Evan had barely slept.
By the time the gray morning light truly filled the living room, he had already been awake for hours, sitting against the couch, his back aching, his eyes dry.
The television was still running the news on loop, muted.
His mother's phone rested on the coffee table.
Powered off.
Still.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then looked away.
The apartment felt too big.
Too quiet.
Every object was still in its place.
A cup in the sink. A jacket draped over a chair. A pair of glasses lying near the television.
Everything was exactly as it had been before.
Except before no longer existed.
Evan got up slowly.
He went into the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror, and immediately regretted it.
His face was pale. His features drawn. Dark circles under his eyes.
He turned on the faucet, let the water run for a few seconds, then splashed some onto his face.
It changed nothing.
In the kitchen, he opened a cupboard.
Almost empty.
Then he checked the fridge.
No better.
The thought of going outside immediately tightened his stomach.
But he did not really have a choice anymore.
He took his phone, his keys, hesitated, then slipped his mother's phone into his pocket too, without really knowing why.
Before opening the door, he stopped for a second.
Listened.
The hallway was not silent.
Low voices.
A door opening, then quickly shutting again.
Somewhere farther down, a child was crying, and someone was trying to calm them.
At last, Evan stepped outside.
In the hallway, two neighbors he had barely ever seen speaking to each other were standing near the stairs, talking in hushed voices.
They fell silent when they saw him.
One of them, a man in his fifties whom Evan sometimes passed without ever really speaking to, finally asked,
"You too?"
Evan understood immediately.
He gave a single nod.
The man lowered his eyes.
Beside him, his neighbor was clutching a bottle of water to her chest as if it were something precious.
"We're trying to figure out who's still here in the building," she said. "Just... to know."
Evan did not answer right away.
Even the idea of speaking normally felt difficult.
"Okay," he said at last.
The man hesitated.
"If you need anything... we're on the third floor."
Evan nodded without conviction.
Farther down the hall, another door opened just a crack, then shut again the moment whoever was inside noticed them.
No one said anything.
As he went down the stairs, Evan passed an elderly woman sitting on one of the steps, her hands clasped, her gaze lost.
She was murmuring something to herself.
A prayer, maybe.
The lobby was cluttered with packages, bags, shoes left lying around.
Someone had taped a sheet of paper to the wall near the mailboxes.
BUILDING SURVIVORS — WRITE YOUR NAME AND APARTMENT NUMBER
Several names had already been scribbled down in haste.
Other spaces remained blank.
Evan looked at the sheet for a few seconds.
Then he simply wrote:
Evan — 2nd floor
His hand trembled slightly.
Outside, the air was cold.
From a distance, the street looked almost normal.
Then you looked closer.
Cars were still parked at odd angles. Some had been moved aside. Others had not. Storefront shutters were down. People walked quickly, clutching their bags close, barely looking at anyone else.
Above the city, the ship was still there.
Enormous.
Black.
Motionless.
No one could really ignore it anymore.
A lot of people looked up at it without even realizing they were doing it.
The way you touch a broken tooth with your tongue.
Out of reflex.
The neighborhood supermarket was open, but a line already stretched all the way onto the sidewalk.
Evan took his place in it without speaking.
No one was really speaking loudly.
Not the way they would in a normal line.
Here, voices stayed low. Tense. Uneven.
In front of him, a man in a coat said,
"We need to stock up. We have no idea what's going to happen next."
A woman answered immediately,
"Next what? We don't even know what that was."
"Exactly."
Behind Evan, two young men were talking about leaving the city to stay with family in the countryside.
"At least there'll be fewer people there," said the first.
"And less help too," said the other.
Farther up the line, someone muttered,
"You shouldn't stay alone."
Another voice answered almost at once,
"I'm the opposite. I don't want to see anyone."
No one pushed it any further.
Evan stared vaguely at the storefronts across the street.
A pharmacy was overflowing with people.
A tobacco shop was closed.
A bakery had a handwritten sign taped to the window:
CLOSED — STAFF SHORTAGE
Two police officers drove by slowly in a car, no siren on.
Farther away, he spotted a small crowd gathered in front of a church.
