Three months had passed.
The sky above Cracik Unit 14 was a washed-out grey, thin sunlight slipping through the torn clouds as if unsure whether this place deserved its warmth. Tor knelt beside the final grave he had dug, his hands sinking into the damp earth. The corpse he had buried was long past the stage of recognition—only scraps of flesh and pale bone clung together, a reminder of what time and death could erase without hesitation. Tor covered the last mound of soil with slow, deliberate movements, patting it down with numb fingers until it looked no different from the dozens he had shaped before it.
A breath escaped his chest—neither relief nor sorrow, just something leaving him because it no longer had a reason to stay.
"It's finally almost over," he murmured, though his voice barely carried in the still morning air. "Three months… all gone to graves."
He sat back, his spine bent, shoulders slack. His eyes drifted over the field he had created—rows of fresh earth, some marked with stones, others with wooden scraps he found scattered through the ruins. He had given each one a place to rest, even when no one remained who remembered their names. The work had stripped the skin from his fingers more times than he could count. It had drained his strength, hollowed him out, and yet… it was the only thing that made sense in this shattered world.
He wondered, not sadly but with a distant curiosity, If I die… will anyone do the same for me?
The thought settled in his mind like dust on abandoned furniture—quiet, inevitable, familiar.
Tor's gaze shifted to his right. A half-broken wooden arch leaned at an awkward angle, its paint chipped, words barely clinging to the surface. But he could still read them.
CRACIK UNIT 14.
What remained of the sign was cracked, burnt, and weathered from the months of storms, but it stood—just like the village once had. Tor let his eyes linger on it. Beyond the ruins were the charred skeletons of houses, beams collapsed in heaps, ashes long washed away by rain. A cold wind ran across the settlement, brushing against the stones of the graves as if paying respect.
Sunrise pushed itself over the distant hills. Gold light stretched slowly across the ground, touching the graves first, then the broken sign, then Tor. The warmth felt foreign on his skin, as though the sun itself hesitated to reach him after seeing the places he had walked for months.
His body was filthy, stiff, and heavy. Dried dirt clung to every part of him—smudged along his arms, packed under his nails, coating his clothes like a second skin. His hair was tangled, matted with dust, and the scent of soil and decay had long become a part of him. But today, as the sun spread across the village, he felt a faint urge he had ignored since the day he returned.
He needed to wash.
Tor stood slowly. His legs trembled from fatigue, from the months of digging, from the repetitive motion that never let his body fully rest. But he pushed himself forward and walked toward the river that flowed just beyond the settlement. The water sparkled under the early light, clear and alive. Birds chirped in the distance, hopping along branches as though unaware of the graves only a few steps away.
He stepped into the river fully clothed. The cold shocked his skin, forcing a sharp breath from his chest, but he did not retreat. Instead, he let the water swallow him up to the waist, soaking his patched, worn clothes. He rubbed his arms, washed his face, rinsed the dirt from his hair. The river carried everything away—the grime, the smell of death, the silent exhaustion that clung to him like a shadow.
When he stepped back onto the bank, droplets rolled down his skin, falling onto the earth he had walked for months. He removed his clothes, washed them thoroughly, wrung them out, and put them back on while they were still damp. They clung tightly to him, cold at first, but grounding.
He stood in the morning light, steam rising in thin threads from the fabric as the sun warmed him. His face was expressionless, as it had been for months, but there was a faint clarity in his eyes—a thin line of calm carved into the emptiness.
Tor returned to the graves. He walked between the rows, stepping carefully, his footsteps soft on the freshly turned soil. The air smelled of wet earth and distant pine trees. Somewhere, a breeze brushed past, stirring the grass around the graves.
He knelt again, his knees resting on the cold ground. His hands lay loosely on his thighs, fingers barely curled, not tense, not relaxed—simply existing.
The graves stretched before him, quiet, untouched. The morning sun cast long shadows behind each mound, like silhouettes standing guard. The river murmured behind him, birds continued their songs, and the wind moved gently across the ruined village.
For the first time in months, the world did not feel dead.
Tor's eyes wandered over each grave, moving one by one, as though silently acknowledging them. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence was enough. The silence was the only language left between him and the ones who had stayed behind.
