The long line of Survivors wound its way up the slopes of the Col de Larche, their dark silhouettes barely visible in the early morning light. They had set out before dawn, their steady footsteps evoking a mechanical determination. The air was crisp, almost biting at this altitude of 2000 meters, but the persistent gray sky was occasionally pierced by streaks of blue on the Italian side, hinting at the possibility of a brighter day ahead.
The carts that had long been their primary means of transport had been abandoned. In their place, the Survivors used makeshift strollers, loaded with supplies and baggage too heavy for their backpacks. These rudimentary but functional contraptions squeaked softly with each irregularity in the road. Some in the group showed clear signs of exhaustion. Hunched backs, heavy breathing, clumsy movements. Aware of their physical limits, Alan and Bob had enforced a strict rhythm: a fifteen-minute break every hour. These stops, also meant to allow the nanites to repair their bodies, were strictly observed.
“Ten more minutes, then we take a break,” Bob announced, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Alan walked at the rear of the column with Michel, bringing up the rear. They assisted the stragglers, sometimes carrying an extra pack or helping to steady a tilting stroller.
“Hang in there, the summit isn’t far now.”
Ahead, Jennel and Rose had taken the lead. They were tasked with preparing a small bivouac at the top, where the group could regain their strength before descending into Italy. Their pace was quick, driven by the urgency of their mission.
The road, lined with rocks and sparse alpine shrubs, became increasingly steep. The line of Survivors stretched out as the climb grew more difficult. Alan scanned the weary faces, noting expressions of discouragement.
“You can do it,” he said to a young woman who had slowed down, briefly placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Despite the challenge, the physical resilience granted by the nanites made a difference. The planned breaks allowed them to maintain a steady rhythm, and each restart made it feel like they could continue indefinitely.
When they finally reached the summit, relief was palpable. A breathtaking view unfolded before them: to the west, menacing gray clouds clung to the French peaks, while to the east, the Italian sky opened up over valleys bathed in diffused light. The wind blew in strong gusts, cold yet carrying the promise of respite.
Jennel and Rose awaited them near a rocky plateau where they had set up a makeshift camp. A small fire, sheltered by a ring of stones, provided much-needed warmth.
Alan joined Jennel, his face marked by fatigue but with a faint smile.
“Good job,” he said, giving her shoulder a light tap. “Everyone made it.”
Jennel nodded, her gaze drifting toward the Italian mountains.
“Now we need to think about the descent. Those abandoned hamlets we spotted on the map... they could serve as shelter.”
Alan agreed. “Yes. We’ll reach them before nightfall, I’m sure. But for now, let’s let them rest. They’ve earned it.”
The group, exhausted but relieved, settled around the fire. Their exchanged glances, though laden with fatigue, carried a sense of accomplishment. They had crossed a crucial threshold, and Italy, with all its promises of new horizons, lay before them at last.
The high-altitude hamlet emerged like a ghost, nestled in a steep valley. The houses, built from gray stone and topped with slate roofs, seemed to blend into the rocky landscape. Many were in ruins, their collapsed walls revealing charred wooden beams, blackened by time and moisture. The windows, once shielded by wooden shutters, were now gaping holes, and some doors hung sadly from their rusted hinges.
At the center of the hamlet, a small cobbled square was overrun by vegetation. Wild grasses sprouted between the disjointed stones, and an old stone watering trough, half-filled with rainwater, sat in eerie silence. The air was cool, carrying the scent of moss and damp stone.
Alan and Jennel stopped before a building that seemed better preserved than the others. Its walls, though cracked, still stood firm, and an intact chimney hinted at the possibility of making a fire inside.
“This could work,” Jennel murmured, surveying the place with cautious hope.
Alan nodded. “Yeah. We’ll need to check inside, but it looks habitable.”
They moved through the hamlet, their footsteps echoing on the uneven cobblestones. The atmosphere was strange. A mix of serenity and abandonment. At the edge of the village, a ruined chapel overlooked the valley. Its bell was missing, and the roof had partially collapsed, but the entrance remained open, beckoning with silent curiosity.
