She checked the perimeter. No footprints. No blood. Just the print, fingers slightly spread, as if someone had leaned there to rest a moment before moving on.
She dusts the shelves. She reads recipe books from 1987. She watches the sun set over the reference section.
But on the floor, just inside the entrance, lies a single daisy. Fresh. Root still damp.
Not because it’s safe—though the heavy oak doors and narrow windows help—but because it’s quiet. No shambling herds scrape past here. The outbreak skipped this part of the valley. No one knows why. Sometimes she climbs the bell tower and scans the fields: empty highways, a single bicycle lying on its side, wind turning pages of abandoned newspapers. No corpses. No moaning. Just green grass pushing through cracks in the asphalt.
Would you like this as a script, a short film treatment, or a different format?