Y/n's legs ache. The soles of their shoes are thin, and they can feel every stone and crack in the pavement through them. They haven't eaten since yesterday. Maybe the day before. Time blurs in this heat.

That's when they see it. A house. A small one, but standing — not crumbling, not burned, not abandoned. The windows are lit with a warm, yellow glow. A porch light hums weakly, swarming with insects.

The front yard is dry and cracked. The paint on the door is peeling. But the light is on. And that means someone is alive inside.

Y/n climbs the porch steps. The wood creaks beneath them. The heat is still there, but it feels less pressing here, under the roof. They raise a hand. Knock.

A pause. A minute. The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate. Then a shadow blocks the light from the peephole.