The boy sat at the edge of the dim corridor, where the flickering light struggled to decide whether to live or die.
Beside him, curled into a loose spiral of quiet breathing, was the dog.
"Hey," he said softly, nudging its ear. "You awake?"
The dog's tail tapped once against the cold metal floor. That was enough.
The boy smiled faintly. "Good. I'll tell you something today… something real."
He leaned back against the rusted wall, eyes drifting upward—not that there was anything to see. Just layers of reinforced concrete and miles of dead earth pressing down.
"You know… your father wasn't born here."
The dog's ears perked.
"Yeah," he continued, voice lowering like he was sharing a secret the world had forgotten. "He lived above. On the surface."
The word surface lingered in the air like a myth.
"It wasn't like this," he said, gesturing around the narrow, suffocating tunnel. "There was… space. Open space. You could walk without hitting walls every few steps. There was light too—real light. Not these dying bulbs."
He paused, searching for something he had never truly seen himself.
"They called it the sky. It was endless. Blue, most days. Sometimes it burned orange. And at night…" he exhaled slowly, "…it filled with stars. Not like the screens they show us. Real ones. Sharp. Alive."
The dog shifted closer, resting its head on his leg.
"Your father used to run," he said, almost smiling now. "Not like you do here. No. He ran across fields. Grass under his paws. Wind chasing him, or maybe he was chasing the wind—I don't know."
His fingers absentmindedly traced the dog's fur.
"There were oceans too. Huge. Bigger than anything you can imagine. He used to sit by them… just watching. Like he understood something no one else did."
Silence settled between them.
Then the boy's expression changed.
"But that world…" he said quietly, "…we destroyed it."
The dog didn't move.
"They said it started with tension. Then fear. Then decisions made by people who would never face the consequences." His jaw tightened. "One launch. Then another. Then everything."
He closed his eyes.
"Fire fell from the sky. Cities vanished before people even knew what was happening. The air turned against us. The ground… poisoned."
His voice dropped further.
"There was no winning. Just… ending."
A distant hum echoed through the underground structure, like the world itself remembering.
"So we came here," he continued. "Deep underground. Buried ourselves to survive what we created."
He tapped the metal floor lightly.
"This is all that's left of our 'civilization.' Tunnels. Systems. People pretending this is living."
The dog let out a soft breath.
The boy looked at him again, softer now.
"Your father didn't belong here," he said. "Even when he lived underground for a while… he never adapted. He would sit near the sealed exits. Just staring. Waiting."
"For what?" the boy whispered to himself. "Maybe for something that would never come back."
He went quiet for a long moment.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke again:
"Every night, your awareness disappears…"
His voice slowed, as if the words carried weight he didn't fully understand.
"And every morning… you trust it will come back."
The dog lifted its head slightly.
"We just accept that," he continued. "Like it's normal. Like it's guaranteed."
He looked into the darkness of the corridor ahead.
"But nothing is guaranteed anymore."
A faint tremor ran through the structure—barely noticeable, but enough.
The boy didn't react.
"Up there… everything ended in a moment," he said. "People thought they had time. Plans. Futures."
He shook his head.
"They didn't even get to finish their thoughts."
The dog pressed closer.
"But your father…" the boy's voice softened again, "…he lived in a world that felt real. Not this controlled, artificial survival."
He scratched behind the dog's ear.
"I think… he remembered something we never will."
A long pause.
Then, quietly:
"Maybe that's why he couldn't stay."
The lights flickered harder this time, plunging the corridor into near darkness before stabilizing again.
The boy didn't look up.
"You know," he said, almost thoughtfully, "sometimes I wonder…"
He hesitated.
"…if this place is really safer."
The dog's tail stopped moving.
"Or if we just delayed something inevitable."
Silence again. Heavy. Unanswered.
Then he forced a small smile.
"But hey," he nudged the dog gently, "you're here now. And I'm here."
He exhaled.
"That has to mean something… right?"
The dog didn't answer.
But it stayed.
And in that underground world—where the sky no longer existed, and the past felt like fiction—
that was enough… for now.