Karan's hands shook as she placed the cheese and raisin muffins into the display case, but her smile stayed fixed on her face.

In the last few days, whenever a patron came into the bakery, they would go out of their way to compliment her positive attitude as they folded a few copper coins into her hand. Karan always returned their generosity with an outpouring of good cheer, and the patrons would leave, whispering to each other about what a kind and hardworking woman she was.

They didn't know that Karan was faking it, that there was a darkness at the center of her which gnawed its way farther outward with every passing day. There was no one left in No. 6 who knew her well enough to recognize the anguish barely hidden behind her cheery expression.

"Ms. Karan! Can I get another cheese muffin, please?" A little girl hopped up and down behind the counter, her small pigtails swaying with the momentum. Her name was Lili, a child of no more than nine years. She was the only daughter of Karan's friend Renka—though, perhaps not for long; Renka was expecting again and due this Spring.

Lili's weekly visits were the only things that brought Karan any pleasure these days—but the child was also her greatest source of pain. Her exuberance reminded Karan of Shion when he was young.

Shion. Karan's smiled stuttered, but she caught it at the last second and ducked her head behind the muffin case.

"Here you are, Lili. And there's a little extra in there for your mom."

Karan handed the small girl a bag with cheese muffins and a few doughnuts. Renka was a long-time customer of the bakery and Karan's closest friend. Since Renka had gotten pregnant with her second child, the woman had developed a craving for cinnamon sugar doughnuts, so Karan made sure to pack a few whenever Lili came in for a snack.

Lili's eyes lit up when she saw the extra treats; they always did, despite the fact that she received them every week. Her consistency was part of her charm.

"Thank you, Ms. Karan!" Lili slipped three copper coins onto the counter, barked a farewell, and scurried out the door.

"What a sweet little girl," crooned the elderly woman nursing her coffee at the furthest table. The woman was a widow and often came and spent an hour or two sipping her coffee and nibbling at a croissant, but she was so quiet and diminutive, Karan often forgot she was there.

Karan laughed lightly and agreed before she excused herself to the back of the bakery.

Once she was safe and alone in the dark, she let the façade drop. Shion, Karan's heart keened as she crouched down against the door. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if the pressure could keep the burn of tears at bay.

She hadn't cried yet. She hadn't cried when the Security Bureau came to her door and told her—tersely, callously—that Shion had been arrested for public disturbance and murder. Murder. As if Shion could ever have done such a thing.

She wanted to vomit when she heard the words drip from their tightly drawn lips, because she knew that it was a lie, and that everyone knew it, but no one would dare contradict the official story. She knew that she would have to nod, and murmur, and pretend she swallowed down their vile lies, and then keep on living. As if there was any living to be done when half your soul has been torn from your chest.

Karan had known others who had lost someone, and those who had disappeared without a trace. Once someone was taken by the Security Bureau, they were erased, and their loved ones were expected to delete them from the collective memory. But the lost were never truly forgotten; their shadows hung over the places they'd been, perceivable in the way conversation hushed when one walked by a certain house or park bench, or in the moments when your neighbor could no longer look you in the eye when they spoke of last summer.

Karan refused to accept anyone's pity, refused to let anyone know how deeply Shion's disappearance had crippled her heart. This wasn't the first time No. 6 had laid her low. Four years ago, they had taken her livelihood, her privileges, and her home, but she had bounced back.

Except last time she had Shion. She had support, someone to stay strong for. Now there was only her.

Shion. My baby, my boy. The weight of the unknown pressed down on her day by day, until it was hard even to breathe. I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can do this alone.

Karan curled her head between her knees and let the tears roll down her cheeks. She felt ashamed and carved out and utterly hopeless. A quiet sob shook her ribs—and something pinched Karan's ankle. She flinched and bumped her head against the door.

Karan sniffled and checked her ankle. The skin was irritated, and a small, brown mouse was sitting by her shoe, staring up into her face with round, grape-colored eyes. Karan wiped the tears from her chin and blinked down at the rodent. She felt like she should be worried that a mouse had bitten her, but she was having trouble feeling anything but mystified. Mice were rare in No. 6; the Health & Hygiene Bureau carefully monitored the animal population to eliminate disease-carrying creatures, and rodents were high on the list.

The mouse chirruped and spat a small, white capsule at her feet. Karan's brow furrowed further in confusion. She didn't move, and after ten seconds or so, the mouse squeaked and stood up on its hindlegs, as though chastising her for wasting time. Cautiously, Karan plucked the capsule from the floor and inspected it. A note was inside:

Shion is safe, worry not. Escaped to West Block. Be wary of Bureau surveillance. Any replies to this mouse. Brown brings news of safety, black brings news of change or abnormal occurrence. -Nezumi

Karan read the message over and over, but the words refused to stick. She could only focus on "Shion is safe." Karan's eyes misted over again, but this time, it was the result of a deeper, brighter emotion than grief. Not hope, not love, not relief, but something a little like all of them and so much bigger.

