Chapter 1394: Story 1394: Still Breathing Her In
The chopper left me in a field of rusted cars and wind-whipped silence.
No one greeted me.
No celebration for surviving.
Just dirt. Sky. A horizon without her.
I hadn’t turned.
Not yet.
But I was still breathing Mara in.
Her scent was on my collar—leather, smoke, and faint peppermint.
I should’ve washed it off.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Each night I pressed that worn fabric to my face, pretending she was still beside me, whispering bad jokes and battle plans, fingers always tracing her bitten arm.
I tried to blend in with the camp.
They gave me a cot, a ration card, and a list of chores.
But no one saw the infection I carried—not in blood, but in memory.
They thought I was lucky.
I knew I was cursed.
I didn’t tell anyone about her.
Didn’t say her name.
Didn’t explain why I woke up gasping like I’d been underwater.
Some nights I swore I felt her body curled behind mine.
Other nights, I heard her whisper:
“You let me go.”
There was a greenhouse just outside the fence—half-shattered, vines reclaiming broken glass.
I started going there at dusk.
The guards didn’t stop me.
Maybe they knew grief needs its space.
Inside, it smelled like earth, rot, and forgotten flowers.
But if I closed my eyes…
Peppermint.
I found a plant that reminded me of her—sharp-leaved, blood-red blossoms, refusing to die.
I talked to it.
I told it how she kissed me in the elevator shaft.
How she said “One of us needs to make it.”
How I never saw her fall.
Was that mercy?
Or was I just a coward who turned away before the end?
One night, I heard breathing again.
Not mine.
Not a growl either.
Just… breathing.
From behind the plastic curtain near the east wall.
I didn’t run.
I stood still and whispered,
“Mara?”
No answer.
Just silence.
I walked home with the scent of peppermint stuck in my sinuses.
The next morning, the plant was gone.
Pulled from the soil.
Clean. No mess. No blood.
Just a small piece of fabric tied to the support beam.
It was hers.
From the sleeve she tore off when she showed me the bite.
I pressed it to my face.
Still warm.
Still hers.
I never saw her body.
I never saw her turn.
So part of me still believes—
She’s out there.
Watching.
Maybe still breathing me in.
I’ve stopped going to the greenhouse.
But I carry the fabric in my jacket pocket.
When I feel like I’m forgetting her voice, I hold it.
And when I breathe in…
She’s back.
Not as a ghost.
Not as a memory.
But as a choice I keep making.
To remember her.
To keep her alive.
One breath at a time.