Days passed.
The rhythm of peace settled like dust around them all.
The survivors adapted to it faster than Damien expected. The camp became less a refuge and more a temporary home. They laughed again, even if the laughter was brittle. They worked, they mended, they slept.
But Damien didn't.
He spent the early mornings sitting by the camp's edge, watching the sunrise spill over the rooftops. The city's walls framed the horizon like a cage. The first few days had been tolerable, almost welcome. But as the calm stretched into a week, unease began to take shape inside him, shapeless, quiet, and persistent.
It wasn't danger. Not the kind he could see or sense. That was what bothered him the most.
He tried to explain it to Apnoch one evening as they patrolled the perimeter.
"Everything's too normal," Damien said. "Too quiet."
Apnoch gave a half-laugh. "You've probably forgotten what normal feels like."
"Maybe," Damien admitted. "Or maybe I just don't trust it anymore."
