Things We Keep
1024 Words
Chapter nineteen
Lily arrived with a backpack, a bruised shoulder, and the kind of expression that suggested she’d already decided she didn’t need anyone’s help.
Claire knew that look.
She’d worn it herself.
“She’s impossible,” Claire whispered as she watched Lily argue with Damien about where she could sleep.
“I heard that,” Lily called from across the room.
“Good,” Damien replied.
For the first time in months, their home sounded like a place where people actually lived.
Not survived.
Lived.
The fire had become the center of everything. Someone had repaired the chimney enough that it no longer smoked into the room, and someone, Claire suspected Lily had started hanging blankets over the cracked walls to make the place warmer.
Damien claimed it was practical.
Everyone else knew it was because Claire had said the place felt less like a bunker when it had color.
He still pretended not to care.
He was terrible at pretending now.
Mara noticed.
Of course she did.
“You smile more,” she said to him while Claire was sorting medical supplies nearby.
Damien looked up. “No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
Lily laughed from the table. “She got you.”
Damien looked personally offended by the concept of losing an argument.
Claire smiled into the box of bandages.
It was strange.
A few weeks ago, she couldn’t imagine this.
A room full of voices.
A fire that wasn’t for survival.
People who knew her name and weren’t using it for a report.
The quiet after the storm had turned out not to be empty.
It was just waiting to be filled.
Lily didn’t settle in easily.
Nobody expected her to.
She checked exits every morning. She slept lightly. She kept her baby toy under her pillow despite Damien repeatedly telling her it was a terrible idea.
“It’s a comfort thing,” Lily said.
Claire watched them argue and realized something she never thought she would.
Damien had changed.
Not completely.
He still stood closest to the door. Still noticed every sound outside. Still woke from nightmares he refused to describe.
But now, when he woke, he didn’t reach for a weapon first.
He reached for her.
Sometimes he didn’t even realize he did it.
Sometimes neither of them mentioned it.
Those were the moments Claire treasured most.
Three weeks after returning from Northbridge, they found the old greenhouse.
It was behind the east wall, almost completely covered by vines and broken glass.
Damien found it while exploring the perimeter.
“There’s something in there,” she said.
Damien immediately looked suspicious.
“Everything is something with you,” Claire told him.
“Because things usually are.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “You’re exhausting.”
But they went anyway.
Inside, beneath the dust and years of neglect, were shelves.
Empty flower pots.
Old gardening tools.
And dozens of small packets of seeds sealed in waterproof containers.
Claire picked one up carefully.
“Vegetables,” she read.
Claire looked around. “You’re telling me we’ve been eating ration food while this was sitting here?”
Damien crossed his arms. “We didn’t know.”
“You had an entire abandoned greenhouse and didn’t check it?”
“It was covered in poisonous looking plants.”
Claire stared at him.
“Most plants look poisonous when you’re paranoid.”
“You’re alive because Claire keeps you from walking into walls.”
Claire tried not to laugh.
She failed.
Damien looked at her.
And he smiled.
Not the small one he tried to hide.
A real one.
The kind that still surprised him.
They planted the first seeds together.
No speeches.
No promises.
Just hands in the dirt.
Lily planted tomatoes because she insisted they were “the only vegetable worth the effort.”
Damien planted herbs because she said everyone was useless when sick.
And he planted everything in perfectly straight lines.
Claire messed them up on purpose.
“You’re ruining the pattern,” he said.
“I’m improving it.”
“It’s crooked.”
“It’s alive.”
He looked at the uneven rows.
Then at her.
“Fine.”
Lily nearly dropped her shovel.
“Did Damien Blackwood just admit someone else had a better idea?”
“No.”
“You literally did.”
“I said fine.”
“That’s basically a confession.”
Claire laughed, and this time Damien didn’t look away.
That night, after everyone was asleep, Claire found him sitting by the fire.
Not guarding.
Not planning.
Just sitting.
She lowered herself beside him.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she whispered.
“I’m not thinking.”
“You’re staring at the fire like it owes you money.”
That earned a quiet laugh.
A real one.
Claire leaned against him.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Damien said, “I used to think quiet meant something bad was coming.”
Claire looked up.
“And now?”
He looked around the room.
At Lily asleep near the warmth.
And curled under a blanket, still somehow holding her baby toy.
At the greenhouse plans they’d left on the table.
At Claire.
“Now I think maybe quiet is something we build.”
Her chest tightened.
Because that was Damien.
He didn’t know how to say forever.
So he built things that lasted.
A repaired window.
A shared chair.
A fire.
A home.
Claire rested her head on his shoulder.
“You’re getting good at this.”
“At what?”
“Staying.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he took her hand.
“I’m getting good at choosing.”
Outside, the world was still broken.
There were still empty roads.
Still lost people.
Still dangers waiting beyond the walls.
But inside the Residence, there was warmth.
There were voices.
There were seeds in the ground.
And for the first time in a long time, tomorrow didn’t feel like something they had to survive.
It felt like something they could meet.
Together.
- Writer
