The wind carried dust and the faint echo of something old —
a memory buried beneath the badlands.
24 and Lu crested a ridge as the morning light bled over the horizon.
Below them, half-swallowed by sand and time, lay the skeleton of a city.
Crumbling towers leaned like crooked teeth, glassless windows reflecting shards of dawn.
And yet, faint trails of smoke curled upward from somewhere within — thin, fragile, alive.
Lu lowered her mask slightly, squinting through the haze.
"You seeing what I'm seeing?"
24 scanned the ruins, eyes narrowing. His instincts were a tangle of suspicion and disbelief.
"Too organized for scavengers," he muttered. "Someone's living down there."
They descended cautiously through broken highways and collapsed overpasses.
Nature had tried to reclaim what war left behind — dry vines coiled through rusted cars,
roots cracked through pavement.
When they reached the outskirts, signs of life grew clearer.
Footprints. Repaired walls. The faint murmur of voices carried by the wind.
Then — children laughing.
The sound hit 24 like a jolt. He hadn't heard laughter that pure in years.
Lu glanced at him. "Guess not everyone gave up."
"Or they're pretending they haven't," 24 said, his voice softer than usual.
They approached slowly, weapons sheathed, hands visible.
The first people they saw were farmers — rough-clothed, sunburned, tending to small plots carved between crumbled concrete foundations.
Makeshift irrigation lines cut through old sewer pipes, channeling water from what must have been a buried spring.
A man spotted them from across the field.
He froze, then raised a hand cautiously. Others followed his gaze —
a few men with old rifles slung on their backs, mothers clutching their children,
a cluster of wary eyes.
24 lifted his hands slightly. "We're not here to fight," he said evenly.
His voice carried that weight — calm, measured, but hard enough that no one mistook him for harmless.
An older woman, her hair streaked silver beneath a ragged scarf, stepped forward.
"Not many come through here without taking what's ours," she said.
"You don't look like raiders… but you don't look like traders, either."
"We're travelers," 24 replied. "Just passing through. We can move on if it's a problem."
The woman studied him — the scars, the weapons, the brand at his neck.
Her eyes softened, just a fraction.
"No," she said finally. "If you mean no harm, you can stay.
But keep your weapons where they are. We've buried enough people for one lifetime."
24 nodded. "Fair enough."
They were led deeper into the city — past rebuilt walls and patched roofs,
past children darting through narrow alleys made of broken glass and hope.
It wasn't much, but it was alive.
Small gardens clung to the sides of old buildings.
Water tanks caught the runoff from the ruins above.
People spoke softly, moved carefully — not out of fear, but out of habit.
A man working on a generator nodded as they passed. "You two from the east?"
"From nowhere," 24 answered.
The man chuckled dryly. "Ain't that all of us?"
By the time the sun fell, Lu and 24 were seated around a communal fire near the city's heart.
The woman who had greeted them — called Edda — sat across from them, stirring a pot of stew.
"We've been here since the third collapse," Edda explained.
"EGI passed through years ago, took most of what we had. We rebuilt.
Now we keep to ourselves. No one bothers a graveyard."
Lu watched the flickering firelight dance over the faces of the people around them —
a mix of exhaustion and stubborn peace.
"You've survived this long without fighting?" she asked.
"We fight," Edda said. "But not with guns unless we have to.
There's enough death out there. We're trying to remember what life feels like."
24 sat silently, eyes on the flames.
The scent of the stew, the murmur of quiet conversation —
for a moment, it almost felt like something he remembered.
Something he'd lost.
"You could stay the night," Edda offered. "There's room in the old library.
The roof leaks, but it's better than open ground."
Lu nodded gratefully. "Thank you."
24 hesitated, glancing at the people — the fragile peace they'd built.
He knew what followed him. What always followed him.
But tonight, just once, he decided not to walk away.
"One night," he said quietly. "Then we'll move on."
Later, as the campfire dimmed and the city sank into its uneasy sleep,
Lu watched the stars through a hole in the library's roof.
Beside her, 24 sat against a pillar, blade resting across his knees.
"You don't trust them," she said softly.
"No," he replied. "But I respect them."
"Why?"
"Because they're still trying to live," he said.
"And that's harder than fighting."
Outside, the wind moved through the empty towers —
a sound almost like breathing.
And for the first time in months,
24 didn't feel like a ghost among ruins.