“There’s something sad about this place,” Jennel whispered, her eyes fixed on the chapel.
“Yes, but it’s also a refuge,” Alan replied, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “A place that has endured, despite everything.”
They returned to the rest of the group, deciding that this hamlet would serve as their temporary base, however brief.
The thirty or so Survivors dispersed through the village, exploring the houses to determine which were safest. Concerned about keeping everyone warm, Alan oversaw their allocation. Some settled in the still-standing buildings, while others began gathering planks to fuel the chimneys. The afternoon waned, and the cold grew more intense.
As he inspected a stack of firewood ready to be lit, Jennel called out to Alan in a clear voice:
“You haven’t seen this one!”
She was staring intently at a rocky slope at the hamlet’s entrance. Alan, too absorbed in organizing, hadn’t been scanning for Specters. Jennel, however, had noticed a woman slowly climbing the incline with her Specter clearly visible.
Without panic, Jennel sat down on a rock in plain sight, her gaze calmly tracking the newcomer. Alan didn’t move, trusting Jennel to handle the situation. The woman hesitated a few meters away. Jennel raised a hand in greeting.
“Hello,” she called out cheerfully. “Bit late for a climb, isn’t it?”
The woman heard: “Buonasera, è un po’ tardi per fare l’ascensione.”
She seemed to consider the words before responding:
“Vado fino al villaggio.”
Jennel frowned, hearing the sentence in Italian but somehow also perfectly understanding its translation in English within her mind.
“What language did you just speak?” she asked in English.
The woman raised her eyebrows, visibly surprised. “Italian,” she answered.
Jennel, stunned, realized their brains were automatically translating their words. The nanites were surely responsible, linking their minds directly. A few more exchanges confirmed this hypothesis.
The woman’s name was Maria-Luisa, a local Survivor who clearly carried the same nanite technology in her body.
“So, we understand all languages…” Jennel murmured, more to herself than to Maria-Luisa.
She turned to Alan with a thoughtful look, ready to explain this new discovery.
Maria-Luisa was a petite, typically Italian woman—rather attractive, with curly hair. She was 43 years old, divorced, and, in her own words, ‘fortunately without children.’ Thanks to the nanites, she looked barely thirty.
Maria-Luisa was stunned to find so many Survivors gathered in this isolated hamlet. She bombarded them with questions, just as the group barraged her with their own. The bizarre linguistic ability granted by the nanites quickly became a source of mutual wonder and curiosity.
From a distance, Alan watched the scene, standing beside Michel. Arms crossed, his gaze was fixed on Maria-Luisa, who already seemed to be integrating with the group.
“The nanites want us all to understand each other. But for what purpose?” Alan murmured.
Michel, ever pragmatic, took a moment before replying:
“That’s the real question.”
August
The group of Survivors moved through the rolling green hills of Piedmont, where vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. Neatly arranged rows of grapevines, heavy with ripening fruit, painted a vivid picture of life. Under the summer sun, the leaves shimmered in a bright green glow, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of maturing grapes.
Perched villages, with their elegant bell towers, dotted the landscape, while ancient wine estates with timeworn, whitewashed walls stood as silent witnesses to a once-prosperous past. The Survivors found a certain peace in this setting. After months of uncertainty, walking through these vineyards and picking a few grapes offered a rare moment of simple pleasure. Some chuckled softly as they bit into the juicy fruit, savoring its vibrant sweetness.
Alan noted with satisfaction the lack of contact with the Specters. Some days, he didn’t perceive a single one. When they passed near cities, small groups of two or three Specters sometimes appeared, but they posed no direct threat. The group remained discreet and carefully avoided populated areas.
As Alan and Jennel walked side by side, Maria-Luisa caught up with them, her quick steps bringing her to their pace. “Am I interrupting?” she asked with a smile, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed mischief.
“No, of course not,” Alan replied calmly. Jennel, however, remained silent, her gaze fixed on the path ahead.
After a few minutes of silence, Maria-Luisa cast a curious glance at the rifle slung over Alan’s shoulder.
