By the time they saw the farmhouse, the sun was already bleeding into the horizon.
The fields around it stretched for miles — brittle corn stalks rattling in the wind, fences leaning tired against the dusk. A single light glowed in the upstairs window, flickering warm against the gray sky.
Layla stopped first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone still lives out here."
Jayden squinted. "Or hides."
Either way, they had no choice. Their legs ached, their throats were dry, and the last of their food was gone. He'd told himself they could keep walking, but every step had started to feel like a question his body couldn't answer.
They crossed the dirt road slowly, boots sinking into soft earth. The closer they got, the more the place looked alive — laundry lines swaying, smoke rising from a small wood stove, a faint sound of music drifting through the air.
Normal. That was the strangest part.
---
The Door
Jayden stopped a few feet from the porch, hand hovering near his belt.
"Let me talk," he murmured.
Layla nodded. "Don't scare them."
He almost laughed. "When do I ever?"
The front door opened before he could knock. A woman stood there, middle-aged, hair tied back, face calm but alert — like someone who'd learned not to fear the sound of footsteps after dark.
She looked them over once, not surprised, not afraid. "You two lost?"
Jayden hesitated. "Just tired. We can keep moving if—"
"Don't be stupid," she interrupted. "You look half-dead. Come in."
Layla blinked. "Just like that?"
The woman's smile was small. "Just like that. My husband used to say the world's gone to hell. I figure someone's gotta light a match once in a while."
---
The Farm
The house smelled like wood smoke, old books, and bread. Real bread — warm, heavy, alive.
"Name's Ellen," the woman said. "My boy's out feeding the goats. Don't worry, he won't bite unless you're wearing his shoes."
Jayden tried not to let his suspicion show, but his muscles wouldn't relax. He'd seen kindness before — the kind that came with conditions. But there was something about Ellen's tone, the easy rhythm of her voice, that made him want to believe.
Layla's shoulders dropped slightly. "Thank you, Miss Ellen."
"Just Ellen," she said, waving her off. "Sit. Eat before you fall over."
They did. The bread was still warm, the butter soft. For a moment, the world narrowed to simple things — the sound of forks, the creak of the old wooden table, the smell of something cooking slow on the stove.
For the first time in weeks, Jayden didn't feel like an animal running from the fire. He just felt human.
---
The Son
The screen door squeaked open again. A boy about sixteen stepped in, face smudged with dirt, hair wild under a faded cap.
"Who're they?" he asked, eyeing Jayden and Layla with open suspicion.
"Travelers," Ellen said. "They're staying the night."
The boy grunted, dropping a feed bucket by the door. "You know what happens when you let strangers in?"
Ellen didn't look up from the stove. "You sleep better knowing you did something right."
He frowned but said nothing.
Layla offered a smile. "We'll be gone by morning. Promise."
The boy met her eyes — wary, but curious. "Name's Caleb."
"Layla," she said. "This is my brother."
"Jayden," he added.
Caleb nodded once. "You look like you've seen things."
Jayden smirked. "You have no idea."
---
The Night
Ellen set them up in the attic — clean blankets, a lantern, and a bowl of water for washing.
As they settled in, Layla stretched out on the cot, exhaling softly. "Feels strange."
"What does?" Jayden asked.
"Not looking over my shoulder every five seconds."
He nodded, staring out the window. "That's how they get you."
"Who?"
"The quiet. It makes you think you're safe."
Layla sat up, watching him. "You ever think maybe one day we could be?"
He didn't answer.
---
The Midnight Sound
He woke in the dark to the sound of footsteps. Not Ellen's — heavier, slower.
Jayden sat up, eyes adjusting. The lantern on the dresser flickered faintly. Layla was asleep, her breathing even.
He moved to the window and peered outside. The yard was dark except for the faint glow from the barn. Someone was moving inside — a shadow, tall and deliberate.
Jayden's chest tightened.
He grabbed his jacket and went down the stairs silently. The door creaked as he opened it, but the wind covered the sound.
The barn door was ajar. Inside, a lantern swung on a hook, throwing light across Caleb's face. The boy was kneeling beside a shortwave radio, whispering into the receiver.
Jayden's voice was quiet but hard. "Who you talking to?"
Caleb flinched, turning fast. "Jesus, you scared me!"
"Answer the question."
Caleb hesitated, eyes darting. "Nobody. Just—just listening. Sometimes truckers still talk on these old channels."
Jayden stepped closer. "You lying to me?"
Caleb swallowed. "No. You think I want trouble here? Mom's been through enough."
Jayden studied him — his shaking hands, the fear that didn't look like guilt.
Finally, he stepped back. "Turn it off."
Caleb obeyed, cutting the power. The silence that followed was thicker than before.
---
The Morning
When dawn came, the fog lifted slow from the fields.
Ellen was already at the stove, humming softly. "You're up early," she said without turning.
Jayden nodded. "Didn't sleep much."
She poured coffee into two chipped mugs. "Few people do anymore."
He took a sip, the warmth grounding him. "Your boy's got a radio in the barn."
She didn't flinch. "I know. He listens to the world we lost. Doesn't mean he wants to join it."
Jayden studied her face — calm, unreadable. "You don't ask what we're running from."
Ellen met his eyes. "Because I already know what it looks like. The world makes ghosts of people before they die."
Layla entered then, hair still damp from washing. "We should go."
Ellen smiled faintly. "You could stay. We got work, food, quiet."
Jayden looked at Layla. Her eyes were soft, tired, almost tempted.
But he shook his head. "Quiet doesn't last for people like us."
Ellen sighed. "No, it doesn't. But sometimes it's worth pretending."
---
The Sketch
Before they left, Jayden took one last look at the farmhouse. The light through the kitchen window painted everything gold — the kind of gold he'd never seen in the city, in lockup, anywhere.
He opened his sketchbook and drew Ellen at the table, Caleb at the barn, the fields stretching endless behind them.
At the bottom, he wrote:
There are places where the world still whispers kindness. But kindness can't hide you forever.
As they walked away, Layla glanced back once. "You think we'll ever find somewhere like that again?"
Jayden adjusted his pack, eyes on the horizon. "No. But maybe we'll build it."
The wind carried the smell of bread and rain long after the farmhouse disappeared from sight.
And for the first time in a long while, Jayden didn't feel hunted.
He just felt alive.