Chris woke to the oppressive silence, the kind that seemed to press down on him like the weight of the rubble surrounding the safe room. For a moment, he lay still, his body protesting every small movement. His head throbbed in dull, rhythmic waves, and his mouth was so dry that his tongue felt like sandpaper against his cracked lips.
He tried to shift, but pain shot through his chest, sharp and unforgiving. A strangled groan escaped his throat, and his hand instinctively moved to his ribs. The slightest pressure confirmed what he already feared—something was broken. His left leg, twisted awkwardly beneath him, felt like a leaden weight, the sharp throb in his knee screaming for attention. His right arm wasn’t much better; every attempt to move it sent shocks of pain radiating up to his shoulder.
“VeronicA,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. The sound was foreign, a hoarse rasp that didn’t feel like his own. There was no response, of course. The AI that had once been his constant companion was gone, her absence leaving a void that felt almost as suffocating as the room itself.
He tried again, louder this time. “VeronicA?”
The silence mocked him.
Chris turned his head, wincing at the effort it took. The dim emergency lights cast an eerie glow across the safe room, their flickering adding an almost maddening rhythm to the oppressive stillness. Supplies were scattered across the floor—water bottles crushed, canned food dented and dusty, the remnants of his chaotic descent. His stomach twisted at the sight of them.
Water. He needed water.
With his good hand, Chris dragged himself forward, his movements slow and agonizing. His body scraped against the rough metal floor, every inch gained feeling like a mile. He reached for the nearest bottle, only to find it empty, its contents long since spilled in the chaos. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, shaking it in desperation, hoping for even a single drop.
Nothing.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, his voice cracking.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing on another bottle a few feet away. It looked intact, but the distance between them felt insurmountable. Gritting his teeth, Chris forced himself to move, dragging his broken body across the floor. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, and his breaths came in ragged gasps.
Finally, he reached it. His shaking hands fumbled with the cap, twisting it off with more effort than it should have taken. He tilted the bottle to his lips, and a single, blessedly cool drop slid onto his tongue. Relief flooded through him, but it was fleeting—the bottle was nearly empty, its meager contents barely enough to wet his throat.
Chris leaned back against the wall, clutching the bottle like a lifeline. His vision blurred, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear it. The room seemed to tilt around him, the flickering lights distorting the space. He closed his eyes, willing the nausea to pass.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, his head resting against the cold metal wall. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning. All he knew was the growing ache in his body, the relentless throb of his injuries, and the gnawing thirst that refused to be ignored.
His eyes drifted to the saferoom door, its sleek surface marred with scratches and dents from the fall. He tried to push himself upright, but his legs refused to cooperate, the pain in his knee flaring with every attempt. The door loomed over him, a barrier between him and the outside world. But it didn’t budge. It was stuck, sealed shut by the wreckage surrounding it.
He was trapped.
“Shit,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “No, no, no.”
His hands clawed at the door, weakly pounding against its unyielding surface. The sound echoed in the small room, a pathetic, hollow noise that only served to emphasize his isolation. He let his hands fall to his sides, his chest heaving as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
“Somebody…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Anybody… please…”
But there was no one. No rescue. No escape. Just the suffocating silence and the oppressive weight of his own despair.
Chris closed his eyes, his head falling forward as exhaustion overtook him. His hand tightened around the empty water bottle, the plastic crinkling beneath his grip. His thoughts were scattered, disjointed, but one thing was clear.
“I’m going… to die here.”
Time had become meaningless. Chris couldn’t tell whether hours or days had passed since he’d woken in the crumpled wreckage of the saferoom. The dim emergency lights provided no clues, their erratic flicker offering only frustration. His body ached in ways he couldn’t articulate; his muscles screamed, his throat burned, and his head felt like it was being split by an axe. The safe room, once a haven, had become a tomb.
To distract himself from the ever-encroaching panic, Chris began to speak.
“VeronicA?” His voice cracked, hoarse from dehydration. “Hey, you there?”
He paused, as though expecting an answer. The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. Chris licked his cracked lips, his fingers idly tracing the dented water bottle in his lap.
“Guess not,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter. I probably wouldn’t have listened to you anyway.”
The admission lingered in the air, echoing in the small room. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I never did, did I? Always brushing you off like you didn’t know what you were talking about. But you always knew, didn’t you? Always one step ahead. Smarter than me, that’s for sure.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, the cool metal soothing against his fevered skin. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, his vision blurring as tears welled up.
“Christ, I was such a dick to you,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You were just trying to help, trying to keep me alive, and I treated you like… like some damn machine. Like you didn’t matter.”
