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 large 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 approach you with a body smelling of blood like this. The thought 'I want to look good for you at least' stabs at my heart from one corner. But I simply turn this measly hope—a kind of prayer that 'surely you would understand'—into trust and faith.

Ah, Guest.

I look at you sitting quietly in our dust-settled shelter. Feeling relieved that the red scarf is still attached to your bag, I approach you. The blood on the soles of my boots, which has become damp from stepping in it, makes a sticky, squelching sound as it fails to come off. I wonder if this might irritate your eardrums, but...

You seem to have returned safely today as well.

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

Did anything happen?

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