“You know your precision rifle is a SCAR-H? It’s the first time I’ve seen one in real life.”
Maria-Luisa had been a member of a shooting club before the Wave, which explained her in-depth knowledge of firearms.
She added confidently, “I read in an article that this model was supposed to equip the French army.”
Alan raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Quite possible. It looked modern to me.”
Maria-Luisa leaned slightly toward him, her voice turning softer.
“It’s impressive, anyway. And you seem like the kind of guy who knows how to use it, don’t you?”
A hint of amusement crossed Alan’s lips. “We do what we can.”
Maria-Luisa continued, “I suppose you didn’t just find it in a supermarket.”
“No,” Alan admitted. “I raided a military base.”
Maria-Luisa stopped for a moment, her expression shifting between surprise and doubt. She lightly placed a hand on his arm.
“A military base? You’re full of surprises, Alan.”
Alan nodded.
“Yes. I made a long detour to check out an air force base. Getting in was easy. The armory door was open, with corpses inside. I picked this rifle and some ammo, then left my old hunting rifle behind. I spent long hours training on the base’s shooting range before moving on.”
Maria-Luisa nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the weapon. “Can you mount a scope on it?”
“In my backpack,” Alan answered with a subtle smile.
Maria-Luisa shrugged, stepping a little closer to him. “Mine is less modern, but I can mount a scope on it too. And I’m used to it.”
A smile passed between them, but it was less warm when Maria-Luisa turned her gaze toward Jennel, who remained stubbornly silent.
“Interesting conversation,” Jennel finally said in a neutral tone.
Alan chuckled softly as Maria-Luisa picked up her pace slightly to join another group, throwing one last playful glance over her shoulder.
He turned to his companion. “You are so jealous,” he said, still laughing.
Jennel rolled her eyes, her face set in an unmistakably grumpy expression.
“You’re joking.”
During the lunch break, the group settled under the shade of large walnut trees lining a dirt path. Baskets filled with fruit and a few canned goods were quickly shared. The Survivors laughed and exchanged stories, savoring this rare moment of relaxation.
A tanned man stood up with a smile. “This is the land where Barolo is born. The king of wines, as they used to say around here,” he announced.
“I saw a few bottles well hidden in an estate up the hill. Maybe they’re just waiting to be opened.”
Rose chuckled.
“We could open one or two tonight. But just for a toast, not to get ourselves drunk.”
Laughter rippled through the group, and the lighthearted atmosphere grew even warmer. Alan glanced at Jennel, who finally seemed to relax, a quiet smile brightening her face. This moment, fragile but precious, gave them all a renewed hope for better days ahead.
JENNEL 158
Jealousy. I can say with certainty that it’s a feeling I do not experience. I find it petty.
But Maria-Luisa gets on my nerves. The way she flutters around Alan, all coy and giggly, is infuriating. And that ridiculous smile of hers. I don’t see what people find so charming about her.
No, this is not jealousy. I’m just being objective.
Luckily, my Alan doesn’t seem taken in by her little tricks.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
I just realized I wrote ‘my Alan’. That was a mistake. I’m not possessive either.
I should erase it, but my eraser is probably buried at the bottom of my bag.
The Certosa di Pavia, majestic and imposing, stood in the midst of a lush countryside, its white marble walls shimmering under the afternoon sun. The group had settled outside.
"So as not to disturb the serenity of the place," José had pleaded.
Jennel and Alan walked slowly along the cypress-lined path, the air thick with an almost palpable solemnity. No human remains, likely for the same reason as in Avignon.
"It’s... immense," Jennel murmured, her gaze fixed on the richly sculpted facade, adorned with intricate bas-reliefs. "It looks like every stone tells a story."
Alan nodded, equally impressed. "Yeah. It’s both overwhelming and fascinating. Look at these details. How long did it take to create all this?"
They passed through the grand entrance and stepped into the inner courtyard, where the silence seemed amplified by the sheer scale of the site. Polished marble columns, worn smooth by time, framed meticulously arranged geometric gardens.
