In the late evening, under a sky washed in blue and fading grey, the chilly August wind swirls through the window beside the bed.
Neva lies numbed, curled on her left side, right at the edge.
The white lace curtains, gathered at the fringes, sway softly in the breeze.
She gazes out at the ink-black trees and the fireflies glittering through the night—an illusion of a Christmas air.
Her eyes brighten slightly as three fireflies flutter through the open window, lighting up the somber, moonlit room.
She and Rhett had only just arrived at the cottage, stunned to find the house untouched. They're among the few whose homes remain unscathed.
The chaos has calmed for now. After nearly an entire day in the cave, they're finally home.
But the memories cling—
Undurable clouds of black smoke hovering above and all around.
The stench—pungent, metallic—of blood and burnt flesh, nauseating in its horror.
Burning houses. Burning people. Animals. Trees. Birds.
The wheat fields ablaze, hay reduced to ash.
Firefighters warring against the storm of flame.
Ash mixed into the dust, blood caked into the scorched earth.
They ruined everything.
They rushed in like a storm, vanished like a flood.
Those wretched rebels, shouldering not an ounce of guilt—laughing, sneering, as if they'd pulled off a bloody, hysterical prank.
The persecuted?
On their knees, they scream and sob, pounding their chests, rooted in ash and blood and smoke.
Their foreheads strike the ground, tears mourning an ocean.
They curse the treacherous. Their faith, their families, their homes, their livestock—all in shreds, all in flames.
How are they to live on?
Traumatized, Neva lies stiff, frantic beneath the sinking sun.
As soon as they reached home, she submerged herself in a long bath, cold water cleansing sweat and smoke and fear from her skin.
Then she slipped straight into bed, dressed in her cotton–soft nightgown.
By evening, word had arrived: the disaster is under control.
They could return—though the whole journey home, Neva wondered if even ashes would remain of the place they once lived.
Her stomach grumbles.
She's weary, hungry—but her body refuses rest, and her soul refuses food.
Light flicks on, illuminating the hazy room.
"Angel, you need to eat something," Rhett says, his voice cutting gently through the fog in her mind.
She blinks up at him. She hadn't even realized he was in the room.
He sits beside her on the bed, his hair still damp from his shower.
Leaning down, he strokes her cheek.
His gaze softens. She must be starving—she hasn't eaten since the day before.
"I just want to sleep," Neva murmurs, eyelids heavy.
He frowns. "You can sleep after you eat. Have some fruit while I make dinner."
He leans closer and kisses her cheek.
"No—" she starts to refuse, but her stomach growls again.
She catches his amused glance and blushes.
He shakes his head, stern now. "You can't starve the baby, Angel."
She frowns, lips pursed, guilt pressing into her chest.
Rhett must be famished too.
She sighs, lifting her arms. "Help me up."
He chuckles. A small smile blooms on her lips.
He gathers her into his arms, cradling her close.
She wraps her arms around his neck as he lifts her, bridal-style.
In the hush and intimacy of home, he carries her toward the kitchen—to feed his hungry little family.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅
Neva insists on helping, but Rhett shoos her away gently.
She sits at the dining table for four, leaning against the chair's backrest, her hands resting over her baby bump, rubbing in slow, affectionate circles.
Her eyes follow his every move. He's wearing her girly white apron—embroidered with tiny peach flowers.
A light laugh escapes her lips.
He glances back at her while stirring the stew.
"What is it?" he asks.
"You don't look like a very big bad man right now," she teases, smile curling.
He raises a brow, glancing down at the apron.
"You look cute," she adds, mischievous.
"I don't like being called cute," he grumbles, scooping out stew into a bowl.
"Well, too bad. You're pretty cute to me."
He brings the bowl and spoon to her, setting them down.
Their eyes meet—hers twinkling, his darkening.
He gently swivels her chair to face him, cages her between his arms, palms resting on the table behind her.
Their eyes lock.
Then, without a word—he tilts his head, eyes glinting.
Neva blinks, startled—then he kisses her. Ravenous. Hungry.
She gasps softly. His lips move heatedly against hers.
Her eyes flutter shut, her body melting as his tongue finds home in hers.
Her arms wrap around his neck, fingers weaving into his thick, damp hair.
He groans low.
He cups her jaw, deepens the kiss—angling her face, nibbling her bottom lip.
She whimpers into his mouth, sweet and shy.
Their tongues move in rhythm, breathless, tangled, lost.
She clutches his arms, her knees weakening beneath the intensity.
They kiss as though they're starving.
As though they've just survived a war.
And they have.
He pulls away, both breathless.
One last kiss, soft and lingering.
"Do you still think I'm cute," he murmurs, smirking, "when you're screaming during the baby-making process?"
Her cheeks flare crimson. She smacks his chest—playfully.
He chuckles, unfazed.
Scooping up some stew, he holds it to her lips. "Taste it."
She opens her mouth obediently, lets him feed her the first spoonful.
He watches her closely.
She chews, swallows. "It's very flavourful," she says. "Just a pinch more salt."
He nods and turns back to the stove.
She watches him, heart full.
Still learning, a little clumsy in the kitchen, yet determined.
He'd memorized the handmade recipe book she'd written for him.
Tonight, he'd made rice and beef stew—without much help at all.
A mystery it is, how the world's pain disappears whenever he's near.
She feels so favoured, so undeserving.
He loves her. Respects her. Protects her.
And he's very, very handsome.
Her smile turns soft.
He's perfect. Everything and more she ever dreamed of.
But she?
She only brings burden.
A hovering misery.
Her eyes grow glassy. Tears brim, then vanish with a blink.
All is fine now—why is she the one ruining it?
A sound breaks the stillness.
A whimper. A cry.
She stiffens.
Rhett notices. "What is it?"
Slowly, she stands, padding toward the door.
He turns off the stove and follows her.
She peers through the peephole.
Her gasp shatters the silence. "Ella," she whispers, flinging the door open.
On the doorstep—bleeding, broken, curled up—is Ella.
The cat.
Neva stumbles forward, hand protectively over her bump, eyes wide and wet.
She kneels beside her.
Ella's face is torn. One eye destroyed. Her mouth bleeds.
Bruises mar her small, chubby form.
The wooden floor darkens with blood.
Neva reaches for her. Ella flinches.
Her heart cracks.
The cat fears her now.
Rhett scans the yard—confused.
How had a cat this injured made a sound?
Then he sees it—
A second cat. Grey. Alive.
Slipping away through the quivering plants by the fence.
Its tail vanishes into the dark.
His heart aches.
Animals often carry more empathy than the fraction of mankind living numb to their own emotions.
"It's alright, Ella. Come here," Neva whispers.
The cat looks up. Her swollen cheeks twitch.
"Careful," Rhett warns, lowering himself. "She might scratch."
"She won't," Neva replies, voice thick. "Ella, please…"
She holds out her hand.
No more fear.
Ella lets her touch. Lets her gather her close.
Rhett places a hand on Neva's shoulder, steadying her.
He helps her to her feet.
Together, they step back inside.
He shuts the door firmly behind them.
Outside, the sound of ambulances continues.
Police patrol the wrecked town of Ziriri.
A land broken.
But here, inside their cottage—
love flickers, still.