Shion was safe.

The Bureau said they'd taken him to the Correctional Facility, that his case was pending, and she would be sent a communication in the next few weeks on whether Shion would be sentenced to life imprisonment or execution. The officers had been dispassionate when they related the news. The closest they'd come to emotion was when they told her never to speak Shion's name aloud again, and then they'd looked merely put off by the fact they had to remind citizens not to advertise their feelings.

But this note shared a different story. Shion was not locked away in the Correctional Facility; he had escaped to West Block. Karan didn't know if she could believe it—but she wanted to believe it. If Shion had somehow escaped imprisonment, that was a heavy weight lifted from her mind.

But… West Block? Karan knew there were still living people outside the wall, but they lived hard lives, and what's more, they were surrounded by hordes of the infected. Every day held fresh danger.

But it was living, and Shion was free.

And he wasn't alone.

Nezumi. Karan studied the signature, and then the mouse still lingering by her shoe. The Nezumi who wrote the note was no ordinary mouse or rat; it was a particular one. Nezumi. The word tickled the back of her mind, and teased loose a memory she had not visited in a long while.

Shion often had his head in the clouds, but after they were ousted from Chronos, he seemed more introspective than ever. She found him staring out the window whenever he was unoccupied, and she noticed the way he straightened at every noise during a rainstorm. Karan always knew that the change had coincided with that wild, stormy night Shion had let a stranger into their home, but she wasn't quite sure whether his contemplations were just that, or if they were a symptom of longing. The answer became clear one day when she and Shion were walking through the Forest Park, two months after the hurricane.

Shion's eyes were faraway, his responses to her pleasantries short and uninvested. Karan had stopped engaging him and had been enjoying their walk through the florid park in silence, until Shion froze and turned abruptly. He glared at a patch of flowers with such hope and strain and attention that Karan couldn't help but finally broach the subject.

"Who is this Nezumi you keep whispering about?"

Shion flinched and turned to her. "What?"

"Just now, you said, 'Nezumi?' I've heard you say it before. It's a person's name, isn't it? You say it like it's someone you know well. Someone you long for." Karan tilted her head at the distress growing on Shion's face. "Did that person break your heart?"

"What?" Shion sputtered. "No, it's not like that at all." A deep blush rose in his cheeks. "It's… It's nothing. Never mind," he barked, and walked away as quickly as he could without looking guilty.

Shion's embarrassment had made her laugh then, but now... Her heart swelled with gratitude. Nezumi… You returned to him after all. You saved him. Thank you.

Karan wiped the last remnants of her tears away and stood. A fresh surge of energy buzzed in her veins. Suddenly the world seemed less dark, the air less dense. Shion was alive, and he had his special someone by his side. She had found her hope again and her reason to keep on living: She may well see her son and his savior in the future.

But to do that, she had to protect her present. Karan glanced down at the note. Be wary of Bureau surveillance. The Security Bureau was always watching, but now Karan realized they must be watching her more closely than ever.

Despite what they'd have her believe, Shion had escaped them; it was only natural that they'd want to keep her within their sights, to see if she knew his whereabouts or was likely to cause trouble. There could be pinhole cameras set up around her house, wire taps on her phone, customers planted to spy on her.

Karan carefully folded the small note into her apron and walked into the storage room. Flour dusted the floor, but she paid no mind as she kneeled down next to the jam boxes and ripped off a piece of packaging paper to write on.

She only knew of one person in West Block—or, at least, he had been there when the wall first came up. She hoped time or ill fate hadn't claimed him. If it hadn't, it was possible he would be willing to help Shion.

Karan jotted down his address in shorthand and paused. She wanted to ask Shion how he was doing. She wanted to know where he was now. Was he eating well? Was he warm enough? But she didn't have space to worry over him like a mother hen. It would do neither of them any good, and she had been huddled in the darkness of the back room too long already.

Karan left the note as is and turned to find the mouse.

"Cheep!" came a small voice from the flour bags. The mouse stood on its hindlegs atop the bag nearest the door and twitched its nose at her.

Karan placed the rolled-up note down and the mouse snatched it in its mouth without a pause.

Thank you and god-speed, Karan prayed as the mouse disappeared through a crack in the wall.

Then she arranged her face into a pleasant expression and strode out into the bright daylight of the bakery.