I got to know Sofia little by little, like the way the ocean wears down stone—soft, steady, inevitable. She had lost everything before the war even began.
Her mother, murdered.
Her father, betrayed.
Her sister, taken by the first wave of bombs.
Some called her cursed. Everyone she loved vanished, one by one, like shadows swallowed by the dark. And for a long time, she let the weight of grief crush her, pressing her down into the earth like she might disappear, too. But then—one day—she didn't.
"If I'm still here," she told me, "there has to be a reason."
So she smiled. Not because she had forgotten, not because the pain had left her, but because sadness, if you let it, will eat you alive. And she had lost enough.
We walked for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe longer. The sky never changed—just endless grey, the sun strangled by smoke. We spoke less and less, our words drying up like everything else. Even Sofia, who always had something to say, went quiet.
And then—
A house.
Small. Standing alone in the wasteland, like a miracle. A light flickered inside. The scent of food drifted toward us, thick and warm.
We didn't hesitate.
Inside, we found it—more food than we had seen in months. Meat, bread, jars of something rich and red. We should have been careful. We should have thought. But hunger drowns out reason.
We ate. And ate.
A month's worth of food, gone in minutes.
Then—
The door creaked.
We froze.
A man entered, his arms full of fresh meat. He saw us instantly.
The man's eyes lingered on us. His hands, rough and stained, clenched the fresh meat tighter. He looked at what little food remained on the table—crumbs, smears of sauce, bones picked clean—and then back at us.
Sofia held my hand beneath the table, her fingers tightening around mine. I expected him to yell, to throw us out, to grab the knife by the stove and demand we pay for what we had taken. Instead, he sighed. A long, heavy sigh, as if he had expected this all along.
"You can stay," he said finally. "But you stay quiet. You don't ask questions. You don't bother me."
We nodded.
That night, curled up in a corner of the small, dimly lit house, we whispered to each other. Sofia's voice was barely audible over the wind outside.
"Why would he let us stay?" she asked.
"I don't know," I admitted.
She hesitated. "Something's wrong."
I didn't have an answer for that, in this world where kindness disappeared and survival is everything. Why would he let us eat?
The next morning, we watched him. He moved with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who had nothing but time. He skinned the meat with practiced hands, cutting, slicing, setting aside. He didn't look at us. Didn't speak to us.
I asked him where he found so much food, but he ignored me. When he left, I asked to go with him.
"No."
Every day, the same routine. Every day, the same answer. No.
But the curiosity grew, gnawing at my ribs sharper than hunger ever had. And one day, Sofia and I made a decision.
We followed him.
We waited until he was far enough ahead, then moved like shadows behind him. The grey wasteland stretched endlessly, and we had nowhere to hide but the crumbling ruins of what had once been homes, schools, lives.
Then, we saw it.
The first body. Hanging, limp, from a makeshift hook driven into the ruins. A man—his clothes torn, his face frozen in something between fear and pain. Blood pooled at his feet.
I stopped breathing.
Sofia gasped. I grabbed her arm before she could make a sound.
The man moved forward. A knife appeared in his hand.
We watched, frozen in horror, as he worked. Cutting. Peeling. The sickening sound of flesh separating from bone. He worked with the precision of a butcher. Because that was exactly what he was.
Not a hunter. Not a scavenger.
A butcher. Of people.
I felt the bile rise in my throat.
He collected the blood in a jar. Carefully. As if it were something sacred.
We should have run. We should have turned away. But we followed him still, unable to stop ourselves, our feet dragging us forward like puppets tied to a string.
And then—we saw him meet someone.
An old man. Bent with age, his face a road map of deep lines. His voice cracked like dry earth when he spoke.
"You'll have them in a few days," the butcher said.
I stiffened.
The old man smiled, a slow, knowing thing. "Good."
The butcher turned, walking back toward the house.
Sofia and I stood in silence, the weight of what we had seen pressing down on us like the sky itself.
We had eaten.
We had eaten.
The realization settled in my stomach like a stone, cold and heavy. My vision blurred. My hands shook.
Sofia doubled over, dry heaving onto the dirt.
We had eaten our kin. And now we were next.
That night, we lay awake in the dark. The butcher snored softly, his breath even and calm.
Sofia turned to me, her voice no more than a breath. "We have to do it."
I knew what she meant.
And I knew she was right.
We moved slowly. Carefully. Every sound, every creak of the floor, sent our hearts slamming against our ribs.
I reached for the knife.
The blade was cold in my hands.
I moved toward him.
One step.
Two.
I raised the knife.
And then—
A hand.
From the darkness.
Gripping my wrist.
I froze.
Sofia inhaled sharply.
The darkness itself seemed to breathe.
A whisper. Low. Amused.
"You really thought I wouldn't know?"