The doors were wide open.
Some people were going in. Others were coming out in tears. A man was speaking loudly on the steps, his hands raised toward the sky.
Evan could not hear all of it, only fragments.
"...not random..."
"...a judgment..."
"...they're watching us..."
Some people were listening.
Others avoided him.
A little farther down the street, someone had pasted several printed sheets onto a wall.
THEY CAME TO CHOOSE
THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND WILL SURVIVE
Evan looked away.
By the time he finally got into the store, many of the shelves were already half empty.
Water was going fast.
Canned food too.
Rice was almost gone.
People filled their carts without looking at one another.
Some were taking too much.
Others just stood in front of the shelves as if they no longer knew how to make a choice as simple as that.
Evan grabbed water, a few cans, pasta, vacuum-packed bread, biscuits—whatever was left.
When he reached the register, the cashier kept her eyes down.
She scanned the items mechanically.
Her movements were precise, but her face seemed absent.
A customer in front of Evan asked too sharply about the purchase limits.
She did not answer.
The man did not insist.
When it was Evan's turn, he set his groceries on the belt.
The cashier briefly looked up at him.
Then at his trembling hands.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
Once outside, the bag felt heavier than it should have.
He stopped on the sidewalk, took a slow breath, then pulled out his phone.
He hesitated for a few seconds.
Then searched for a name.
Hugo
He called.
One ring.
Then another.
Then voicemail.
Evan clenched his jaw slightly.
He ended the call without leaving a message.
Hugo's neighborhood was not far.
He could walk there.
He hesitated for another moment.
Then started moving.
The side streets were quieter.
Too quiet.
Closed curtains. Apartment lobbies left open. People sitting at their windows. Abandoned bicycles. An ambulance parked crookedly.
At one street corner, two men were unloading packs of bottled water from a car while a woman urged them to hurry.
Farther on, a group of neighbors stood smoking in front of a building, speaking in low voices as if afraid of being overheard.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.
Without knowing what.
When Evan arrived in front of Hugo's building, he immediately felt that something was wrong.
The front door was open.
So was the lobby.
And from the stairwell, he could hear someone crying.
His stomach tightened.
He climbed the stairs too fast, the grocery bag hitting against his leg with every step.
The sound was coming from the second floor.
The door to Hugo's apartment was half open.
Evan stopped right in front of it.
Hugo's father was sitting on a chair near the entrance, his face buried in his hands.
He was crying openly.
Not quietly.
Not with any dignity.
He was simply broken.
Evan felt his heart skip a beat.
"Sir...?"
The man lifted his head.
His eyes were red, swollen, almost empty.
He recognized Evan after a slight delay.
"Evan..."
His voice cracked on the name.
The worst immediately crossed Evan's mind.
"Hugo...?" he asked.
The man closed his eyes for a moment.
Then quickly shook his head.
"He's here."
The relief hit Evan so hard he almost felt ashamed of it.
The next instant, another thought forced itself in.
If Hugo was alive...
Then someone else was not.
His gaze drifted into the apartment.
To a pair of small sneakers near the wall.
To a school bag lying on the floor.
To a drawing pinned to the fridge, visible from the doorway.
Hugo's father followed his gaze.
His mouth trembled before he could speak.
"She didn't come back."
Evan said nothing.
He was not capable of it.
The man ran a hand over his face, as if trying to erase his own words.
"She was in her room... just in her room..."
His voice broke again.
Behind him, deeper inside the apartment, a movement caught Evan's attention.
Hugo appeared.
He stopped short when he saw him.
He looked exactly the way Evan had looked in the mirror a few hours earlier.
The same hollow stare.
The same skin gone too pale.
The same air of someone moving forward without knowing how.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Hugo breathed out,
"You're alive."
Evan nodded.
"So are you."
It should have sounded different.
Like relief.
But the words landed heavily between them.
Hugo stepped closer slowly.
They did not hug.
Neither of them was capable of something that normal.
They simply stood there, facing each other, with that strange awkwardness of people who had known each other before a tragedy and were meeting again after it.
"I tried to call you," Evan said.
