Victoria's Journal
READING AGE 18+
Some days, the world is quiet enough to pretend it hasn’t ended.
Houses still stand. Dishes still sit in cabinets. Family photos still smile from the walls. If you don’t look too long, it almost feels normal.
But the quiet isn’t peace.
It’s waiting.
The dead don’t rush. They listen. They breathe against doors. They follow the smallest scent like it’s a map drawn just for them.
The living learn to move carefully. To measure every step. To carry grief the way you carry a pack — heavy, constant - never set down for long.
Survival isn’t loud. It isn’t heroic. It’s small choices. Clean kills. Quiet plans. The decision to get up again when the world would be simpler if you didn’t.
And somewhere in all that silence, something stubborn still insists on living.
Unfold
I woke up on the couch.
The teen was gone.
The house smelled faintly of dust and something clean underneath it. Not fresh. Just maintained. The kind of scent that says someone still cares whether a place feels lived in.
Nothing alive in it except me.
I sat up slowly, testing my ankle. Pain shot sharp and immediate, then s……
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