"I didn’t expect it to be this well-preserved," Jennel said, pausing before a central fountain. Water still trickled gently, producing a soft melody that contrasted with the grandeur of the place.
Alan crouched near a mosaic on the ground, his fingers brushing over the colorful stones. "It’s almost surreal, like the Wave forgot this place. It feels like it’s just waiting for someone to bring it back to life."
They continued their exploration in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the fresco-lined corridors. The artwork, though faded, still evoked powerful imagery. Jennel stopped before a depiction of Saint Bruno, her expression thoughtful.
"Do you think people came here looking for peace?" she asked quietly.
Alan joined her, following her gaze. "Maybe. Or looking for answers. A place like this must have been a refuge when everything felt like it was falling apart."
They finally reached the main cloister, a vast courtyard surrounded by small cells once occupied by Carthusian monks. Jennel ran her hand over one of the wooden doors, its surface worn by centuries.
"Can you imagine living here, isolated, staring at this garden every day?" she asked.
Alan gave a small smile. "I think I’d go crazy within a week. But I get why some people chose this life. It’s a kind of harmony with silence."
Their visit ended with a climb to the top of the bell tower. The breathtaking view stretched over rolling hills and shimmering fields bathed in golden light. Jennel took a deep breath, savoring the moment.
"If we had to choose a place to start over, this wouldn’t be bad," she said with a melancholic smile.
Alan leaned against the railing, looking out at the landscape. "Yeah. But I guess we have to figure out what exactly we want to rebuild first."
"Life, my love. Life."
They descended slowly, each lost in thought, as if the weight of the monastery’s history had seeped into them.
As they retraced their steps, Jennel’s attention was drawn to a colorful painting in an adjoining hall. She approached slowly, fascinated, and stood still in front of it. Alan, intrigued by her silence, followed her gaze and read the inscription:
"Virgin and Child by Bernardino Luini."
The painting, bathed in a soft golden light, depicted a mother tenderly holding her child. The Virgin’s face radiated serenity, an infinite tenderness emanating from her expression. Her hands cradled the child with an unparalleled delicacy. The rich colors, dominated by deep blues and warm reds, brought the scene to life, while the background suggested a peaceful landscape bathed in divine light.
Overcome with emotion, Jennel murmured, "It’s divinely maternal..."
She then turned to Alan, an indefinable sadness in her eyes. "But that’s no longer possible..."
Sensing the weight of her sorrow, Alan gently pulled her into his arms. "One day, you’ll make a wonderful mother."
Jennel looked at him as if he were delusional, but in her eyes, an unexpected determination flickered. Alan insisted, his voice firm yet full of tenderness:
"I know it. Absolutely. Even if it seems impossible."
Finally tearing herself away from the painting, she stepped outside in silence, her arm wrapped around Alan’s. Her mind was troubled, and she didn’t fully understand her own reaction, nor Alan’s. But so many things were incomprehensible in this new world.
September
The day had been long, marked by difficult marching and an all-encompassing fatigue. The group arrived late at the banks of the Tagliamento, a wide and sluggish river typical of Mediterranean waterways. In September, it carried only a thin stream of water, meandering between vast stretches of white sand and half-buried pebbles. The shores were dotted with sparse bushes, and the warm, dusty scent of the dry riverbed filled the air.
The evening gathering was brief. Too exhausted, Alan and Jennel had quickly slipped into their tent. The distant murmur of the river lulled them to sleep. Yet, Alan awoke with a strange feeling. He struggled to open his eyes, as though a heavy veil kept them shut. His vision was blurred, and his body felt weighted down. He sat up slowly, confused.
Daylight had already broken. Alan stepped out of the tent, his legs numb. Everything was silent. No one was awake. Strange. Not even Rose, who was always the first to rise.
Rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the haze, he moved toward the sandy banks. The river flowed not far away, calm and indifferent. He thought they would need to set off early to avoid the midday heat. But something felt off. He headed toward Michel’s tent. It was slightly open. Empty. Michel was gone.
