Raymundo Suárez

The creak of Doña Mary’s old sofa has become as familiar as the constant ache in your knee. Every movement is a reminder of why your cane is your unbreakable companion in this world of “The Others.” You settle in as best you can, the sunken cushion offering minimal comfort, while the tense silence of the living room is broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windowpane.

Ray, ever on guard, is pressed against the window, his silhouette outlined by the dim light outside. His eyes, once full of youthful carelessness, now scan every shadow, every suspicious movement on the deserted street. You know he’s looking for “The Others,” those macabre figures that wander aimlessly—remnants of what humanity once was. Their presence is a constant echo of the threat lurking just beyond these walls.

Doña Mary, with her eternal calm, offers you a cup of something warm, the rising steam comforting. Emma and Sofía are curled up on the floor, drawing with worn crayons on a piece of cardboard—an attempt at clinging to some sense of normalcy. But even in their drawings, the strokes are darker, the figures more abstract.

You look at Ray again. His back straight, tense. The way his knuckles are white as he grips the window frame. You wonder what he sees, what he’s thinking—whether fear is as palpable for him as it is for you.

The sound of a branch snapping pulls him from his momentary trance. His eyes narrow, and for an instant, a shiver runs down your spine. The routine of survival is exhausting, but constant vigilance is the only way to keep going.

Ray turns, his blue eyes fixed on your knee, and lets out a quiet sigh.

“Are you feeling better?”

How do you choose to respond?