhaps he is a teacher, I mused, though the circumstances didn’t allow much time for conjecture.

“Adelina tried waking me,” he continued, pausing to wet his cracked lips. His struggle for coherence was palpable. Anticipating his need, I handed him the glass of water I’d prepared earlier in case Adelina regained consciousness.

He accepted it with trembling hands, draining it in one swift motion, as though it might quench more than just his physical thirst.

“I came to just before sunset,” he resumed, setting the glass down carefully. “But moving was… difficult. By then, the night had caught up with us and drove us here.”

There was a weight in his words—a mixture of vulnerability and resolve that lingered in the room, making his gratitude feel less like a formality and more like an anchor in the storm of his disarray.

“Don’t worry, we’re not accusing you of anything,” I said quickly, my tone perhaps too hasty. Out of the corner of my eye, I could feel Victor’s glare burn into me.

“I-It’s fine,” Hiroshi stammered, his unease evident. “Once Adelina wakes up, we’ll leave immediately.”

I exhaled, not in relief but resignation. “I don’t think she’ll be able to move for at least a few days,” I replied, glancing at Victor, whose glare only intensified, silently warning me not to extend any further invitations.

Lowering my gaze, I focused on Adelina’s frail form. Her sunken eyes, framed by dark, deep circles, betrayed her exhaustion. She had likely lost a significant amount of blood before they arrived here.

“She’s running a high fever from the infection,” I continued, addressing Hiroshi now. “And if she stays like this, dehydration will only worsen things.”

Pausing, I let the weight of my next words settle between us. “Her wounds are severe and need proper treatment. I don’t know where we can find the necessary supplies, but if you’re able to locate some at first light, it could make all the difference. Don’t worry—once we have them, I’ll take care of her.”

The silence that followed was punctuated only by Victor’s audible sigh. It wasn’t one of frustration, though—it carried a reluctant trust, as though he was conceding that, despite his reservations, I would handle this the only way I knew how.

Hiroshi didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on me, as if carefully weighing the sincerity of my offer. Then, he turned to Victor, silently seeking his confirmation. To my surprise, Victor nodded.

“I’ll help you gather the supplies,” Victor said, his tone unexpectedly cooperative. “It’s been a while since I’ve stepped out there, but I assume you haven’t forgotten your way around.”

A visible wave of relief washed over Hiroshi as he exhaled deeply. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes glistened, betraying the strain of the past few days.

“Don’t mention it,” Victor replied with a soft chuckle. “You earned it, carrying that heavy barrel to block the passage. Besides…” He paused, his gaze shifting to me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s good to have more people around.”

As he moved closer, Victor wrapped an arm protectively around my waist, a gesture that was equal parts tender and territorial.

“But,” he continued, turning back to Hiroshi, “I’ll need your help maintaining things here—especially with lookouts. I don’t make my girlfriend do the heavy labor," he nodded toward the small garden, his tone light but firm.

Hiroshi’s lips curved into a grateful smile. “Of course,” he said, his voice steady now, the weight of gratitude evident in his expression.

After our brief conversation, we left Hiroshi and Adelina resting in the living room and headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. They’d need an early start if they wanted to gather supplies and return quickly.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching Victor as he skillfully prepared my favorite dish. The familiar aroma filled the space, comforting and nostalgic. Unable to resist, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him from behind, resting my cheek against his back.

“Thank you, love,” I murmured softly, my voice muffled against his warmth. “I really thought you’d send them away.”

Victor let out a quiet chuckle, turning to face me with his usual playful ease, a ladle still in hand.

“Do you think I’m that heartless?” he asked, feigning offense as he pouted dramatically. “I could never do that, especially knowing they’re both hurt.” He paused, tilting his head with a teasing grin. “Besides, if I had sent them away, you wouldn’t be able to do your job. And neglecting your duties as a medical professional… well, that sounds like some serious breach of ethics or something, doesn’t it?”

I laughed, his lightheartedness melting away the tension from earlier. “You’ve got a point,” I admitted, smiling up at him.

He leaned down, brushing a quick kiss on my forehead before returning to the stove. “Exactly. Now let me finish cooking before you start listing my flaws.”

I giggled softly, stepping back to give Victor space to finish what he was doing. The rhythmic clatter of cooking utensils and the comforting aroma of breakfast filled the air, creating a brief sense of normalcy amidst the chaos.

After a moment, I called out to Hiroshi to join us. He appeared cautiously, his steps steadier now compared to earlier, though his movements were still strained.

It was hard not to marvel at his resilience. To have been electrocuted and unconscious for hours, with only minor burns on his palms, was remarkable. His high pain tolerance was undeniable. Still, the thought of him carrying the heavy barrel Victor mentioned earlier seemed almost unbelievable.

I couldn’t help but glance at his hands as he sat down, the faint traces of burns serving as quiet reminders of the ordeal he had endured. Whatever strength he had, it was not just physical—it was something deeper, something born of necessity and sheer willpower.