Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It wasn't much—four walls, a leaking roof, and a floor that creaked like it had secrets.

But it was ours.

An old nursery in a collapsed hospital, hidden behind rusted gurneys and cracked tiles. The windows were boarded. The hallway outside was caved in. No one came this far into the ruins anymore.

We found it together, Ava and I. Back when we still believed in "after."

Back when we still had dreams, not just memories.

We lit candles in old baby food jars. Painted crude warnings in blood on the doors. Hung wind chimes made of cutlery.

It was ugly.

It was fragile.

It was perfect.

We called it "The Nest."

Ava once joked that we should have a kid just to give the place purpose.

I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it made her happy to say it.

We slept curled in blankets scavenged from the pediatric ward.

She always took the side nearest the door.

"I'm faster," she'd say.

I never argued.

It was the first place she said "I love you."

The words came out quietly, like she was afraid the walls would collapse if she said them too loud.

"I love you," she whispered into my neck, "but I don't know what to do with it."

"Keep it," I said. "That's all."

She cried.

I didn't.

Not then.

We stayed in The Nest for twelve days. Longest we'd stayed anywhere.

We danced once, with no music.

We played pretend.

Pretended the world hadn't ended.

Pretended the moans in the distance were just wind.

Pretended we weren't already grieving the moment we'd have to leave.

Because we both knew safe places don't last.

It ended on the thirteenth morning.

I woke up to find her packing. Quietly. Carefully.

"There's smoke in the north sky," she said.

"Someone's close. We can't risk it."

I didn't argue.

Just stood there, watching her roll up the blanket like it was a flag of surrender.

But before we left, she made me promise something.

"Whatever happens," she said, "don't come back here. Not without me."

I promised. The late$st c-h@a%pte*rs are up@l#oaded f$irst on M.|V.|LE%3M!PY#R.#

I broke that promise yesterday.

Alone.

After everything—after the wall, after the fire, after losing her—I came back.

I don't even remember how I got here. My feet just knew.

The Nest was still here.

Dustier. Colder.

But untouched.

Her handwriting still on the walls.

A heart drawn on the mirror with old lipstick.

A faint scent of something soft… maybe her. Maybe memory.

I lay down in the same spot, curled up with the blanket she once folded.

And I finally cried.

This wasn't safety anymore.

It was a shrine.

To what we had.

To what we lost.

To who I was… when she still believed in me.

I'll leave tomorrow.

But tonight, I just want to remember her warmth.

In our last safe place.