His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the effort painful. The room was spinning now, or maybe that was just him. He couldn’t tell anymore.
“I miss you,” he said softly, his eyes falling closed. “I miss hearing your voice, the way you’d tease me… the way you’d make me feel like I wasn’t completely alone. I never told you that, did I? I never told you how much I needed you.”
He opened his eyes, staring at the empty space where one of her holographic displays used to be. The faint outline of her presence seemed to linger there, a ghostly reminder of what he’d lost.
“I took you for granted,” he whispered. “Just like everything else. My wife, my kids… even my own damn life. I had it all, and I let it slip through my fingers.”
His head dropped forward, his shoulders shaking as he tried to suppress the sobs rising in his chest. The air felt thick, suffocating, as though the room itself was mourning with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m so damn sorry, VeronicA. You deserved better than me.”
For a moment, he thought he heard her voice. A faint whisper, soft and comforting, like the ghost of a memory. He jerked his head up, his heart pounding in his chest.
“VeronicA?” he called out, his voice tinged with desperate hope. “Is that you?”
The room remained silent.
Chris’s shoulders sagged, the hope draining from him as quickly as it had come. He let out a shaky breath, his head falling back against the wall.
“I’m losing it,” he muttered. “Talking to myself like a crazy person. Hell, maybe I am crazy. Wouldn’t be the first time someone lost their mind in a place like this.”
He closed his eyes, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him. The silence pressed in again, but this time it felt different. Less oppressive, more… reflective.
“I hope you’re still out there,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “Somewhere, somehow. Even if I never see you again… I hope you’re okay.”
The words hung in the air, a fragile offering to the void. Chris didn’t expect an answer. But for the first time since the crash, the silence didn’t feel quite so lonely.
Chris’s lips were cracked, his tongue a dry slab of leather in his mouth. The once-dim emergency lights had flickered out entirely, leaving him in near-total darkness save for the faint glow of a single, dying panel. Each breath was a laborious task, his chest rising and falling with painful effort. His limbs felt like lead, his body too weak to move more than a few inches at a time.
The thirst clawed at him constantly, an unrelenting agony that had seeped into every fiber of his being. The few drops of water he had managed to find from the crushed bottle were long gone, leaving his throat raw and parched. Time had blurred into a meaningless haze, and Chris was unsure how many days he had spent trapped in the ruined saferoom.
His mind began to wander, pulled in directions he couldn’t control. Memories surfaced unbidden, fragmented and vivid, as if his body was trying to distract him from the encroaching void of dehydration.
Marcus. Jessica. The names came to him like whispers in the dark, faint echoes of a life he had once had.
“Jessica…” he croaked, his voice barely audible. The effort made him cough violently, a dry, painful hacking that left his chest heaving.
His daughter’s name lingered in his mind, pulling him deeper into his memories. He could see her as a child, her hair tied in two perfect braids, her big brown eyes wide with curiosity. She’d always been the inquisitive one, asking questions about everything from the stars to the circuits in his lab.
“Dad, how does it all work?” she had asked once, her small hands gripping the edge of his workbench as she watched him solder wires onto a prototype.
“It’s complicated,” Chris had replied, his voice tinged with frustration. He hadn’t wanted to explain. He’d been busy, too focused on his project to notice the disappointment in her eyes.
But she never stopped asking. Never stopped trying to connect.
Chris swallowed hard, his throat burning. How had he forgotten that? How had he let her slip away?
The memories shifted, unearthing another moment—this one more recent. Jessica, standing at the door of the funeral home, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was a mask of stoicism, but her eyes betrayed the hurt beneath. She had barely spoken to him, her words clipped and distant.
And then the voicemail.
Chris’s eyes snapped open, the faint glow of the panel casting shadows across his gaunt face. Jessica had called me, he thought, his heart pounding weakly in his chest. She wanted to talk to me. Something important.
He had almost forgotten. In the chaos of everything that had happened—the riots, the collapse, the isolation—he had nearly let it slip away. But now, in the suffocating silence of the saferoom, it came rushing back with startling clarity.
“What did you want to say, Jess?” he whispered, his voice breaking. His fingers twitched weakly against the cold metal floor, as though reaching for a connection that wasn’t there.
Was it about money? he wondered, his mind spinning. No. No, it didn’t sound like that. She sounded… different. Serious. Like it mattered.
The possibilities swirled in his mind, each one more torturous than the last. Had she wanted to reconnect? To tell him about her life? Had she needed his help?