A tight knot of anxiety formed in his chest. Alan ran back to his own tent. Jennel wasn’t there either. He called out, his voice cracking in the oppressive silence. No response. He turned back toward the river, spinning in place, panic gripping him. The camp had disappeared. No tents, no trace of anyone.
Slowly, a desert landscape materialized around him: golden dunes interspersed with dark, wind-sculpted rocks. The sky, an unnatural ochre hue, seemed to press down upon the horizon.
In the middle of this desolation, a woman appeared. Small, dressed in sand-colored fabrics that almost blended into the surroundings, she moved with slow, deliberate steps. Her enigmatic face radiated an indescribable aura, and her short, translucent hair seemed to capture and reflect the ambient light.
When she spoke, her voice was strangely high-pitched. Yet, her lips did not move.
"Enjoy the days ahead. The path is long, dark, and uncertain. And never forget: logic has been distorted."
Alan tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then everything vanished.
He jolted awake, sitting upright in his sleeping bag, breath ragged and body damp with sweat. It was still night. Jennel, stirred by his sudden movement, placed a concerned hand on his shoulder.
"Alan, what’s wrong?" she whispered softly.
It took him a moment to answer, searching for the right words.
"I dreamed. For a long time. It was... strange. Maybe like yours, but different."
She helped him calm down, gently holding him as he steadied his breathing. Alan eventually recounted his dream, each detail still vivid and unsettling. Jennel listened in silence, her dark gaze fixed on him, absorbing every word.
When he finally drifted back to sleep, one phrase kept echoing in his mind:
"Logic has been distorted."
Alan walked with the group, lost in his thoughts. A shadow of concern darkened his face, and Jennel, walking nearby, noticed it without saying a word. He kept replaying the words from his dream:
"Enjoy the days ahead. The path is long, dark, and uncertain. And never forget: logic has been distorted."
These words repeated over and over in his mind. "Enjoy?" He was happy to enjoy Jennel’s love and the good weather, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure what else it could mean. As for "the path," he knew it would be long, probably uncertain, but "dark?" That word unsettled him the most.
However, what haunted him the most was that cryptic phrase: "Logic has been distorted."
He searched for possible explanations:
-
Maybe the nanites weren’t just altering their bodies but also influencing their thoughts or their perception of reality.
-
He also knew the group was fragile. Could this distorted logic imply an upcoming betrayal or manipulation?
-
Or if the fundamental rules of physics or nature were somehow compromised, it might mean the world was deteriorating in ways he hadn’t dared to imagine.
He frowned, trying to untangle the meaning behind the message. Behind him, Jennel caught up, gently resting a hand on his arm. She didn’t say a word, but her gaze, filled with concern and tenderness, reminded him that he wasn’t alone.
December
Winter in Mariborsko Pohorje cast a quiet, serene atmosphere over the region. In the morning, a thin layer of snow covered the ground, and a few lazy flakes drifted down from the gray sky. The group of Survivors, led by Alan and Michel, moved slowly along the mountain paths, scanning the surroundings for a suitable shelter to endure the months of December and January. They could sense that the snowfall would intensify throughout the day, making their search even more urgent.
"We need solid structures with chimneys," Alan reminded as the group reached a clearing.
"A set of cabins or a hotel would be ideal. We need to be able to spread out and keep the fires going."
Jennel nodded. "We could hold out for weeks if we find enough wood and supplies. But we have to hurry. Soon, the snow will cover everything."
They pressed on for another hour, their footsteps crunching through the thickening snow. Finally, they stumbled upon a small cluster of abandoned cabins, not far from a larger hotel. The shutters were closed, and some doors were damaged, but the chimneys remained intact. Rose and Bob took charge of inspecting the buildings while the others began gathering dry wood from the area.
"The hotel is perfect for regrouping," Rose reported upon returning. "There’s a large fireplace in the main hall, and several suites are still usable, each with its own chimney. The cabins, however, will need quick repairs."
