When the sun rose, its pale light barely pierced the mist blanketing the northern fields. It clung stubbornly to the rails as the team worked the handcar southward, each push and pull measured and soundless. Even Mike's usual banter had vanished under the weight of the quiet. Their breathing had become steady.
Behind them, the sea was only a gray smear. Ahead, nothing but the endless stretch of countryside swallowed by fog.
Kazuma finally raised his hand. "We proceed on foot from here," he whispered. "The tracks bend inland. It's too open."
They lifted the handcar off the rails and pushed it behind a ridge, draping it in old tarps and thorny branches. Kazuma ran his gloved fingers across the cold metal, checking for loose parts that might clatter. Every sound is a signal flare now, he thought. Every scrape could end us.
From this point forward, stealth wasn't just a tactic—it was life.
The dirt road beyond the ridge was marked with strange symbols: circles drawn in white chalk, arrows pointing toward a half-collapsed windmill. Every few meters, shards of glass hung from strings—but wrapped in strips of cloth to stop them from clinking in the wind.
Leina crouched, tracing one mark with her fingertips. "Someone's still here," she whispered, a note of awe in her voice. Someone careful. Someone smart.
Dan studied the symbols, brow furrowed. "And they're organized. This isn't random."
Luna scanned the mist. "If they've survived this long, they've learned something we haven't." Her voice was quiet, but there was something reverent in it—like she was afraid to disturb the air itself.
Kazuma motioned them forward. The mind always invents ghosts in fog, he thought. But sometimes, the ghosts answer back.
They moved in silence through the still gray fields until the windmill came into view. Beyond it, nestled in a shallow valley, stood a cluster of stone cottages with boarded windows and black cloth stretched over their roofs. Wisps of smoke rose from chimneys—thin, almost colorless, blending perfectly with the mist.
Mike blinked, whispering, "You're kidding. They actually—"
Leina's hand snapped up, pressing her finger to his lips. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Even breathing feels dangerous here.
On a nearby roof, a figure appeared—wrapped head to toe in gray cloth, face hidden, a crossbow fashioned from scavenged steel in hand. It didn't speak or shout, only raised two fingers and pointed at the ground. Stop.
Kazuma slowly raised his hands to show they were unarmed.
A pause. Then a nod. The figure vanished.
Moments later, a side door creaked open. A woman stepped out—mid-thirties, her clothes a patchwork of leather and muted fabric. Her face was lean, weathered, cautious.
"You came from the tunnel?" she asked, voice low and coarse from disuse. Her French accent softened her words but didn't make them any kinder.
Kazuma nodded. "From London."
Her eyes scanned each of them, assessing, calculating. "Then you brought noise with you." She exhaled slowly. "Come inside. Quietly."
The old post office had been transformed into a sanctuary of silence. Every surface was padded—walls, floors, even the tables. Cups were wrapped in cloth. Hinges were cushioned with leather. Children played without sound, using quick hand signs, their laughter expressed only in their eyes. Adults moved like shadows, their boots lined with rubber strips.
Luna's eyes darted everywhere. "This is incredible," she whispered, barely audible. They built a world where silence breathes for them.
The woman—Élodie—poured water from a kettle wrapped in rags. "We call them Les Écouteurs," she said. "They can't see. They hunt by vibration. One clang, one shout—and they come."
Dan frowned. "How do you farm? Trade?"
Élodie smiled faintly. "We don't. We live small. We harvest what the noise has left."
Kazuma ran his hand along the soft, layered wall. Every surface absorbs the world, he thought. "You've built a soundproof life."
Her gaze sharpened. "We built it because the loud ones died."
Leina watched a toddler stacking cloth-wrapped blocks, the softest thuds filling the air. This is what survival looks like now. A child who's never heard their own laughter.
"How long have you lived like this?" she asked.
"Since the first blackout," Élodie said. "When the power died, the tunnels filled. The infection spread faster in the dark."
Luna hesitated. "Is there… anyone else? Other towns?"
Élodie's expression dimmed. "Maybe. We hear rumors of lights still burning in Paris. Machines, electricity. But the Listeners swarm the highways."
Kazuma's jaw tightened. Paris. A whisper of what was left of the world. "Then that's where we'll go," he said quietly.
Élodie studied him. "Why? There's nothing there."
"There has to be," Kazuma said simply.
Mike leaned back, forcing a grin. "And maybe there's real coffee. I'd die for coffee."
Leina nudged him under the table, but she smiled. Even now, he finds the light. Even now, he won't let silence win.
Élodie's mouth curved slightly. "Brave," she murmured. "Or stupid. Usually both."
They sat together around the muffled glow of a covered lamp, the map spread between them, its edges soft and worn. Élodie traced a finger down the line of the rails. "The tracks are broken past Amiens. The rest is on foot."
Dan nodded. "Then we walk."
There was no debate. Just quiet acceptance. In a world this fragile, even hope had to whisper.
Before dawn, Kazuma stood at the village edge with Élodie. The fog had thickened again, swallowing the cottages behind them.
"Why help us?" he asked softly.
She adjusted her hood. "Because you're still moving," she said. "Most here… stopped."
He studied her face. "You think we'll make it?"
"I think you'll try," she said. Then her tone darkened. "If you go south, remember this—the Listeners aren't the only ones that changed."
Kazuma frowned. "What do you mean?"
"There are others now," Élodie said. "Humans who adapted differently. They call themselves The Choir."
Kazuma blinked. "The Choir?"
She met his gaze. "They sing. Loudly. To draw the Listeners. They let the creatures hunt for them."
A shiver crawled up Kazuma's spine. People who use the monsters as shields.
Élodie turned away, pulling her scarf tighter. "Go before the sun rises. The Choir hunts at dawn."
They left quietly, their footsteps soft against the wet ground. The village faded into the mist behind them.
Leina looked back once. A home made of silence, she thought. And we couldn't stay.
Kazuma walked ahead, jaw set, eyes fixed on the unseen horizon. There's something left out there. There has to be.
But as the morning wind shifted, a faint sound reached them—distant, human, echoing through the fog.
A voice. Singing.
It wasn't beautiful.
Just why ?