"My phone's somewhere in my room," Hugo replied. "I didn't check."
His voice was rough.
Behind them, Hugo's father started crying again, more quietly this time, as if his body no longer had the strength for anything else.
Hugo closed his eyes for a second.
When he opened them again, he looked at Evan differently.
"And you?"
Evan lowered his eyes.
"My mother."
Hugo did not answer right away.
Then he nodded slowly.
He did not need more than that.
They understood.
That was maybe the worst part.
They understood each other too well.
A silence settled between them.
Not empty.
Heavy.
Filled with everything they still could not say.
At last, Hugo asked,
"Did you see the news?"
"Yeah."
"It's everywhere."
"Yeah."
Hugo ran a hand through his hair.
"I can't believe the world is still going somehow."
Evan looked past him, toward the living room window.
A strip of gray sky was visible through it.
"It's not really going," he said.
Hugo let out a brief laugh with no joy in it.
"Yeah."
Hugo's father lifted his head and asked in a broken voice,
"Do you think it's going to happen again?"
The question fell into the apartment like something none of them wanted to hear spoken out loud.
Neither Evan nor Hugo answered.
The silence was enough.
The father began to cry again.
Hugo looked away.
"I'm trying to stay with him," he said more quietly. "He... he keeps staring at the door like she's going to walk back in."
Evan felt his throat tighten.
He looked once more at the school bag by the entrance.
Then at the drawing on the fridge.
Then at Hugo.
"I was out getting groceries," he said at last, lifting his bag slightly. "I figured I could stop by your place too."
Hugo nodded.
"I'm glad you did."
Evan hesitated.
Then added,
"If you need anything... I mean... if either of you needs anything..."
The sentence trailed off unfinished.
Hugo completed it with a small nod.
"You too."
They looked at each other for a few more seconds.
Not like before.
But not like strangers either.
Something had tightened again between them.
An old thread.
Damaged, but not broken.
"I'll come back," Evan said.
"Yeah."
This time, when Evan turned to leave, Hugo followed him to the door.
His father had not moved.
In the hallway, before Evan could go farther, Hugo spoke softly again.
"Evan."
He turned around.
Hugo's eyes were red, but his face remained strangely calm.
"Take care of yourself."
Evan looked at him for a second.
Then simply answered,
"You too."
He went down the stairs without looking back.
Outside, the air felt even heavier than before.
He walked home, grocery bag in hand, crossing streets that were still tense.
A group had gathered in front of one apartment building around a folding table where someone was handing out water and writing down names.
Farther away, a man was putting up posters saying people needed to prepare themselves spiritually.
Elsewhere, shutters stayed closed in the middle of the afternoon.
Faces watched the street from windows as if it might answer something.
When Evan finally got home, his supplies suddenly felt pathetic.
He set them down on the kitchen table.
Put half of them away.
Left the rest out.
Then went back into the living room.
The apartment was just as silent as before.
But now he was not only thinking about his mother.
He was thinking about Hugo.
About his father.
About the little sneakers by the door.
About the drawing on the fridge.
About Marc.
About Marc's daughter, somewhere out there.
About all those doors with someone missing behind them.
Evan slowly sat down on the couch.
Outside, the sky was already starting to change color.
He looked up toward the window.
The ship was still there.
Patient.
Motionless.
As if it knew no one had understood yet.
Evan remained still for a long time.
Then he took out his phone.
The news was still running.
So were the debates.
Some said it was over.
Others said it was only the beginning.
Others insisted people needed to group together, leave the cities, pray, run, wait.
No one knew anything.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Evan set the phone down beside him.
His gaze drifted back up to the ceiling.
To the dull white of the living room.
And without meaning to, he thought of the box again.
Its perfect walls.
The red timer.
The voice.
Marc.
His heart immediately began to race.
He closed his eyes.
A thought slowly took shape, cold and stubborn.
Not a certainty.
Not yet.
Just fear.
If they were able to do this once, then maybe it isn't over.
In the silence of the apartment, that thought felt heavier than everything else.
Heavier than grief.
Heavier than exhaustion.
Heavier even than the black sky hanging above the world.