It wasn't much—four walls, a leaking roof, and a floor that creaked like it had secrets.
But it was ours.
An old nursery in a collapsed hospital, hidden behind rusted gurneys and cracked tiles. The windows were boarded. The hallway outside was caved in. No one ca this far into the ruins anymore.
We found it together, Ava and I. Back when we still believed in "after."
Back when we still had dreams, not just mories.
We lit candles in old baby food jars. Painted crude warnings in blood on the doors. Hung wind chis made of cutlery.
It was ugly.
It was fragile.
It was perfect.
We called it "The Nest."
Ava once joked that we should have a kid just to give the place purpose.
I laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it made her happy to say it.
We slept curled in blankets scavenged from the pediatric ward.
She always took the side nearest the door.
"I'm faster," she'd say.
I never argued.
It was the first place she said "I love you."
The words ca out quietly, like she was afraid the walls would collapse if she said them too loud.
"I love you," she whispered into my neck, "but I don't know what to do with it."
"Keep it," I said. "That's all."
She cried.
I didn't.
Not then.
We stayed in The Nest for twelve days. Longest we'd stayed anywhere.
We danced once, with no music.
We played pretend.
Pretended the world hadn't ended.
Pretended the moans in the distance were just wind.
Pretended we weren't already grieving the mont we'd have to leave.
Because we both knew safe places don't last.
It ended on the thirteenth morning.
I woke up to find her packing. Quietly. Carefully.
"There's smoke in the north sky," she said.
"Soone's close. We can't risk it."
I didn't argue.
Just stood there, watching her roll up the blanket like it was a flag of surrender.
But before we left, she made promise sothing.
"Whatever happens," she said, "don't co back here. Not without ."
I promised.
I broke that promise yesterday.
Alone.
After everything—after the wall, after the fire, after losing her—I ca back.
I don't even rember how I got here. My feet just knew.
The Nest was still here. Rеаdеr suppоrt аt М*VLЕМ*РYR mаdе this trаnslаtiоn pоssiblе.
Dustier. Colder.
But untouched.
Her handwriting still on the walls.
A heart drawn on the mirror with old lipstick.
A faint scent of sothing soft… maybe her. Maybe mory.
I lay down in the sa spot, curled up with the blanket she once folded.
And I finally cried.
This wasn't safety anymore.
It was a shrine.
To what we had.
To what we lost.
To who I was… when she still believed in .
I'll leave tomorrow.
But tonight, I just want to rember her warmth.
In our last safe place.
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