Grivenar took out the two cans and placed them on the table, then cast a sideways glance toward Tharos lying in the corner, stretched out with his exhausted body, barely moving, but his eyes were fully aware and watching him.
He spoke in a soft tone, hesitantly lifting the can of beans:
"Volcanic Burning Beans… the name alone makes me sweat, but… maybe it's just spicy, or it's just marketing exaggeration."
Then he turned toward the other can and shook it slightly in his hand:
"And Ninth Planet Honey? Does that mean it's bitter? Or sweet in an unnatural way? Who names these things?"
He gave a half-smile as he opened one of the drawers looking for a can opener, then said, returning his gaze to Tharos:
"Since you can move your arms, I'll open one for you, and you eat it yourself, but first choose: do you prefer the burning one? Or the mysterious one?"
He raised the two cans slightly as if they were two old treasures, waiting for Tharos to signal or nod his preference.
Tharos looked at the two cans in front of him, at Grivenar holding that simple choice and offering it like it was ordinary—but to Tharos, it was not.
He seemed hesitant, not because he didn't know the taste of honey or beans, but because he had never been given such an opportunity before… a chance to choose.
Velmer, the one who shared the darkness with him, never involved him in anything—not decisions, nor even thoughts about them.
Everything concerning his life, his body, his silence, and even his sorrow passed through Velmer, not through him.
So when Tharos slowly raised his hand toward that honey he might have never tasted before, that small movement carried a tremendous weight inside him.
It was as if his body was saying for the first time, "I choose."
He pointed silently at the can, with faint eyes.
But Grivenar understood.
"A good choice… although it's not the best for your health right now, I'll give you just a little. You look like you haven't eaten in a long time."
Grivenar said this as he looked at Tharos with a scrutinizing eye.
His outer appearance suggested fragility, somewhat emaciated, but his body—despite everything—still held remnants of some strength.
Grivenar took out the can Tharos chose with his eyes, and after a moment searching among the worn drawers, he found an old opener. He knelt and carefully began opening the can.
As the lid made soft metallic clicks, he spoke in a tone with a hint of paternal concern:
"Before you eat it, you need to drink water first… agreed?"
Tharos nodded, even though his expression said the choice wasn't really his.
Grivenar got up and moved toward the entrance where a glass bottle of water was placed, holding it carefully as if it were a treasure. Then he returned to Tharos, sat beside him, gently lifted his head, and poured some water into his mouth.
**
The water was cold, pure despite everything.
It slowly passed through Tharos's mouth… touched his tongue, throat, then descended to his stomach as if it were the first water he had drunk in centuries.
Maybe it was, from his point of view.
For a moment, the water was not just water, but a feeling.
It was like a soft sigh from another world, deep, familiar… and lost.
But soon his face twisted in mild pain, a pain in the pit of his stomach, as if his body was surprised by the presence of life entering it again after a long dormancy.
Grivenar immediately stopped pouring, looked at him calmly:
"Slowly… it's okay, that's normal, your stomach needs time to remember it's alive."
Then he smiled lightly as he put the bottle aside, as if something inside him was relieved to see that slight pain… the pain of returning to the body.
Silence remained between them for a moment, interrupted only by the crackling fire in the old stove.
Then Grivenar said:
"Well… now, let's see how Ninth Planet Honey tastes."
Grivenar fetched a spoon from one of the drawers, then scooped some honey on its tip. He slightly lifted the cloth covering his face—but did not reveal his face yet—and tasted a little, gasping softly, then said as he returned the spoon to the can:
"Ohhh… sour, but it'll do."
He dipped the spoon again, then walked toward Tharos with steady steps, bent in front of him, carefully placed his hand behind his neck like holding something fragile, then put the tip of the spoon in his mouth.
Tharos, who hadn't tasted a flavor in a long time he could not remember, received the honey as someone unfamiliar with both sweet and sour. The sourness burst in his mouth, his eyebrows quickly knit together, and his jaw trembled in a funny movement he could not suppress.
