Day 10.8: Stillness


    I don’t remember sleeping.


    I must have, though. At some point. I don’t know how long. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. But when I open my eyes, my neck aches from where I was slumped against the van’s steering wheel. My mouth is dry, my tongue thick, like I swallowed dust and let it settle there overnight. My limbs feel weighted, sluggish, like my body doesn’t want to wake up yet. A deep, aching stiffness sits in my bones, in my spine, in my skull. My head throbs, slow and dull, the kind of headache that comes from exhaustion and not enough food.


    I shift slightly in the seat, and something feels… off. A prickle of unease runs down my spine. I frown, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel. I know I stepped outside this car. Did I? I don’t know anymore. My memories feel blurred at the edges, smeared together like wet paint. The junkyard outside looks the same, but something inside me whispers that it isn’t.


    So quiet. Pressing in on me.


    Nothing moves. The stacked cars loom around me, frozen in time, their rusted edges sharp against the dull morning light. The air is thick, damp, clinging to my skin. It smells like metal, like old oil, like something long dead. It feels like the world itself is waiting—waiting for me to move, waiting for something to break the silence.


    I blink hard, shaking the stiffness from my hands. My body feels slow, heavy, like I’ve been sinking into the seat for too long, like I’ve melted into the van and left half of myself behind in sleep. My head pounds, slow and dull, sending a throb through my skull with every beat of my heart. My stomach twists, empty and angry, but I shove the feeling down. Hunger is just another problem I can’t deal with right now.


    The car is useless without fuel. I need to find some. If there’s anything left to find. If I can even make it that far. My legs feel unsteady as I shift in my seat, the ache in my bones making me hesitate. But I have no choice. Sitting here won’t fix anything. Sitting here is just waiting to die.


    I push the door open and step onto the gravel. The sound is too loud in the silence, and I wince. My fingers flex around the crowbar, ready. I scan the wreckage again—rows of rusted cars stacked like corpses, metal husks stripped down to their bones. The air smells like old oil, rust, and something else. Something bitter. Like mold, like rot.


    My eyes drift back to the body.


    Still in the same place. Still twisted, still unmoving.


    I tell myself I won’t check again. I tell myself it’s over.


    I don’t believe it.


    My feet hesitate, just for a second, like they don’t trust me either. Like some deep, buried instinct is screaming at me to look again, to be sure. But I don’t. I force myself to turn away.


    I step forward, and it feels like stepping into something thick, something unseen pressing against me, making it harder to move, harder to breathe. The junkyard seems darker here, the spaces between the wrecks narrower, like they’ve shifted closer when I wasn’t looking. My pulse is a steady drum in my ears. The silence feels different now. Not empty. Not waiting.


    Watching.


    The deeper I go, the worse it feels.


    The wreckage towers higher here, cars stacked three, sometimes four high, their glass shattered, doors wrenched open like broken ribs. The metal is rusted through in places, eaten away by time and weather, leaving jagged edges that look like teeth. The wind barely reaches this far in, leaving everything stale, untouched, the air thick and still, like it’s been trapped in this graveyard of steel for years. Every step I take crunches on broken glass and debris, the sound too sharp, too loud.


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    There’s a building ahead.


    Small. Boxy. Crouched between the wrecks like it’s hiding, forgotten. A single window smeared with grime, the glass warped and clouded, blocking out the light. A metal door hangs half-open, its edges rusted, the bottom scraping the ground like it’s been opened and closed too many times. Some kind of office. The place where someone used to sit and handle paperwork before the world ended. Before the dead walked. Before all of this. Before people stopped worrying about paperwork.


    I hesitate at the entrance. The door sways slightly, creaking on rusted hinges, moving with a breeze I can’t feel. The sound crawls down my spine, sets my teeth on edge. My stomach tightens, a knot of warning twisting deep inside me.


    I don’t want to go inside.


    But I have to.


    I press my back against the doorframe and listen. Nothing. No shifting, no breathing. No wet sounds of something waiting to tear into me. Just silence.


    But the silence feels wrong.


    Like something is holding its breath.


    I step in.


    The office is a mess.


    Old papers, yellowed and curling at the edges, are scattered across the floor, some torn, others damp like they’ve been sitting in a puddle that dried long ago. A rusted filing cabinet stands in the corner, its drawers half-open, empty, gaping like broken mouths. A desk sits near the window, covered in dust and something darker—old stains, dried into the wood, seeping into the cracks. A chair is tipped over beside it, the fabric torn, stuffing spilling out like exposed guts. It smells like mildew, like age, like time stopped here long ago and rotted in place.


    But there’s something else. Something off.


    The air is thick, heavy, pressing down on my shoulders like a weight. My skin prickles, that deep-rooted instinct gnawing at me again, the one that says: Get out. Don’t be here. Don’t turn your back.


    It takes me a second to realize what’s wrong.


    There’s no dust on the desk itself. Just around it. The papers are scattered, but not settled. The stains look fresh—not wet, but not as old as they should be. A chair that should be coated in grime is clean—too clean. The edges of the papers look like they’ve been rifled through. The floor has faint scuff marks, like someone stood here. Paced. Moved.


    Someone’s been here.


    Recently.


    And they might come back.


    My breath slows, my muscles tense. My grip on the crowbar tightens, my knuckles aching. I scan the room again, every shadow, every corner.


    I’m alone.


    But I don’t feel alone.


    The air has weight now, thick and pressing, like something unseen is curled around me, squeezing, waiting. My skin prickles, every nerve screaming that I’m being watched, that there are eyes on me from somewhere in the dim corners of this rotting place. My breath slows, my fingers tightening around the crowbar until they ache.


    The window glares back at me, warped and cracked, but I can’t see through the grime. I don’t want to. The glass is too murky, the shapes outside too twisted, like something is just beyond it, blurred, moving. Or maybe it’s just my reflection, stretched and wrong.


    I kneel and open a drawer in the desk. Empty. Another one. Empty. My pulse quickens. There has to be something—anything—


    Third drawer. Locked.


    My hands tremble as I grip the handle, as I yank, as I wedge the crowbar into the gap and push until the wood splinters and the lock snaps. The sound is sharp, a sudden crack that makes my pulse jolt.


    Inside—


    A key. Rusted, small. Sitting alone in the dust like it was waiting for me.


    I pick it up, turning it between my fingers. The metal is cold, rough with corrosion, leaving a faint, dirty stain on my skin. My throat is dry. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, a steady, growing rhythm that won’t slow down.


    What does it open?


    I swallow hard, glancing around the dim room, my breath shallow. I don’t like this. I don’t like the weight of the key in my hand. It feels wrong. Like it belongs to something I don’t want to find.


    And more importantly…


    Who locked it?


    And are they still here? Watching? Waiting?


    I tighten my grip on the key, my palm sweaty around the rusted metal. The air feels even heavier now, pressing against me, closing in. My breath catches in my throat as I glance toward the door, half-expecting to see a shadow shift, a figure standing there, silent, waiting for me to notice them.


    Nothing.


    Just the broken, rotting office. Just the same stillness that somehow doesn’t feel still anymore.


    I swallow hard, forcing down the unease curling in my gut.


    I need to get out of here.