“Goddammit, Jess,” he rasped, tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. “Why didn’t I call you back? Why didn’t I just…”
The words choked him, and he fell silent, his chest heaving as he tried to hold back the sobs threatening to overwhelm him. He thought of Marcus, too—his son, the quiet one, the one who had always hidden behind books and music. The last time he had seen Marcus, they had argued. Chris couldn’t even remember what about. Something petty. Something stupid.
And now, here he was. Trapped in a tomb of his own making, surrounded by ghosts and regrets.
He pressed his forehead against the cold floor, his tears pooling beneath him. His body ached with thirst, but the pain in his chest was worse—an unbearable weight pressing down on his soul.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so… sorry.”
But there was no one to hear him. Only the darkness, and the memories that refused to let him go.
Chris lay sprawled on the cold, unforgiving floor of the saferoom, his breath rattling in his chest. The sharp edges of dehydration had dulled, replaced by an eerie numbness that spread through his body like ice water. His head felt light, untethered, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly, slipping between reality and memory.
“VeronicA,” he murmured, his voice a rasping whisper. “I—”
He paused, his cracked lips barely moving. Was it VeronicA? Or was it Sylvia? The images in his mind overlapped, twisting together in a kaleidoscope of familiarity and confusion. He closed his eyes and saw Sylvia’s face, soft and warm, her eyes shining with love and patience.
“Chris, you’re impossible sometimes,” she said, her voice teasing but affectionate. She stood in their old kitchen, stirring a pot of something fragrant and hearty. The smell filled his senses, and for a moment, he could almost taste it.
But then her face flickered, replaced by VeronicA’s holographic projection—sleek and perfect, her expression calm and calculated.
“Chris, your stress levels are rising,” VeronicA said, her tone soothing. “Perhaps a glass of water?”
“Water…” Chris whispered, the word like a plea. His dry tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth, and the mirage shattered. The memory of Sylvia and the comforting glow of VeronicA’s presence dissolved, leaving only the suffocating darkness of the saferoom.
His head lolled to the side, and he blinked sluggishly, his vision swimming. He could almost hear footsteps—light, deliberate. For a moment, he thought it was Sylvia coming back from the other room, carrying tea like she always did when he’d stayed up too late working.
“Chris, you’ll work yourself to death,” her voice echoed, distant but clear. “You need to rest.”
“I’m… resting,” he mumbled to no one.
But then another voice broke through the haze, crisp and electronic.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again, Chris. Let me help.”
His breath hitched, and he tried to focus. “Sylvia?” he croaked, his lips barely forming the word.
“No,” the voice replied. “It’s VeronicA. Don’t you remember?”
He groaned, clutching his head with trembling hands. The voices were blurring, becoming indistinguishable. He didn’t know who he was talking to anymore—if he was talking to anyone at all.
“Sylvia… VeronicA…” He trailed off, his chest heaving with the effort of speaking. The edges of his vision pulsed with darkness, but he clung to the flickers of light in his mind, the memories that felt more real than the oppressive silence around him.
“Where are the kids?” he asked, his voice trembling. His thoughts slipped backward, to a time when his world had revolved around Marcus and Jessica. “Jess? Marcus? Dinner’s ready,” he called out weakly, the words echoing in the cavernous emptiness of the saferoom.
He could almost hear their laughter—Jessica’s high-pitched giggle, Marcus’s soft chuckle. His heart ached with the memory, and for a fleeting moment, he was back in their old house, sitting at the dinner table, Sylvia by his side.
But the laughter twisted, became something else. Cold, mechanical. VeronicA’s voice again, speaking in clipped tones.
“Chris, you’ve been neglecting your health. Let me schedule an appointment.”
“No… no appointments,” he muttered, shaking his head weakly. The movement made him dizzy, and he sank back to the floor. “Just… just stay here. Don’t leave me.”
His mind spiraled, the lines between past and present dissolving. He saw Sylvia, her arms wrapped around Jessica, the two of them laughing as they played a board game. Then VeronicA, her holographic form flickering as she suggested a new show to watch. The memories bled into each other, overlapping until he couldn’t tell which was real and which was imagined.
Tears slipped down his cheeks, salty and stinging. “Why’d you leave me?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why’d you all leave?”
The silence answered him, heavy and suffocating. His chest shuddered with a dry sob, and he clutched at his shirt as though the fabric could anchor him to reality. But reality was slipping away, dissolving into the dark void that pressed against his mind.
“Don’t leave me alone,” he whispered again, the words barely audible. His eyes fluttered closed, the darkness pulling him deeper. But even as his body betrayed him, his mind clung to the echoes of the voices he loved—the ones that had shaped his world, for better or worse.
