The night had never felt this quiet.
Not even when they first lost their homes. Not when the roads were empty, and the cities burned in the distance. Tonight, the silence was different. Heavy. The kind that sits in your chest and doesn't let you breathe right.
Inside the dimly lit shelter, no one spoke.
Asharab sat near the cracked window, the moonlight casting a soft line across his face. He wasn't watching the outside. His eyes were distant—stuck somewhere between the present and a memory he didn't want to remember. Habiba sat a few feet away on the floor, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Her head rested quietly against the wall, but her eyes stayed open. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
Asharab's elder brother paced back and forth near the kitchen, not because he needed anything, but because he couldn't sit still. Their mother sat quietly, folding a piece of old cloth over and over in her lap, her lips moving silently in prayer.
No one wanted to speak first.
It was Habiba's younger brother who broke the silence. "What if this doesn't last?" he asked softly, his voice almost swallowed by the air.
Asharab turned slightly. "It won't," he replied, honest but not cruel. "Not forever."
The boy looked down, and his sister reached out, gently placing her hand over his. There was no comfort in words anymore—not when every plan felt like building a house on quicksand.
Asharab's brother finally stopped pacing. "We need to talk," he said. "Seriously. About what comes next."
Their mother closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. We can't pretend this is over. We've had peace for a few weeks… but peace is always borrowed in times like these."
Asharab let out a slow breath. "We've built something here. Something worth protecting. But that also means others will want to take it."
"They already tried once," Habiba said, her voice low, heavy. "What if they come back? What if the next time… we're not ready?"
Her brother tightened his grip on her hand. Asharab looked at them and felt something knot in his chest. They had all been through more than most people would survive. And somehow, they were still here—held together by love, grief, and pure determination.
"We need to prepare," Asharab's brother said. "More food, more defense. Weapons, training. Maybe even scouts. If there are other camps out there, they're not all going to stay where they are."
Their mother shook her head slowly. "But we also need to live. Not just survive. We can't just train and fight and wait to die. We need to remember what it means to be human."
No one answered right away.
The weight of her words hung over them like a shadow. Because she was right. But they didn't know how to live anymore—not the way they used to.
"We don't even know what future we're planning for," Habiba whispered. "Is it a world where the infection ends? Where we rebuild? Or… is it just more of this? Running. Defending. Losing people."
Asharab turned to her, his voice softer now. "I don't know. But we can't stop moving forward. If we stop, we start dying."
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, they held the pain between them in silence.
Asharab's best friend sat on the porch, away from them all. He hadn't said a word in hours. Since the last raid, he'd grown more withdrawn, quieter. Asharab stood up and walked to the door, sitting beside him.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
His friend nodded slowly but didn't look at him. "I just… I'm tired. Not just physically. My heart's tired."
Asharab understood. He felt the same most days.
"I keep wondering how many people we'll lose before this ends," his friend added. "And if we'll still be ourselves by then."
Asharab leaned his head back against the doorframe. "I think about that too. About who I was before all this. And who I've become."
They sat in silence, the night pressing in like a weight.
Back inside, Habiba finally stood. She walked to her mother-in-law and knelt before her. "I know I'm not your daughter by blood," she said, tears trembling at the edge of her voice. "But you've loved me like one. And I want you to know that if anything happens—if I ever have to make a choice—I will protect your sons with my life."
The older woman reached out and cupped Habiba's face with both hands, her eyes full. "You already are my daughter. And I never want you to speak like that again. Nothing will happen to you. Not while I breathe."
Asharab's brother sat on the floor beside them, rubbing his tired eyes. "We talk about defense. But maybe we also need to think about escape. A backup. Somewhere we go if this place falls."
Asharab walked in then, hearing that last part. "No. We stay. We fight for this place. We've already run too many times."
"But what if—" his brother started.
"No," Asharab cut in. "We made this home. We bled for it. We can't keep running."
Their mother stood then, her voice calm but firm. "You are both right. We need a plan to defend what we have. But we also need a path to safety if everything fails."
Habiba looked around the room, her eyes lingering on each face. "We'll lose ourselves if we let fear take the lead. But we'll lose everything if we ignore it."
For a moment, everyone simply breathed together—acknowledging the truth none of them wanted to face.
Outside, the wind howled, brushing the edges of their walls with whispers of the world that waited beyond. A world that never promised mercy.
"I miss dad," Habiba's little brother finally said. "Even when he got sick… he still protected me."
Asharab crossed the room and crouched before him. "He made sure you had a chance to live. That's what all of us are doing now. For each other."
The boy looked at him, then nodded slowly. "I want to help. Next time something happens… I want to help."
"You will," Asharab said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But only when you're ready. You have a good heart. And we need that more than anything else."
Outside, a distant thunder rolled—though the skies were clear.
Asharab turned to the rest of the group. "We start tomorrow. We'll set watch schedules. Map out exit routes. Reinforce the gates."
Habiba stood beside him. "And we'll write everything down. In case… someone else finds this place after us."
Asharab nodded, his voice steady. "If we fall, we leave a path behind."
There were no cheers. No speeches. Just quiet agreement. A family bonded not just by blood or marriage, but by shared pain, love, and the fire of survival.
That night, no one slept easily.
Some lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening for footsteps that might never come. Others drifted in and out of restless dreams, haunted by faces they had lost. But no one was alone.
In the middle of the night, Asharab sat by the window again. Habiba joined him, silent, and leaned her head against his shoulder. He took her hand, fingers intertwining without a word.
They said nothing for a long time.
And when they did speak, it was only to say:
"We'll keep going."