Chapter Two
The soft click of the hatch locking echoed through the narrow tunnel like a final breath. Ádin stood still, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of his bunker. The heavy metal walls were stained from years of sweat and dust, sealed shut from the world outside. This was home— a hollow dug into the ribs of a broken city, carved deep enough to stay cool, hidden enough to stay safe.
He dropped his pack onto the grated floor and kicked off his boots with a long exhale.
A soft rustle followed by a low, rasping whine came from the corner of the room.
"Easy, Fletcher," Ádin said, smiling as he knelt by the dog.
The golden retriever stirred in his nest of scavenged blankets, his coat patchy in places, but still thick and golden under the weak amber light. A thick scar ringed his throat— a sunken, pale groove—and his howl was a broken rasp that sounded more like breathing than voice.
"You should've seen me," Ádin grinned, rubbing behind the dog's ears. "Out there, like a shadow. Like a legend. Nearly tripped over my own shoelaces, but still—legendary."
Fletcher licked his hand, then nestled his muzzle in Ádin's lap.
The room was no bigger than a supply closet from the old world, but Ádin had turned it into something that felt... his. A shelf lined the back wall, stacked with salvaged tech: a cracked screen slate that sometimes played music, a rusted voice recorder with one working button, and a clock that blinked uselessly at 00:00.
A glass lamp hung from the ceiling, not glowing on its own—but slowly filling with pale golden light as it absorbed what little solar energy the thin fiber tubes caught from outside. He had rigged it with a lens that used the day's light without ever letting the heat in. Grandma's design.
Fletcher's bed lay under a broken vent, where cool air trickled in from deeper tunnels. His food and water bowls—both old tin pans—sat just beside a crate marked NOAH-742: MED SUPPLIES. Ádin had never opened it. Felt like bad luck.
Ádin's own bed was just a mattress of dried foam wrapped in stitched tarp, held together with cloth strips and faded patches from old-world jeans.
He flopped onto it and stretched out his legs.
"Found some beans. Real food. And water," he announced to the ceiling. "Bet you're jealous."
He looked down at Fletcher. "No offense. I saved your share."
The dog thumped his tail.
"Was almost caught though," Ádin continued. "Same hag with the iron eye. She's getting meaner. Nearly chased me to the edge of the east ruins. Heard voices. Preachers. Children of the Stars."
His tone dropped slightly.
"They've been out more lately. Preaching. Searching. Smiling like they've got answers."
He grabbed a dirty old tennis ball from the floor and tossed it gently upward. It bounced against the low ceiling and landed back in his hand with a quiet thump.
"They scare me," he murmured, tossing it again. "Grandma always said not to listen to 'em. Said their answers ain't answers at all."
He sat up, watching the lamp glow slowly to life.
"She said, 'Light without heat is a lie. Real light burns.' Never knew what that meant. Still don't."
He paused, then chuckled.
"Maybe she was just trying to sound smart. She had this look she gave me when she was making things up."
He caught the ball and held it to his chest.
Without thinking, he started humming the lullaby. The words came next—faint and shaky at first, then more certain.
"Night's embrace will guard your bones,
Keep your secrets, still your stones.
Stars will mark the path ahead,
Walk in silence, lest you're led...."
His voice wavered on the last line.
"Never knew what it meant," he said to Fletcher. "She said it was just a lullaby. But why the stars? Why walk in silence? Why… any of it?"
He stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.
"Sometimes I think it meant something important. Like it was a message. But then I think… maybe it's just a stupid song. Just words."
He tossed the ball again. This time, it bounced wrong and rolled under the bed. He didn't bother retrieving it.
"I don't get it. I don't get any of it."
He sighed and pulled his knees to his chest.
"The old man's still out there," he muttered. "Always sits across from the hatch. Doesn't say a word. Just watches. I gave him food once. Thought maybe he'd go away."
He paused.
"Didn't feel right to chase him off. He looks like… like someone who's already been punished enough."
He smirked bitterly.
"I'm real bad at surviving, huh?"
The smirk faded.
"Wish you stayed," he whispered, staring at the wall. "Just a little longer."
His voice cracked. He blinked, once, then again. But the tears came anyway. He didn't wipe them. Just sat there, breathing, shaking.
"Why'd you leave, Grandma? I'm not ready yet. I'm still not ready."
Fletcher climbed into his lap clumsily, front paws heavy against Ádin's chest. The dog pressed close, whimpering softly.
Ádin wrapped his arms around him and held on.
"I'm okay," he said. "I'll be okay."
He leaned his head against the dog's fur and began to hum again—quietly, this time.
"Stars will mark the path ahead…"
Fletcher's breathing slowed. Ádin's eyes drifted shut.
Outside, the lamp above gave a slow flicker of golden light, pulsing like a heartbeat.