Once dressed, Mary took a slow walk around the small home to get familiar with it. The place wasn't large, but everything essential was squeezed inside. A small bed. A wooden table with peeling paint along the edges. A couple of mismatched chairs. The furniture looked like it had been dragged here from someone's backyard—second-hand, old, but still usable.
Just as she was about to inspect the living room again, a gentle knock came from the door.
"Sister, are you home? Open the door."
The voice was soft, polite—nothing like the sharp tones she had heard from the in-laws. Mary opened the door cautiously.
A woman stood outside, probably in her early thirties. Her skin was darkened from long hours working under the sun, but her features were refined, delicate. She carried a cloth bag, holding it carefully as if it contained something precious.
"Sister, My name is Thea," she introduced with a warm smile. "I live next door. Our husbands are in the same work unit."
Mary quickly stepped aside. "Thea, please come in. Don't stand outside."
But Thea shook her head firmly. "No need. I still need to go home and cook. This bag is for your family. Just something for cooking. I knew you just moved in and might not have anything yet."
Without waiting for Mary to argue, Thea pushed the bag into her hands. She looked embarrassed even giving it, as though she was desperate to make sure it didn't look like charity.
"It's nothing special," she insisted. "Just a custom here—when a new family moves in, we give something. It's etiquette."
Mary hesitated. She didn't know the woman. She didn't know the customs of this place. Accepting gifts so early felt awkward.
"Sister, I don't know if I should—"
"Take it," Thea said, her tone leaving no room for refusal. Her gentle eyes carried sincerity rather than pity.
Mary finally nodded. She didn't have ingredients to cook tonight anyway, and rejecting sincere kindness wasn't her style.
"Thank you, big sister. When I finish tidying up, I'll invite you to dinner. You must come!"
Thea's eyes brightened. She clearly liked the idea. "Then I'll wait for your call! And if you need help with anything, I live upstairs. Just shout."
After waving goodbye, she hurried up the stairs, probably rushing home to cook.
Mary closed the door and carried the bag to the table. Opening it, she found fresh cabbage, a few potatoes, onions, ginger, garlic, and even a small chunk of bacon.
She exhaled softly. This woman really put thought into this.
She went to check the kitchen. The cupboard had oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar—basic seasonings. Some bowls and chopsticks. Pots that had clearly been used often. But there was no rice.
Of course. Ryan didn't expect her to start cooking so soon.
Mary glanced out the window. Evening crept in, the sky dimming. In the apocalypse, this was when people scrambled to eat whatever dry biscuits they had left. Cooking a meal with fresh vegetables and real meat felt unreal.
This would be her first real meal after fleeing the apocalyptic world. She was determined to enjoy it.
She washed her hands, tied her hair back, and began prepping the ingredients.
Shredding cabbage.
Slicing the bacon into thin strips.
Chopping onions and ginger.
The motions felt foreign—she hadn't cooked properly in years. But the smell of fresh vegetables grounded her, reminding her of a time before the world fell apart.
She placed the old-fashioned liquefied gas tank on its side, twisted the rusty knob, and struck a match. A small flame flickered to life with a soft whoosh. She remembered her grandmother using something similar in her childhood memories.
She heated the wok, added oil, and tossed in the ginger and onions. A fragrant aroma filled the small kitchen almost instantly.
Real food, she thought. Real ingredients. I'd forgotten how good this smells.
Next, she added the bacon. The fat sizzled, releasing a rich, savory scent.
Then the cabbage—fresh, crisp, absorbing every bit of flavor.
She stir-fried vigorously, letting the heat soften the vegetables. Then she added a splash of water, a dash of soy sauce, and a pinch of salt. The mixture simmered, bubbling softly.
Her hands were a little stiff, her movements clumsy, but the pot looked promising.
Mary leaned back, wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve.
It had been years since she cooked like this.
Years since she smelled something this warm.
She lifted the lid slightly—steam burst out—and smiled.
At last, she had made a normal meal again.
Even if the world had forced her into a new life, even if everything was strange this small moment of warmth felt like the beginning of something better.
Before the dish finished simmering on the stove, Mary gave the house another quick cleaning. She swept the corners, wiped the table, and even mopped the floor with slow, careful strokes.
When she finished, she stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, thinking about her next problem:
No rice.
Without it, the fragrant cabbage-and-meat soup would just be soup.
She hurried back to her bag and dug through the folded clothes. Hidden beneath a handkerchief was a small stack of bills. More than 120 pounds. Her mother had quietly tucked it away before the wedding—"just in case," she had said.
Mary checked the money again.
I earn more than 30 pounds a month. Rice can't be too expensive. A few cents per kilo, right?
She pulled out five pounds, just in case, and stepped outside.
Next door, she knocked lightly. The door swung open to reveal a young woman—maybe twenty at most—with short hair and a slim figure. She wore a blue floral blouse tucked into black pants. Her expression was curious but not unfriendly.
