The world did not heal overnight. Healing rarely happens that way—especially after so much blood has been spilled, after so many screams have been carried by the wind and buried in hollowed-out streets. But eventually, the silence that followed the fall of the infected began to sound less like mourning... and more like possibility.
The cure they developed from my blood was never meant to be a miracle. But it became one.
After the scientists at the barracks stabilized the formula, the first batch of antidotes was administered with trembling hands and cautious hope. I still remember the day a freshly infected woman—her skin that started to mottle, eyes glazed—took a dose and, after a few minutes of feverish convulsions, opened her eyes clear. She whispered her name, not the guttural snarl.
