July 7, 2023
Dear Journal,
This morning, we stood at the top of the stairwell, staring into a darkness that felt… alive.
I don't mean figuratively. It moved. It shifted. It breathed.
Every time Naomi tried to shine her flashlight, it flickered and died. Our batteries were fresh. Our gear worked fine until we reached that exact threshold. Marcus even tried using his lighter. The flame held for a second before sputtering out—like something sucked the oxygen right out of the air.
So we turned back.
At least, for now.
Clara needed rest. Nora was growing pale from carrying her, emotionally and physically drained. She hasn't eaten in two days, and her eyes are beginning to glaze over. So we made the call:
We're leaving.
Not permanently. We'll regroup, recover. Then decide if we ever come back to South Station.
If there's one thing this place made clear, it's that what's underground isn't salvation.
It's a trap.
We took a detour north, past what used to be the train tracks. The city crumbled faster out here. Nature is reclaiming everything. Vines wrap around lampposts. Grass breaks through cracks in the concrete. The city's death is old. Ancient. Something buried it a long time ago, and only the memory remains.
Clara slept the entire time. Her fever dipped slightly this morning—just enough to give Nora hope. Marcus offered to carry her most of the way. He doesn't say it, but I can tell he blames himself for everything we've seen.
He still thinks there was something we missed. Some back door in the station that could've led to safety.
Maybe there was.
Maybe we were too afraid to find it.
But that humming—Clara's humming—started again when we passed the edge of the station's range. That same low melody, coming not from her lips, but from under her breath. As if her lungs vibrated with it.
Like a message.
Or a warning.
We've stopped in a long-abandoned motel on the outskirts of a town called Fairgate. Just a few miles from the red zone. The place is half-burned, but there are enough intact rooms to hole up for the night.
Naomi's posted tripwires around the perimeter. Marcus is boiling water. Nora is sitting at the edge of the mattress, staring down at Clara and humming softly, matching the girl's eerie tune, as if singing with it might tame it.
I asked Naomi where we'll go next.
She didn't answer.
She just opened the motel nightstand and pulled out a yellowed road map, tracing it with her knife tip.
"You ever notice," she said, "how every road eventually stops?"
"What do you mean?"
She tapped the edge of the map.
"Cities fall. Signals die. Maps fade. Doesn't matter what direction you run in the end—you're still in the game. Just playing a different level."
I didn't know what to say.
Because she's right.
We've been migrating for months. Town to town. Ruin to ruin. Following rumors, lights, voices, coordinates, and desperate hope. Always toward something better. Always running from the same shadow.
And every time we think we've arrived—we haven't.
South Station was the clearest lie we've ever swallowed.
And now?
Now we're not even chasing anything.
We're just… going.
For the first time, our migration has no destination. No purpose.
Just motion.
I looked around the motel. Mold on the ceiling. Dust an inch thick on the table. Curtains fluttering where the window used to be.
It's not safe. It's not shelter.
But it's what we have.
And it's quiet.
Too quiet.
Until Clara sat up.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to look at us—her eyes wide open, completely lucid.
And she said one word:
"Nowhere."
Then she laid back down and fell asleep again.
Marcus looked at me. Naomi gripped her knife tighter.
Nora started to cry.
Because that's where we're going, isn't it?
Not west. Not to another station or survivor camp or underground vault.
Nowhere.
And something's waiting for us there.
Watching.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Yours in motion,
J.K.