His breath slowed. His shoulders lowered. He bowed his head just slightly—an unspoken farewell.
The sun rose higher.
The graves glowed warm under the light.
And Tor sat quietly at their center, damp, exhausted, and alone… yet strangely at peace.
---
Tor stayed kneeling for a long while, the cold earth beneath him and the soft wind brushing his damp clothes. He should have stood, should have walked away, but something held him there—something small and fragile that tugged at him from inside his chest. He let his gaze drift across the rows of graves one more time. The morning sun warmed their surfaces, making the soil look softer, almost gentle, like the world itself was trying to comfort the dead.
His fingers curled slightly against his knees. He drew in a slow breath.
And then he spoke.
"My dear villagers…" His voice trembled, not with tears but with a quiet heaviness. "I'm sorry."
The words hung in the still air. The wind slowed as if listening.
"I couldn't save any of you." His eyes drifted over the graves—over the stones, the wooden markers, the uneven dirt mounds he had shaped with months of labor. "All of you died… and I was the only one who lived. Because of that… I feel lonely."
He didn't bow his head, but his expression softened just a fraction, the closest thing to emotion he had shown in months.
"But I will move on," he continued, drawing a deeper breath. "I have to. I will try to create a better world. One without parasites… one where people can live again without fear."
He paused, letting the air settle.
"Even though I didn't talk much with you all," he said quietly, "I… I noticed your kindness. Your effort. The peace you gave my father."
He inhaled sharply, the cold morning air scraping down his throat.
"Thank you… for making my dad happy."
His voice grew faint. "He smiled more after coming here. I saw it."
Tor's eyes locked onto the grave that belonged to his father—the one with the smoothest soil, the one he had shaped with the most care. He shifted toward it, lowering one hand to rest gently on the earth.
"Dad."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"From today… I will start my journey."
A breeze flowed across the clearing, stirring the grass. Tor didn't move.
"I'll explore the world," he said. "I'll search for the valley. The place you said you would live with mom..."
His fingers pressed lightly into the soil.
"And I will find Mom."
His throat tightened. "I'll find her… wherever she is."
A long pause.
"Thank you, Dad."
His breath shook slightly.
"Thank you for letting me become a boy who can choose his own path. Thank you for carrying me forward even when the world fell apart."
He exhaled, the sound traveling across the graves like a final offering.
"I promise," he whispered, "I'll come back here someday. When I've become someone who can stand proudly."
Tor rose slowly, pushing himself to his feet. His legs were unsteady at first, but they held firm. The sun had climbed higher, casting a warm, golden glow over him. Dust sparkled in the light around his silhouette, as though the morning itself marked the end of something old… and the beginning of something new.
Tor turned his back to the graves—not out of disrespect, but because he knew he had said everything he could. He didn't look back. He didn't allow himself to. If he did, he feared he might never leave.
He walked toward the broken gates of Cracik Unit 14. The structures were bent, half-collapsed, rusted metal twisted into unnatural shapes from the night of destruction. He placed a hand against the gate, pushing it open with a slow, steady motion. The hinges groaned, a faint metallic cry echoing through the empty village.
Beyond the gate lay a narrow dirt road, almost hidden by overgrown grass and scattered debris. It stretched long and lonely, cutting through the valley like a scar.
Tor stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.
"Two hundred kilometers…" he murmured. "Until I reach the main road."
It was daunting—nearly impossible on foot, especially with no guarantee of safety. Parasites roamed. Bandits might exist. The world outside was unknown, unpredictable, and unforgiving.
But he had already lost everything once. There was nothing left to fear.
The narrow road stretched ahead, framed by distant trees and early sunlight. A faint mountain silhouette lay far in the horizon—the direction his father once pointed toward whenever he spoke of the valley.
Tor breathed out, slow and steady.
"It'll be tiring," he said to himself, voice almost steady. "But I will definitely create a world like before."
He tightened his grip on his small backpack—the one containing the letter, some food, and nothing else.
He stepped forward.
The wind pushed behind him like a final farewell from the village.
Tor didn't look back.
He kept walking into the sunlight, into the long road, into the world that still trembled under the weight of parasites and human ruins.
And thus, his journey began.
