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Day 49 – Morning
The storm clouds started rolling in around dawn. Thick, heavy, angry things that swallowed the horizon like a tidal wave. I told myself it would pass, that it would be one of those storms that looks worse than it is. But the air felt wrong—electric and suffocating, like the sky itself was holding its breath.
I needed to keep busy, so I decided to scavenge. There’s an old thrift store across the street from the library. You used to call it a “treasure trove of useless shit,” but we both know that was just your way of pretending you didn’t love it as much as I did.
I brought Atlas this time. The shop was dark, most of the windows shattered and boarded up, but I managed to find a way in through the back.
The place was a mess. Clothes and trinkets scattered everywhere, broken glass crunching under my boots. It looked like someone had already gone through it, but they must have been in a hurry because they missed a few things.
Atlas sniffed out a tin of instant coffee buried under a pile of stained sweaters. Coffee. It’s probably expired, and I doubt I’ll ever have fresh milk to go with it, but just holding it made me feel human for a second.
I found a wool blanket, too. It’s ugly as hell—bright green with yellow stripes—but it’s warm and big enough to share with the dogs.
The last thing I found was a tin of sardines. Atlas perked up the second I pulled it off the shelf, his tail wagging like he’d just won the apocalypse lottery. I’ll save it for the animals as a treat. They deserve it.
Fat raindrops started to fall just as we got back to the library.
Day 49 – Evening
The storm hit like a goddamn freight train.
The library walls groaned under the wind’s assault, rain hammered the windows like it was trying to claw its way in, and I swore for ten solid minutes while shoving every piece of furniture I could find against the doors.
“Stay put, you bastards,” I told the doors like that would help. Freya and Atlas kept pacing—Freya all business, her hackles up, and Atlas looking at me like, What’s the plan, boss? Hell if I know, buddy. Hell if I know.
I was mid-rant at the weather when glass shattered upstairs.
We ran toward the sound—me, Freya, Atlas. Bastet stayed behind, probably planning my eulogy or wondering if she’d finally get the last can of tuna. And that’s when we saw it: a silhouette crouched in the broken window, rain whipping in behind them like something out of a horror movie.
The dogs didn’t hesitate. Atlas let out a growl so low I swear I felt it in my ribs, and Freya was ready to rip the guy’s throat out. I almost gave the signal. Almost.
But then he raised his hands. A gesture of surrender. “Please,” he rasped, his voice like broken glass. “I just need shelter.”
I wanted to laugh, but it came out bitter, a sharp bark that startled even me. “Shelter? You break into my home and expect me to roll out the welcome mat?”
The guy was soaked, shivering, and looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. But appearances don’t mean shit these days. Half-starved can still kill you. Hell, desperation can kill you. I know that better than anyone.
It was just like this, in the early days of the collapse. A storm, a stranger at the door, and you… my beautiful, compassionate Finn, who couldn’t turn away a soul in need.
The man had seemed harmless enough, shivering and soaked to the bone, didn’t he? But the moment you let him in, everything changed.
Chaos erupted, the man lunging at you with a rusted knife, a wild, desperate look in his eyes. I screamed, the sound torn from my throat, but it was too late. Crimson bloomed across your chest, a sickening flower of blood.
That’s when they sprang into action. My fierce, loyal protectors.
Atlas launched himself at the attacker, his powerful jaws clamping down on the man’s arm, the crunch of bone echoing through the quiet house. Freya was a blur of fur and fury, her teeth sinking into the intruder’s leg, dragging him to the ground.
And Bastet, my regal, aloof Bastet, leaped from the shadows, her claws finding the man’s face, raking deep, bloody gouges.
It was over in seconds, the attacker's lifeless body sprawled on the floor, my pets standing guard over your injured body. They saved me that day, in more ways than one. But they couldn’t save you, Finn. No one could.
“I didn’t know anyone was here,” he said. “And it’s a library… not a home. I thought it was abandoned. I’ll leave in the morning. Just… please.”
Atlas’s growl softened, but he didn’t move. Freya stayed on edge, her teeth bared, ready to strike. I felt my heart hammering in my chest, torn between fear, fury, and—God help me—a flicker of something that felt like sympathy.
“Please,” he said again, quieter this time. And for a second, I thought about saying yes.
Your voice stopped me. “You’ve got a good heart, Ari,” you used to say. “Don’t lose it, no matter how bad things get.”
But you’re wrong. I already lost it. The day you were taken from me.
I fingered the edges of my deck and pulled a card.
The Hermit.
Solitude. Wisdom. Light in the darkness.
The card felt heavy in my hand, like it was mocking me. “Go ahead, Ari. Make the call.”
But I was already back in memory—seeing the rusted knife, the blood, the way your hands reached for me but never made it.
And when I looked at the stranger in front of me, all I could see was the other him.
“Leave,” I told him. My voice didn’t shake. It didn’t crack. It was steady, cold, final.
His face crumpled, despair carving lines into his skin. “Please,” he tried again, but I shook my head.
“This isn’t a shelter. Not anymore.”
Atlas growled low, a warning. Freya stepped forward, her hackles raised. Even Bastet had materialized and she hissed, her tail flicking in irritation. The stranger hesitated, his gaze darting to the dogs, to me, to the storm. In a flash of lightning, the tears on his face burned into my memory. And then he turned and walked away.
I watched him stumble back into the rain, his silhouette swallowed by the darkness. He didn’t look back.
Day 49 – Later
I can’t stop crying. Atlas and Freya haven’t left my side and even Bas has curled into my lap. They’re worried about me.
I’m worried about me.
I keep thinking about the stranger, and what turning him away might have meant for his fate.
Do you hate me for what I did? Do you think I’ve become the thing you tried so hard to stop me from being?
I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I’m alive, and the world keeps demanding more from me than I have to give.
I don’t have the answers. But I have the dogs, the cat, the cards. I have this library, this journal, this fragile, flickering spark of something that feels like hope, even when it shouldn’t.
And for now, that will have to be enough.
Updated Ration Log:
2 cans of refried beans (fate unknown).
2 cans of peaches (hope in a tin can).
1 box of powdered milk (not sure when I’ll get around to making it).
1 can of spam (stubbornly still here).
3 cans of creamed corn (I refuse to open these unless I’m dying).
1 can of sardines (for the MVPs, Freya and Atlas).
6 stale granola bars (no surprises here).
1 tin of instant coffee (probably worth its weight in gold).
1 Milky Way (still untouchable).
1 wool blanket (ugly, warm, essential).