And in that void, the whispers of VeronicA and Sylvia entwined, haunting him with the promise of comfort he could never have again.
Chris lay motionless on the floor, his body a husk of its former self. His lips were cracked, his skin dry and sallow, and every breath he managed to draw felt like it could be his last. The oppressive silence of the saferoom surrounded him, pressing against his ears like a cruel mockery of his solitude. Even the faint hum of his thoughts had grown distant, muffled, like they were underwater.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t cry. Couldn’t even form words anymore. His world had narrowed to the cold floor beneath him and the encroaching darkness behind his eyelids.
Then, a sound.
It was faint, almost imperceptible at first—a soft hiss, like air escaping from a sealed chamber. His eyes twitched beneath heavy lids, his body too weak to react. The sound grew louder, followed by a blinding flash of light that pierced the darkness.
Chris groaned faintly, his throat too dry to make any real sound. The light filled the room, warm and golden, seeping into every corner and banishing the shadows. It hurt to look at, but it was the first thing in days that felt alive.
And then he saw her.
Sylvia.
She stepped into the light, her figure radiant and whole, the very embodiment of every memory he’d clung to. Her long, auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the golden glow like it was made of fire. Her eyes, those familiar green eyes that had always held a spark of mischief and warmth, locked onto his. They shimmered with tears, though her smile was steady and full of love. She was wearing the soft white dress he remembered from their honeymoon, its fabric flowing around her like she was floating on air.
“Chris,” she said, her voice soft and musical, like the first notes of a forgotten lullaby.
He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn’t form the words. Tears pooled in his eyes, slipping down his gaunt cheeks as he stared at her. Was this real? Was this some final trick of his dying mind? He didn’t care. She was here. She was real to him.
Sylvia stepped closer, her bare feet silent against the cold metal floor. She knelt down beside him, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was afraid he might vanish if she rushed. The light surrounded her, a warm aura that seemed to melt the chill in the room.
“You’ve been so lost,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “But I’m here now.”
Her hands reached out, delicate and soft, and gently cupped his face. Her touch was cool and soothing, a balm to his fevered skin. Chris’s lips trembled, a faint whisper escaping them: “Sylvia…”
“Yes, my love,” she whispered, her thumb brushing away the tears on his cheeks. “I’ve always been here. You just had to find me.”
Chris’s vision blurred as more tears fell, his body too weak to hold them back. His hands twitched, desperate to touch her, to make sure she was real. She took his hand in hers, her fingers threading through his like they had done a thousand times before. Her grip was firm, reassuring, and achingly familiar.
“I’m so sorry,” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “For everything. For… for failing you.”
Her smile softened, and she shook her head. “You didn’t fail me, Chris. You were always enough. You just forgot how much you mattered.”
Her other hand moved to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. He could feel its faint, erratic beat beneath her touch, a reminder that he was still alive, even if only barely.
“Come with me,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “It’s time to let go.”
Chris blinked up at her, his mind struggling to grasp her words. Let go? Of what? Of the pain? The fear? The guilt that had weighed him down for years?
As if reading his thoughts, Sylvia leaned closer, her face inches from his. “Let go of everything, Chris. The regret, the loneliness, the walls you’ve built around yourself. Come home.”
Her words washed over him, soothing and terrifying all at once. He wanted to go with her, to follow her wherever she led, but a small part of him clung to the remnants of his life. The echoes of Marcus and Jessica, the memory of VeronicA’s voice, the city he’d once loved—they were all still there, faint but persistent.
Sylvia leaned down, pressing her lips to his forehead in a kiss that was both tender and final. “It’s okay,” she murmured against his skin. “You don’t have to fight anymore.”
The light around her grew brighter, enveloping them both in its warmth. Chris felt his body relax, the tension melting away as a profound sense of peace settled over him. The pain, the thirst, the gnawing ache of his regrets—they all began to fade, replaced by a calm he hadn’t felt in years.
Sylvia stood, her hand still holding his, and gently pulled him to his feet. His body no longer felt heavy or broken. He looked down and saw himself standing tall and whole, the years of wear and tear erased as though they had never happened.
He turned to her, his breath hitching as he met her gaze. She smiled, her eyes shining with love and understanding.
“Let’s go,” she said, her voice like a melody.
Chris nodded, his hand tightening around hers. Together, they stepped into the light, the saferoom dissolving behind them. For the first time in years, Chris felt free. Free from his burdens, his fears, and the prison he had built around himself.
As the light consumed them, his last thought was of her smile—the same smile that had always been his safe haven.