---
Tor secured the straps of his backpack, ensuring each buckle was tight and nothing rattled. Inside, he carried only what mattered—two water bottles, one large and one small, some preserved food, and a few scraps he had managed to save from the ruins. In his right pocket, hidden beneath layers of fabric, he kept his knife. It wasn't sharp enough to kill anything massive, but it was the only weapon he had. More importantly, it was something that made him feel less vulnerable.
He exhaled softly and stepped onto the narrow dirt path. His height barely reached one meter fifty-two, but every movement he made was firm and deliberate. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't trained. But he had endured the unimaginable—and that counted for something.
The road stretched forward, flanked by thorny bushes that grew wildly, twisting in unnatural shapes. Tor slowed his pace and studied them carefully. Some thorns appeared coated with dried sap, but others gleamed wet, as if poisonous. He avoided them, squeezing through the safe gaps while glancing up at the towering mountains above.
The peaks were shrouded in mist. Dark silhouettes loomed like watching giants.
This was not a place humans belonged in.
He knew that.
He still walked anyway.
The air grew thick with the scent of soil and damp leaves. The world beyond the village felt… raw. Alive. And dangerous. Tor stopped at the forest's entrance, where fallen branches lay scattered and the canopy above blocked most sunlight.
He adjusted his clothes. If he was going to enter a place filled with mutated parasites and unstable ecosystems, he needed protection—even the little he had.
He pulled on:
— thick socks
— thick boots
— thick layered clothes
— a cloth mask
— a hat
— arm sleeves that covered his hands fully
He looked almost like a small wandering researcher, though he didn't have the equipment nor the knowledge.
He took one step into the forest.
The hush was immediate—like the trees swallowed sound whole. His feet crunching leaves felt strangely loud, echoing in the silent undergrowth.
As he moved forward carefully, thought drifted across his mind, uninvited.
How selfish is the government…
Branches snapped under his boots.
They didn't send a single person here. For months.
He brushed past a moss-covered rock.
But I didn't expect anything from them anyway.
A faint bitterness touched his eyes.
That's how they do things.
Tor reached upward, grabbing a fruit hanging from a low branch. It was strange—slightly luminous, its skin glowing faintly under the shade. But it was edible. He knew because his father had taught him about forest fruits before everything collapsed.
He pressed the fruit open and sucked the juice slowly. He avoided using the food in his backpack if he could help it.
His legs began to tire faster than he expected. The forest ground was uneven, and every step felt like climbing. After twenty-five long minutes, he realized he had only walked a single kilometer. His breath was shallow, and his lungs burned slightly. His body had grown weaker during the three months of burial work.
His pace slowed even more.
And then—it happened.
Tor stopped.
Something was moving in the distance.
At first, he thought it was a shadow. Then the shadow buzzed—low and heavy, like metal grinding against metal. Leaves shook. Branches trembled. And something enormous drifted between the trees.
A dragonfly.
But not any dragonfly.
This one was the size of a lion.
Its wings shimmered like broken glass, vibrating fast enough to scatter dust into a fine cloud. Each wingbeat sounded like a blade slicing the air. Its body was bloated, segments swollen unnaturally. The creature's head turned slightly, revealing dark compound eyes that glinted like oil.
Tor froze.
The parasite hovered several meters away—the distance barely enough to escape if it noticed him. It perched onto a bent tree trunk, its legs sinking deep into the wood as it clung with unnatural strength.
A thick liquid oozed from the back of its neck—greenish-black, viscous, steaming faintly. The fluid hissed when it touched the bark, melting the surface.
Tor's throat tightened.
He had seen parasites before—but never one this large. Never one that could melt wood.
The creature raised its head.
A droplet of that green-black chemical slid down its neck, dripping toward the forest floor.
Tor clenched the knife in his pocket, his voice low—barely audible.
"…Perfect time to test this knife."
The words escaped him like instinct, emotionless yet resolved.
His pulse thudded slowly in his ears.
The parasite twitched once, sensing movement.
Tor stepped forward—
Knife ready.
Silent.
Focused.
The unpredictable world had finally shown its teeth. And Tor, small and scarred but no longer frozen by fear, tightened his grip.
Whatever came next… he would face it.