After the events of the masked terror, peace had finally returned. At least, that's what they told themselves. Days had begun to stretch longer, gentler. The oppressive air of dread that had hung like a shadow over their home had lifted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was silence, not the kind that echoed fear, but the kind that settled gently like a blanket.
Their fields had flourished beyond expectations. Rows upon rows of wheat, maize, and vegetables swayed softly in the breeze. Golden sunlight poured across the land in waves, glinting off dew-slick leaves and cracked tools. The couple moved through the field like clockwork. He pulled up thick bunches of carrots, she trimmed leafy greens and collected tomatoes in the folds of her apron. Birds chirped, insects buzzed lazily, and the air smelled of wet earth and growing life.
She sang in full joy while she worked, soft melodies from old lullabies she remembered from childhood. The tunes twisted through the wind, surrounding them like music from another lifetime. The husband paused more than once to just look at her. Her hair was tied in a messy braid, a red ribbon hanging loose near her neck. Sweat dotted her temples, and her cheeks were sun-warmed and freckled with tiny patches of dirt. She looked alive, the way she had never been in the last 6 months
They worked like that for hours, letting the world slip past. For once, time wasn't the enemy During a short break, they sat together beneath a tree, sharing water and biting into apples plucked from a nearby branch. She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, and murmured something about how strange her body had felt lately; unwavering fatigue, hunger at odd times, random waves of emotion.
"You alright?" he asked, brushing her hair back.
She opened her eyes, smirking softly. "Maybe it's time we start thinking of names."
He blinked. "Names?"
She nodded, biting her lower lip. "Baby names."
He froze for a breath, searching her face. There was no fear in her eyes — only a quiet certainty.
"You think—"
"I don't know yet," she said quickly, cutting him off, "but I feel like… maybe it's finally safe to think about tomorrow."
For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, a slow smile grew on his face, and he took her hand in his.
"Alright," he whispered. "Then let's pick something strong. Something that survives."
She chuckled and rested her head against his chest. "Something that survives," she repeated. "I like that."
The conversation turned light after that. They tossed around silly names and teased each other about how their child would inherit the worst traits from both. He said the baby would be stubborn like her; she claimed it'd be forgetful like him. The laughter that echoed through the fields was real — no longer just a mask to hide their fear.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting the farm in long amber shadows, they gathered their tools and the day's harvest. The light had taken on that rare, yellow tone; as if the world was being dipped in honey. It softened everything, even the scarecrow standing crooked in the far corner of the field, even the old wooden fences that had begun to melt with age.
The wife brushed a strand of hair from her face, smearing a streak of dirt across her cheek. She placed the last of the ripe produce into a woven basket — tomatoes glowing like small blood-red lanterns — and gave a final glance at the rows behind her. The vines would need trimming tomorrow. The corn might be ready next week. Life had rhythm again. It had routine.
She began to hum once more, the tune drifting from her lips unthinkingly. This time it was slower, but still carried that sweetness only love could bring. It was an old lullaby her mother used to sing; the one she hadn't remembered in years, until her body started craving strange foods and her heart began nesting in quiet ways she didn't understand. The song swirled in the wind, twining between the stalks and cracks of wood, like the echo of something half-remembered.
He looked up from where he was tying the last sack, and for a moment, just watched her. His eyes softened — not with pity or concern, but awe. The kind of awe one reserves for rare things: a double rainbow, a child's first laugh, the sight of someone you love healing.
Then, without a word, he reached for her hand. They walked side by side across the field, their fingers laced together, skin warm from the sun and the effort of the day. Behind them, the field glistened in golden light, almost surreal in its beauty. It was the kind of moment you might see in a dream and forget by morning.
The small home at the edge of the field came into view, and both of them unconsciously slowed their steps. Inside, she set down the baskets with a soft exhale. Her back ached in a dull, soft way, the kind of ache that reminded her she was alive. He stepped in behind her and lit the small lantern hanging near the door. Its flame caught quickly, casting golden ripples of light across the floor.
She reached into one of the kitchen shelves and pulled out a sealed jar of pickled peppers. It had taken her three tries to get the brine right, and this morning, she had finally nailed it. Holding the jar like it was a trophy, she held it up to him with pride.
"Perfect brine this time," she grinned, her eyes catching the flicker of the lanternlight.
He took the jar and turned it in his hands like it was something rare and precious, nodding slowly as if examining fine wine. Then, without saying a word, he set it down and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Her laughter was quiet, buried against his chest, where she nestled with familiarity.
His hand gently traced the curve of her back, lingering just a second longer near her waist.
For a moment, the world was still. But far above the lantern's gentle glow, the sky had changed. Thick clouds had begun to gather at the horizon. Not the kind that drifted lazily. These clouds rolled — heavy, dark, and unnaturally fast — as though pulled by invisible strings. Lightning flickered, silent for now, hidden behind the hills in the distance. No forecast had predicted this. The air grew heavier, and somewhere in the nearby forest, a flock of birds took off all at once, their wings slicing through the silence.
They didn't hear that. Not yet. They were still inside, sharing bread and pickled things by lamplight, making plans about tomorrow. She talked about drying herbs, about making jam, about repainting the nursery just in case. He smiled and nodded, making mental notes of lumber and tools. She reached for his hand again.
A sudden, sharp wind rattled the window and they both paused for a moment.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
He nodded, standing up slowly to check. Outside, the wind was starting to whip through the fields, bending the grass and rustling the old birch tree near the edge. The sky had gone a shade darker. Not quite night — but wrong.
They stepped out onto the porch together, arms wrapped around one another. The first few drops of rain began to fall; cold, fat, and hard. Each one hit like a tiny drumbeat. The forecast never predicted this rain.
As thunder began to rumble and they both looked at each other.
The wife said "I don't want to go back alone," she whispered. She clutched his hand tighter. The warmth of it anchored her, even as the wind howled a little louder and the sky blinked with silent flashes.
"Then we go together," he said. And together, they stepped off the porch and into the rising storm, unaware of what waited for them just down the road. For a moment, the world was still. They didn't know that the winds were shifting. That deep in the sky, something had already begun to stir. But peace has a way of luring people into comfort… Right before it's torn away.