The first light of dawn filtered through the grime-caked high windows of the warehouse, painting dusty stripes across the common area they'd carved out for living. After the intense, soul-wrenching events of the previous days, the mundane act of gathering for a meal felt almost surreal.
Clarissa moved between the makeshift tables, distributing bowls of a simple, hearty stew made from preserved vegetables and reconstituted protein—a testament to her nurturing nature. The aroma was comforting, a small anchor of normalcy.
"It's not much," she said with an apologetic smile as she sat down with her own bowl, "but it's warm. Though… I should mention, our stockpile is getting worryingly low. The preserved goods won't last more than another week at this rate."
The rhythmic sounds of eating paused. Spoons hovered mid-air.
Emma, her mouth full, mumbled, "We'll get more, right? There's gotta be more Old World cans somewhere."