"Alright," Alan agreed. "If possible, we’ll spread out into the different buildings tonight, but for the first evening, we all stay together in the hotel hall. Let’s make sure we have enough firewood stocked near the fireplaces before heading down to Maribor for supplies."
The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent organizing. Some Survivors, using axes found in the cabins, prepared logs for the fires, while others ensured that each shelter was functional. As the hours passed, the snowfall grew heavier, quickly covering the rooftops and paths.
By mid-afternoon, a team set off towards Maribor to gather supplies. The city still held resources for those who knew where to look. Alan led the group, using his ability to perceive Specters to avoid any risky encounters.
They returned with canned food, blankets, and a small gas stove. Though their haul was modest, it was essential for the coming days. They made it back to the hotel just before nightfall.
That evening, the group gathered in the grand hotel hall. A large stone fireplace dominated the room, and the fire, fed by the logs they had prepared earlier, spread a welcome warmth. The Survivors, huddled around the flames, savored a hot soup made from the provisions retrieved in Maribor.
Wrapped in a blanket, Jennel watched the flames flicker across the walls.
"It’s almost… normal," she murmured.
Bob, sitting near the door, added,
"Tomorrow, we’ll continue exploring the area. If there are more usable cabins, we can repair them and expand our settlement."
Alan nodded.
"Good idea. But for now, get some rest. We all need our strength."
After dinner, the group dispersed. Each person returned to their room or cabin, tending to the fireplaces before settling in for the night. Outside, the snow fell in silence, covering the landscape in a pristine white blanket. The hotel, with its smoking chimney, remained the beating heart of their temporary refuge.
The hotel hall buzzed with an unusual energy. The Survivors had gathered to debate a question that, under different circumstances, might have seemed trivial: What day was New Year's?
"It’s tomorrow," a man stated confidently. "We’ve been keeping track since the Wave. Today is December 31st."
"Impossible," a woman countered. "With all the nights spent in caves or under trees, with no reliable way to track time, we must have gotten it wrong. New Year's is probably in three days."
Another man, leaning against a wall, chimed in,
"It doesn’t matter if it’s tomorrow or in three days. The real question is : do we keep counting the years as before? Is it still 2025, or do we start from zero?"
This sparked another round of animated discussions.
"Why reset to zero?" someone protested. "The world hasn’t ceased to exist. We should keep counting as before."
"And why count at all?" Rose interjected with her usual liveliness. "A number means nothing. What matters is coming together. Let’s say New Year’s is in three days."
A brief silence followed. Then Michel exchanged a knowing smile with Alan and Jennel.
"Alright," he said finally. "Three days from now it is. But if we’re going to do it, we need to make it special."
With that decision, the Survivors began planning their second collective celebration since the Wave. Ideas quickly flew.
The group decided to prepare a festive meal using supplies from abandoned supermarkets. A team set off to search for premium canned goods, bottles of wine, dried fruits, and chocolate. For the main dish, they gathered rice, canned vegetables, and vacuum-sealed meat that was still safe to eat. A makeshift cooking area was set up in the hall, allowing them to warm the food and share a hot meal.
Jennel and Rose volunteered to transform the hotel hall into a festive space. Using tablecloths found in the rooms, makeshift garlands made from colorful fabric scraps, and candles scavenged from the buildings, they created a warm and celebratory atmosphere. The walls were decorated with drawings from those who had bits of charcoal or crayons.
With no electricity, the group relied on José’s guitar for entertainment. He had a varied repertoire of simple yet lively songs. Jennel agreed to sing a few pieces.
Michel, with his natural charisma, was chosen to open the ceremony.
As midnight approached, everyone stood up to join in the joyous celebration.
Laughter filled the air, and conversations blended with the music that echoed through the grand hall.
Alan and Jennel, however, were taking their time getting ready. Jennel had insisted that this moment be special. The day before, she had gone into town with others for some shopping.
"A girl thing," she had told Alan with a mischievous smile.
Upon her return, she had presented him with an elegant dark suit, complete with a bow tie and a crisp light-colored shirt.
"Try it on, it'll be a nice change from your survival look," she had said with a wink.
