Chapter 2: Six Months of Silence.
The city looked the same.
That was the strangest part.
Ethan stood at the bus stop near his apartment, hands in his pockets, watching the morning crowd drift past him. Office workers complained about traffic. Students stared at their phones. A street vendor argued with a customer over change. Everything was ordinary—painfully so.
In his memories, this place no longer existed.
This street had become a feeding ground. The bus stop a broken landmark half-swallowed by roots thicker than steel cables. He remembered the smell of rot that never went away, the way people learned to avoid eye contact because desperation made everyone dangerous.
Now, a woman laughed as she adjusted her bag.
A man complained loudly about the heat.
Ethan felt like a ghost standing among the living.
He turned away and began walking.
He didn't rush. There was no need to sprint toward preparation like a madman. Panic was what killed people early in the apocalypse. The ones who survived longest were those who adapted quietly, patiently—those who understood that the world never ended all at once.
It cracked first.
Then it crumbled.
He stopped at a convenience store on the corner and stepped inside. The air-conditioning hummed softly. Shelves were full. Bright packaging promised comfort and normalcy. Ethan walked through the aisles slowly, his eyes scanning with a different purpose.
Water.
Canned food.
Batteries.
He didn't buy much—only what looked reasonable for a single person. Too much attention was dangerous. Hoarders were remembered. Marked.
At the counter, the cashier barely looked at him as she rang up the items.
"Storm coming later this week," she said idly, nodding toward the window. "That's what the news says, anyway."
Ethan paused.
"Yeah," he replied quietly. "A big one."
She laughed, not catching the weight behind his words.
Outside, clouds had begun to gather—not dark, not threatening. Just heavier than they should've been. The kind people ignored.
Ethan carried his bag home.
Back in his apartment, he placed everything neatly inside a cabinet he had already cleared out. He opened a notebook and flipped through pages filled with tight, controlled handwriting.
Dates.
Locations.
Short phrases only he understood.
Subway Line 3—animal mutation.
South Botanical Garden—accelerated growth.
Emergency broadcast delay: Day 4.
This notebook was more valuable than gold.
He sat down and closed his eyes, letting memory guide him. The first signs had been small. Pets acting strangely. Stray animals disappearing. Plants growing just a little too fast, their leaves darker, thicker.
People laughed it off.
Scientists argued.
Governments denied everything.
By the time anyone admitted something was wrong, it was already too late.
Ethan opened his eyes.
There was a faint sensation in his chest now—subtle, almost easy to miss. A quiet warmth, like embers buried beneath ash. It hadn't spoken to him. It hadn't announced itself with cold messages or glowing screens.
It simply waited.
That was fine.
He preferred it that way.
He showered, changed clothes, and left again as the afternoon stretched on. This time, he walked farther, toward a small public park several blocks away. Families sat on benches. Children ran through the grass. Dogs tugged at leashes.
Ethan's gaze lingered on the trees.
They looked healthy.
Too healthy.
Leaves thick. Veins pronounced. Roots slightly raised beneath the soil, cracking the concrete path in thin lines no one bothered to question.
He crouched down, resting his fingers against the ground.
For a brief moment, he thought he felt something—an almost imperceptible vibration, like a pulse.
Then it was gone.
"Probably nothing," someone said behind him.
Ethan stood and turned.
A man around his age stood there, smiling awkwardly. "My girlfriend keeps saying plants are 'creepy' lately," he added with a laugh. "Guess the internet's rubbing off on her."
Ethan returned the smile politely.
"Yeah," he said. "People overthink things."
They parted ways.
As evening fell, Ethan returned home once more. He cooked a simple meal and ate slowly, deliberately. In his previous life, food had been something to inhale before running or fighting again. Now, he took his time.
This was what he was fighting for.
The quiet.
Later, lying in bed, Ethan stared at the ceiling. His phone buzzed once on the nightstand—a message notification.
Lena:Hey, are you free tomorrow? I haven't seen you in a while.
His fingers didn't move.
The name no longer carried warmth. Just memory.
He turned the phone face down.
"Not yet," he murmured to the empty room. "You don't matter yet."
Outside, the city lights glowed softly. Somewhere far beyond human sight, something ancient and hungry shifted, nudged awake by a world growing ripe.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Six months of silence had begun.
And he intended to use every single day.