Later that day, Nate walked the quieter streets with Billy at his side.
The ghoul boy clutched his lunchbox, eyes wide as he studied the rebuilt homes and old foundations. Time had erased much—but not everything.
"I… I think it's this way," Billy said softly. "Mom always said our house could take a beating."
They stopped before a modest home near the edge of town. The walls were patched with scavenged metal and concrete, but the structure still stood—reinforced, stubborn.
Billy stared at the door.
"I remember this," he whispered. "Dad put lead lining in the basement. Said radiation was everywhere… even before the bombs."
Nate raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Billy knocked.
Footsteps shuffled inside.
The door opened.
An older ghoul man stood there, skin leathery but eyes sharp—alert, focused, unmistakably sane. His breath caught as he looked down.
"…Billy?"
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the man dropped to his knees.
"Oh...Billy. You're alive."
A ghoul woman appeared behind him, her face scarred but steady, intellect clear behind glowing eyes. She gasped, hands trembling.
"Oh my God… we thought… we thought the fridge finally failed."
Billy ran forward, and they embraced in the doorway—three ghouls clinging together, laughing and crying all at once.
Billy: "Mom, Dad, Why are you look like me?"
"We never went feral," his father said through tears. "I guess it was genetics. Something in our blood—made us resistant. Not immune… just lucky."
"Lucky enough to wait," his mother added. "Lucky enough to remember who we were."
Billy wiped his eyes and turned back to Nate.
"They never stopped being them," he said proudly.
Nate smiled softly. "That's what matters."
The parents looked up at Nate.
"Thank you," the mother said. "Most people wouldn't have believed on us or been selfish."
Nate shook his head. "The Commonwealth needs more families that remember what they're fighting for."
The door closed behind them—not in fear, but in peace.