She didn’t seal the bunker right away. That afternoon, she grabbed a flashlight and her easel, taking a deep breath before climbing down. The air was thick with mold and dust, fingers brushing her skin. The walls were covered in Crazy Doomsday Prophecies —charcoal drawings of monsters with gaping maws, ready to devour the world.
In the corner, she found Glenn’s journal. Its pages were yellowed and brittle, filled with fear and hatred: “They’re all stupid… only I’m awake…” His handwriting deteriorated from neat to chaotic，mirroring his unraveling mind.
Rose sat in a clean corner, opening her easel. She didn’t paint the prophecies, or the darkness. She painted the sliver of sunlight slipping through the hatch, dust motes glowing gold in its beam. She painted her own calm heartbeat, curved in warm orange lines. She painted the sunflowers outside, reaching for the sky.
When she finished, she stood, dusting off her jeans, and climbed the ladder. She closed the hatch behind her, the thud heavy, locking the past away. Sunlight warmed her face, and she breathed in—the scent of fresh bread from the bakery, damp earth, and hope.
Grief wouldn’t vanish. Tom’s place would always be empty. But she wasn’t the woman who’d cowered in the dark anymore. This house, with its secret bunker, had taught her not to fear the shadows—but to light a fire in them. Even a small one, she thought, as she walked back to the porch, was enough to show the way.