Morning came not with the cry of roosters, but with the stirring of youth in motion.
The six of them—Zion, Kael, Thalia, Toma, and two younger girls barely old enough to lift a stone but old enough to know what survival meant—moved together like a slow, breathing storm. Tired. Hungry. Determined.
Zion stood at the basin's center with his arms crossed, head turning slowly as the others gathered.
"This is what we have," he began. "One wounded fighter. One hunter. One warrior. Three gatherers. And me."
"You're more than that," Kael said, handing him a sharpened bone. "You're the reason we haven't given up."
Zion didn't answer. He knelt, drawing lines in the dirt.
He had spent the night remembering—how his grandmother used to talk of farming cycles, how her small Haitian garden followed rhythms tied to the moon and rain. He remembered irrigation from the 21st century, of aqueducts and raised beds. He remembered clay ovens, compost piles, and how shelter meant more than just a roof.
He outlined it now in the soil: a small circular village, homes dug into the base of the basin wall, surrounded by a shallow ditch. Smoke pits for warmth. A central fire. Storage areas. Guard posts. A future schoolhouse.
"Everyone will help build. There are no watchers, only workers. Every hand counts," Zion said. "Even mine."
Toma hobbled to the edge of the firepit, dropped a bundle of wild onion and roots with a grunt. "Start with food, water, and shelter. If you don't have those, gods won't save you."
Zion nodded. "Then we begin."
The first week blurred.
Thalia showed the younger girls how to bind rope from long grass, how to strip bark and make cord. Kael gathered stones for weapons and hammer tools, carving spearheads with Toma even as he tended to the boy's healing wound.
Zion labored without pride—hauling logs, cutting stakes, guiding trenches for the river water to flow downward and into the village. At night, he collapsed like the others, but before sleep, he wrote plans into the dirt with a stick.
Shelter. Water catchment. Smoked food. Clay ovens. Elevated storage to keep animals out. Eventually—fences. Watch towers. Gardens. Smithing.
This was no longer just survival.
This was strategy.
One evening, as the wind carried the smell of earth and sweat, Thalia found Zion alone near the river. He was washing blood off his palms—blisters torn open from hauling wood.
"You're pushing too hard," she said, kneeling beside him.
"I have to. They need to see it in me, not just hear it," he answered, voice low.
She looked at him for a long time, then spoke with rare softness. "Then I'll be your shadow. You lead. I kill for you. You build. I protect it."
Zion smiled faintly. "Thank you."
"But if you ever collapse without saying anything again," she added, voice sharp again, "I'll drag you by the ear like a bad child."
By the end of the second week, the village had a name, even if only spoken among them:
Nouvo Kay.
New Home.
The fire pit burned every night now—not in fear, but in habit. A symbol that they were not hiding anymore. This land was theirs. And for the first time since their world ended, laughter cracked the night sky like lightning.
Zion stood above them on a ridge, a carved staff in his hand and a plan in his chest.
He was no longer just a soul given a second chance.
He was the seed of a future no one could yet imagine.