"Yes? Who are you looking for?"
Mary gave her warmest smile. "Hello, I just moved in next door. I'm about to cook, but I don't have any rice yet. I was wondering if you had some I could buy from you?"
She emphasized "buy" quickly. The last thing she wanted was to seem like she came begging. In this era, rice wasn't hard to get, but borrowing food still carried a certain pressure.
The woman softened. "Ah, so you're the new neighbor. I'm Kristen..." She looked thoughtful. "I don't have much rice, but I can give you a bowl. Just return it tomorrow."
She disappeared into her home before Mary could thank her properly.
Mary waited, glancing around the hallway. If this were the apocalypse, a bowl of rice could get someone killed. The thought made her chest ache. She really had survived hell.
Kristen returned quickly, holding a large porcelain bowl heaped with rice.
"Here. Just bring the bowl back tomorrow," she said with a smile. "I need to cook now—my husband will be home soon."
"Thank you, sister. Really."
Mary held the bowl like a treasure. It was enough for tonight. More than enough.
Back in her kitchen, she rinsed the rice carefully. Not knowing how much Ryan ate, she simply cooked all of it. She was starving herself—other than the lunch she'd eaten earlier, she had barely eaten for two days.
Just as she set the pot on the stove, the door opened.
Ryan walked in, the faint scent of steel-factory smoke clinging to him. The aroma of her cooking hit him immediately. He froze, surprised.
He had bought rice and some vegetables from the cafeteria, thinking she was probably still asleep. He hadn't expected to find the house warm, clean, and filled with the smell of real home-cooked food.
When he saw her standing at the stove, stirring the pot, he blinked.
"You're awake? Feeling better?" His voice carried worry—but also confusion. "How did you cook? Where did the ingredients come from?"
Mary turned to him with bright eyes. "Sophie from upstairs brought the vegetables. I didn't want to refuse, so I agreed. I told her I'd treat her to a meal later. And the rice—I borrowed from Kristen next door. I'll bring it back tomorrow."
Ryan watched her talk, watched the spark in her eyes and the energy in her voice. For a moment, he couldn't connect her with the woman he had known at the Song household—the one wrapped in loud red and green clothes, with a temper sharp enough to pierce walls.
And yet the person standing before him now felt different. Livelier. Softer. Somehow lighter.
He had never disliked her appearance. A person's weight meant nothing to him.
Kael—her brother—had died saving him. Ryan had long decided he would support their family for life. He had even prepared himself to stay single forever. After all, what woman would want to marry a man who gave half his heart to another household?
But fate had pushed him somewhere he hadn't expected.
On the second day after he visited Kael's family, Kael's father had spoken gently but firmly:
"Ryan, my son is gone. Our family is broken. I hope you can marry Mary. We won't ask for betrothal gifts. Just take care of her."
Ryan had agreed—not out of obligation, but from a quiet sense of responsibility.
Now, watching Mary bustling around the kitchen, cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, he felt a strange tug in his chest.
He didn't know what had changed.
But something had.
Ryan hesitated for a moment, as if weighing several thoughts at once. Then he nodded slowly.
He had already accepted his fate the day Kael died. He had told himself—calmly, logically—that he would take care of Mary, help her family, and eventually settle down. Marriage was something every man faced sooner or later. He simply hadn't expected his new wife to be well, someone who could crush a solid wooden table with one hand.
But responsibility was responsibility. And Ryan was not the kind of man who ran from it.
He reached into the cloth bag he had brought back and placed a few things on the table.
"I bought rice and some vegetables from the canteen," he said gently. "And here—"
He pushed a few neatly folded bills toward her.
"Twenty pounds. Use it sparingly. If you need to buy anything, wait until you're feeling better. Then you can take the bus to the market. This area is pretty remote. Usually, if you want to buy something, you need to go quite far or grow vegetables at home."
Mary blinked.
This man—calm, reliable, speaking to her slowly as if she might still be unwell—felt very different from the chaotic Song family. He looked at her with simple kindness, not calculation. It was the kind of man who didn't talk much, but when he did, he had already thought everything through.
Is this why I transmigrated? she wondered for a brief, absurd moment. To start over with someone like him?
But the thought vanished as quickly as it came.
Because twenty years from now— the apocalypse would come again.
A world full of hunger, pain, monsters, betrayal, poisoned water, and skies without color. A world where she died once already.
Her stomach twisted.
Absolutely not.
She did not want to live through that nightmare again. Not the zombies. Not the endless running. Not losing people she cared about. Not the constant fear of dying.
Her brow furrowed deeply.
No I can't go through that twice.
Not even with a well-meaning husband.
Not even in a peaceful life that seemed full of hope.
The shadow of the apocalypse still lurked behind her, cold and heavy.
And Mary had no idea how to escape its return.