The morning light in Necrovia was never too bright. It always came through the clouds in soft pinks and lavender shades, a pastel sunrise over a land of the dead. The air smelled faintly of lilacs, ozone, and a little bit of decay — a familiar, comforting scent to the people who lived there.
Sixteen-year-old Zera Morthwright yawned and stretched, her stitched-up arms creaking faintly. A few stray threads along her left wrist popped, but she didn't mind. She had extra thread in her drawer. "Another day in zombie paradise," she mumbled, rubbing her half-glowing eyes as her heart monitor necklace beeped softly — a stylish accessory that kept track of her life energy, or what remained of it.
The clock on her candy-pink wall blinked 6:00 A.M., and outside, the sound of zombie school buses groaned through the foggy streets. Somewhere, an undead milkman shouted good morning to a group of skeleton workers fixing a lamppost. Life in Necrovia was… ordinary. For the dead, anyway.
Zera dragged herself out of bed, her mismatched legs thudding unevenly on the cold marble floor. She checked her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her mint-green skin had a faint shimmer under the sunlight filtering through the curtains, her cotton-candy hair was tangled but vibrant, and one of her glass eyes had slipped slightly sideways during the night. "Ugh, again?" she sighed, adjusting it with a soft pop. Perfect.
She slipped into her school outfit — a shredded violet shirt with a neon brain print, a striped tie, and her favorite cyan skirt with the skull belt buckle her dad had given her. "A proper young lady of Necrovia should always look her best," he'd said.
Her father, President Lazarus Morthwright, wasn't just the ruler of the zombie country — he was the reason the undead world even functioned. Under his leadership, zombies had built a structured society. They had schools, hospitals, government offices, and even beauty pageants. Decay was no longer a curse — it was fashion.
Zera grabbed her lunch box (cow steak sandwich and blood orange juice — the name was misleading, it was just fruit) and stepped outside her family's mansion. Two zombie guards in crisp uniforms stood by the gate, saluting as she passed.
"Morning, Miss Zera!" one greeted. His jaw fell off mid-sentence, but he caught it and stuck it back in with a practiced motion.
"Morning, officer Stitch," Zera replied cheerfully. "Nice reattachment work today."
"Thank you, ma'am. Got a new glue brand — BoneBond. Holds like a dream."
Zera smiled politely and walked off down the cobblestone road, humming to herself. The neighborhood was alive with undead energy: a zombie postman delivering newspapers with trembling hands, zombie kids racing their scooters (sometimes leaving bits of themselves behind), and zombie mothers sweeping porches, their brooms brushing up a mix of dust and forgotten bones.
For outsiders — if humans ever dared to visit — it would've been terrifying. But for Zera, this was life. Beautiful, strange, and endlessly routine.
As she reached the bus stop, her best friend Rami, a zombie boy with an exposed ribcage and too much eyeliner, waved. "Yo, Z! Heard they're serving fried liver and fries in the cafeteria today."
Zera wrinkled her nose. "Ew. I'll stick with the veggie wrap."
Rami snorted. "You're the only zombie who eats salad."
"I like color on my plate," she said simply, twirling her pastel hair. "Green matches my skin."
The bus arrived, squealing and coughing black smoke. The driver, an older zombie with a half-skeletal face, grumbled, "Get in, brains-for-brains, or I'll start the route without you."
"Coming, Mr. Rotto!" Zera and Rami climbed aboard, taking seats near the back.
The ride to school was filled with the usual chatter — gossip about zombie pop idols, a rumor that someone's arm had fallen off during gym class, and excitement over the upcoming "Living Dead Fashion Week." Zombies might not age, but they sure loved trends.
Zera gazed out the window as they passed the central square, where a giant statue of her father stood — dignified, serious, hand over his heart. Below it was the national motto engraved in bone:
"We may rot, but we will rise."
The bus turned a corner, and Zera's reflection caught in the window again. Her bright, glowing eyes looked different today. There was something restless in them.
She couldn't help but wonder — was this all there was? A life of half-life? Eat, sleep, un-die, repeat?
Despite the order her father brought, there were whispers — strange stories told in corners of classrooms or in shadowed alleys. Rumors of humans beyond the Mistline, living creatures with warm blood and beating hearts. Some zombies said humans were myths. Others claimed they were monsters who'd destroyed their own kind centuries ago.
Zera didn't know what to believe. But she couldn't shake the feeling that her world — as perfect and pastel as it looked — was hiding something.
When the bus finally pulled up to Gravehart Academy, Zera stepped off, adjusting her striped tie. The school loomed ahead like a gothic candy castle — pink stone walls, black bats fluttering across its spires, and banners showing the school emblem: a heart stitched together with bone.
As she walked through the gates, a chill crawled up her spine — not the usual undead chill, but something else. A strange sensation, almost like… being watched.
"Hey, Z," Rami called. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
She blinked. "Rami, we're all ghosts."
He laughed. "Touché."
But even as she joined the crowd of zombie teens heading to class, Zera couldn't shake that feeling. Somewhere beyond the pastel fog, something was changing. Something alive.
And deep inside her chest — where her heart used to beat — something new stirred.
A spark.
A warmth.
Something human.