Grivenar immediately laughed, a warm simple laugh, but it felt as if it pierced a thick wall in the place:
"Hahaha… sour, isn't it? Hahaha… it's okay, that's enough for now."
He gently pulled the spoon away, laid Tharos's head back on his makeshift pillow, then squatted opposite him, watching his face begin to regain faint life.
He said in a less cheerful, but still calm tone:
"We'll wait a bit… maybe your stomach will remember how to deal with food."
Then he turned toward the stove, watching the fire whisper inside the pot, while a heavy silence lingered in the other corner…
But this time it was not a silence of fear, but a fragile relief… like a child who was removed from the storm and had yet to realize he was no longer in its grasp.
Every ten minutes, Grivenar fed Tharos some of that honey until it was finished. Then he sat silently in front of him, his movements subdued, his hands resting on his knees. Seriousness rose in his eyes, the only two visible between the folds of the cloth that never shifted.
He looked at one of the walls, a cracked wall as if time had passed over it and forgotten it. Grivenar took a deep breath, then spoke in a cautious, weighted tone:
"Well… since you don't know anything about what happened in this world, I'll tell you quickly… because the night doesn't have much left, and the night of this time cannot be trusted."
He paused. The firelight reflected in his eyes as if they were glowing in the dark room, or as if a heavy past was burning in them.
"They didn't tell us it was dangerous… at first, we thought it was just a virus, non-transmissible—not through air, water, or touch… no way to transmit it. We thought it would disappear over time, but it didn't. Every time we heard that their numbers were increasing.
At first, they were ten people… then twenty… then forty… until we reached what we are now. They became more than us.
And I don't know who is still alive now. I haven't seen anyone but you for almost three years.
Everything started in 2004, when the news spread that two men were conducting tests in the basement of a house in a forest called the Fogveil Forest. Their experiments were on human samples… trying to make humans live as long as possible.
Their experiments didn't succeed at first, but they didn't stop. They continued as if something in their minds had broken… as if they had gone completely mad."
Grivenar looked at his hand, deep scratches scattered on it as if a monster's claws had once torn it in hysteria. A moment of silence passed before his voice emerged deep, hoarse, as if the words themselves carried the weight of years:
"It's been thirteen years since that experiment… and though I still find it hard to believe they really released something that could end humans."
He paused, then sighed as if his chest carried the ashes of those years.
"That thing… at first, it wasn't even a virus as we believed, but a side experiment… a small thing, not part of their plan, they barely noticed it."
He raised his gaze toward the dark ceiling, his eyes shining with the candlelight reflection, then added:
"The strange thing… it wasn't matter, it wasn't a disease. It was a feeling. Fear. Yes… fear itself.
But it changed… grew… formed… I don't know how, or when. But eventually, it became a being. Something unseen, untouchable… yet it kills."
He glanced at the small fire in the middle of the room, its flame trembling as if it sensed the weight of what was being said, then continued softly:
"And them? They didn't notice. It grew secretly among their sample. They didn't pay attention until it was too late."
He stared longer at the flame, then whispered as if revealing a hidden secret:
"But it has a weakness. Fire—not just fire… but the presence of a living person in front of it.
They… fear that. I don't know the exact reason, but it's clear. If there is fire… and a living human in front of it… they retreat. As if there is an old memory… or a curse."
"You might ask me, how do I know all this? Even though I only said a little…"
"The reason is simple… I was a journalist. My full name was Lucas Morcosti, but now… just call me Grivenar.
And those things knocking at the door? They're the same as what I told you about a little while ago… but…"
He didn't finish.
Something interrupted him.
The sound of footsteps… light, hesitant, but present. Coming from above. As if someone was tiptoeing on the roof, and with every step, the lower floor whispered a tremor.
Grivenar looked up at the ceiling, his eyes widened, fear clearly etched silently in them.
He quickly rose from his place, as if an inner voice called him.
He moved toward the candles and hastily extinguished them one by one with his hand.
Then he moved toward the water bottle, grabbed it and poured it on the small fire in the stove…
The flame suddenly went out, and darkness swallowed the place again.