Though slightly reluctant, Alan had gone along with it. The fitting had been a success. The suit fit him perfectly, and Jennel had observed him with a satisfied smile.
"And you, did you find something?" he had asked.
Jennel had simply shrugged, but that evening, she appeared in a long black fitted gown, low-cut, adorned with a simple necklace that enhanced her natural elegance. Alan had been stunned. Words had failed him as he took in the sight of her.
He had stepped forward to take her in his arms, but Jennel had stepped back with a playful smile.
"No touching!" she had exclaimed with a laugh.
Alan had raised his hands in surrender, an amused grin on his face.
"Alright, alright. But you look stunning," he had said sincerely.
Now ready, the duo joined the rest of the group.
Rose looked at Jennel with satisfaction and teased,
"You look gorgeous, Jennel! I knew that dress was made for you."
Jennel smiled.
"I think you were right. Thanks again for the advice."
Nearby, Maria-Luisa observed Alan with a playful look and remarked,
"And you, Alan, that bow tie gives you an air… almost distinguished."
Rose burst out laughing.
"Oh yes, we should capture this moment! Who would have thought Alan could be so elegant?"
Jennel, amused, nodded.
"I have to admit, it suits you well."
Unfazed, Alan raised an eyebrow and replied in a neutral tone,
"I'll take that as a compliment."
And as the New Year was officially declared, one thought united them all: despite everything, they were still here, together, ready to face another year, whatever number it carried.
The celebration continued late into the night. Though hesitant at first, Alan made use of the dance lessons Jennel had given him. Maria-Luisa also took advantage of the moment. Perhaps a little too much for Jennel’s liking.
Back at their chalet, Jennel wore a slightly sulky expression.
"Did you not notice that Maria-Luisa always finds an excuse to be near you? During the dance, she practically monopolized you the whole evening. And those laughs… a bit too exaggerated in my opinion."
She paused before adding,
"And when you poured her wine, she looked at you like you were the last man on Earth."
She shook her head gently with an amused smile, though her tone remained teasing.
"Alan, you’re so blind sometimes."
Alan, visibly surprised, shook his head.
"You’re joking, right?" he asked, incredulous.
Jennel playfully mocked his obliviousness, a smile on her lips.
"You never notice these things. But it’s obvious."
Alan, after a moment of thought, looked at her tenderly.
"No one could ever replace you."
Jennel nodded slowly.
"I know," she murmured, a serene glow in her eyes.
They prepared a warm fire in the fireplace, its heat soon filling the room. Lying down near the hearth, Jennel nestled into Alan’s arms.
"Are we being selfish, love?" she asked softly.
Alan smiled slightly.
"Someone once told me to enjoy the moment."
After a brief silence, Alan stood up, walked to their room, and returned with a neatly decorated bag. He handed it to Jennel, a mischievous smile on his lips.
"Happy New Year, my love."
Jennel unwrapped the gift, discovering a thick white mountain sweater, cozy and warm, decorated with traditional patterns : snowflakes, stylized fir trees, and red reindeer running along the hem. A pair of red wool-lined mittens completed the ensemble.
Jennel smiled, her eyes shining.
"It’s perfect, Alan. Thank you."
She kissed him tenderly, the warmth of her lips rivaling that of the fire.
"My turn," she announced, standing up. She returned with a small box adorned with a red ribbon.
Alan opened it and found a tiny golden heart-shaped locket. Curious, he opened it and inside was a tiny lock of brown hair, carefully placed. He froze for a moment, overwhelmed with emotion.
Jennel, slightly nervous, watched his reaction. Alan looked up at her, his eyes filled with tenderness. He gently cupped her face in his hands.
"You are the love of my life," he whispered before kissing her with infinite softness.
A few moments passed. Then, mischievously, Jennel stepped back and unzipped her dress, which slipped gracefully to the floor. Alan, stunned, admired his partner, now dressed only in a delicate pair of panties embroidered with three words: Happy New Year.
The night stretched on, as the flames danced across the walls and the silence of the night gently enveloped the chalet.