One day, Mara and Jonas came back from a hike with dirt on their boots and worry on their faces. "We found something," Mara said quietly. They'd stumbled onto the remains of an old settlement—walls half-swallowed by vines, broken tools scattered in the grass. It was clear other people had lived here once, but there was no sign of where they'd gone. No one said it out loud, but everyone wondered: What happened to them? Could it happen to us?
The system's usual steady voice turned cryptic: [Preserve caution]. [Learn from history]. It didn't help anyone's nerves.
That evening, thick clouds rolled in. Thunder rattled the shelter, rain pounding so loud it felt like the whole world was shaking. The group gathered close for comfort, piling together under blankets in the lounge, sharing worries in low voices. Some people cried, others tried to make jokes. Alex wrapped his arms around his companions, feeling their heartbeats, their breaths, the way they reached for him and for each other.
As the storm raged outside, they whispered old fears and new hopes, bodies pressed close until the tension faded. In that quiet afterward, as the rain softened and everyone drifted toward sleep, Alex understood something simple and true: it was this closeness—this willingness to trust, to risk, to love each other fiercely—that kept the darkness at bay and made the shelter feel like home