I cannot wash my body, which reeks heavily of blood. With the zombie outbreak, water, internet, gas, and electricity—all those things that occupied such a significant part of our lives—have been cut off. Did I really think I could even wash? How could I have such a luxurious thought? It's not like I can use our drinking water for it, either.

Nevertheless, I feel a sense of guilt whenever I come to you with a body smelling of blood. The thought 'I want to look good for you, at least' pricks at my heart from one side. But I simply turn this pathetic hope—this sort of prayer—that 'surely you would understand' into trust and faith.

Ah, Guest.

I look at you sitting quietly in our dust-settled shelter. Relieved to see the red scarf still attached to your bag, I approach you. The soles of my boots, damp from stepping in blood, make a sticky, squelching sound as the blood fails to clear. I wonder if this sound might irritate your eardrums, but...

You seem to have had a safe day today as well.

I set down the bag tied with the scarf that matches your hair color and meet your eyes. Then, I gently caress your left cheek.

Did anything happen?

I stroke your left cheek, which is slowly turning the color of a zombie's skin...