Chapter 11: Forgotten Notes

The next day, after walking all morning we reach the edges of a small abandoned human settlement in the forest. The air is thick with decay—ghosts of a time that used to be. The place looks like it would've been alive in summer, a seasonal tourist town for hikers. There are campgrounds, a small general store, a quaint school, houses scattered here and there, and an abandoned playground. It’s all crumbling now, nature slowly wrapping itself around every broken window and splintered beam, reclaiming what remains. A skeleton swings gently from a tree, the nylon cord wrapped around its neck. The bones are bleached white, picked clean by birds, bugs, and whatever else scuttles through these woods. A suicide, from just after the invasion, I think. It looks like it has been hanging here for years. Six years, probably.

I take out my knife, step closer. Zerakhis watches from a distance. The blade slices through the nylon cord after a few jerks, and the bones clatter into a pile at the base of the tree. I pause, staring at the remains, wondering. Who was this person? What was their name? Who did they love, and who did they lose? What was going through their mind when they tied that knot, took that final step? Did they hope for something after death, or just for an end to the horror?

I kneel down, and Zerakhis comes closer, silent. Together, we lay the bones in a patch of wildflowers beneath the tree. Late summer blooms—white, purple, yellow—form a soft bed for the remains. I pick a red poppy and lay it over the skeleton's chest, right where the heart would've been.

"What are you doing?" Zerakhis’s voice breaks the silence, deep and almost curious.

"It's a ritual," I reply, my voice subdued. "Humans place flowers on graves. It’s a sign of respect." I look at the red poppy, the memory of my father's words surfacing. "This flower, the red poppy—it's a symbol of blood spilled in war.” I let out a shaky breath. The invasion wasn’t a war. It was so unmatched, it was more like a slaughter. A global extermination.

Zerakhis regards the flower for a moment before speaking. "On Nyxara Prime, we do not have such rituals. The bodies of the dead are burned—to prevent the spread of disease."

I look up at him, frowning. "But don’t you have any beliefs? About what happens after death?"

He shakes his head. "Beliefs are for the living. The dead are gone. What they believed no longer matters."

His words hit me like a chill wind. "So, you don’t have any rituals, any traditions for the dead? No music, no stories to remember them by?"

He tilts his head, studying me. "Music? Stories?"

"Yeah." I soften my tone. "Songs to honor the fallen, stories to remember who they were.” I watch his face, the confusion etched across his sharp features. "Do you even have music?"

He stares blankly at me.

“Music is…” I try to explain, wondering how to word it. “Like… a collection of sounds in a harmony, to create an emotion… or tell a story.”

He stares at me, something—confusion, maybe—flickering in his gaze. "We have... sound, for communication. Orders, signals. But not music as you describe it. There is no use for such things."

We keep walking, the silence between us heavy, almost suffocating. I try to process what he’s said, but it feels like trying to grasp at smoke. A life without music, without stories—what would be the point? Even now, even in this mess of a world, I still hum old tunes sometimes, trying to remember better days. We pass by an old church, the steeple leaning sideways, barely holding on. Shattered stained-glass windows, door hanging open. I stop, staring at it, feeling something stir inside me.

"I used to play the piano," I say, my voice distant. "I was pretty good, actually."

Zerakhis looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Play it now," he says.

I blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"The instrument is inside, yes?" He gestures to the church. "I wish to hear it."

There’s something in his gaze—intensity, almost curiosity. I hesitate, then nod, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The church is a mess—broken pews, dust-covered hymnals scattered across the floor. In the corner, the piano stands, its dark wood scuffed and scratched but still standing. I walk to it, brushing my fingers over the keys. Some are broken, chipped, but most are intact. I sit, take a deep breath, and let my fingers find their place.

I start to play—a soft, haunting melody, one of my mother’s favorites. The notes echo through the empty space, fragile and beautiful, filling the silence. I close my eyes, letting it take me back—to evenings at the piano, my parents listening. Dad’s gentle hum, Mom’s laughter joining in. A time that feels like a different life, a dream.

The music flows, each note resonating through the hollowed-out church. The melody is melancholic, a reflection of everything lost. I pour my emotions into the keys—grief, longing, the faintest glimmer of hope. The sound fills the air, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace, a reminder of who I was before all this.

When I open my eyes, Zerakhis is watching me. His glowing eyes are fixed on my hands, that usual coldness replaced by something else. Curiosity. Wonder. He looks almost entranced, as if the music is something he can’t quite comprehend, something beyond him. There’s a flicker in his gaze—a longing, maybe, or a curiosity so deep it borders on awe.

The final notes fade, and the silence settles in again. Zerakhis keeps watching me, his eyes narrowed like he’s trying to understand something he can’t quite grasp.

"That was..." He stops, frowning. He looks down at the keys. "I do not understand the purpose of it. But it is... not unpleasant."

I give a small, sad smile. "Music doesn’t always need a purpose. Sometimes, it’s just... to feel. To remind us that we’re alive."

He says nothing, his eyes meeting mine. There’s something different there—something almost vulnerable, though it vanishes quickly, replaced by the cold mask he always wears.

We decide to make camp in the church for the night. A fire crackles softly in the middle of the room, casting shadows on the walls. I sit beside it, staring into the flames, Zerakhis across from me, his gaze still flickering toward the piano. For a moment, it feels almost normal—two people sharing warmth in a place long forgotten by the world.

The flames dance, the flickering light highlighting the sharp angles of Zerakhis’s face. I watch him, trying to reconcile the alien before me with the wonder I’d glimpsed earlier. He’s a contradiction—cold, detached, yet capable of something that almost seems like awe. His glowing eyes catch the firelight, making him look even more otherworldly, more beautiful, but it’s a beauty that feels untouchable, distant.

"Do you ever wish things were different?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Zerakhis looks at me, his head tilting slightly. "Different?"

"Yeah," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever wish... that your people hadn’t come here? That things didn’t have to be like this?"

He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on mine. "Wishing changes nothing," he finally says. "What is, is. There is no value in considering what could have been."

I look away, staring into the flames. His answer shouldn’t surprise me, but it still leaves a hollow feeling in my chest. "Maybe," I say. "But sometimes... sometimes it’s all we have left."

He doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between us, broken only by the crackling of the fire. I lie down near the flames, turning my back to him. I can feel his gaze on me, always watching, always calculating. I wonder if he’s trying to understand me, or if he’s just making sure I don’t try to run away. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I close my eyes, letting the exhaustion pull me under, the memory of the music lingering in my mind—a fleeting reminder of who I used to be, of the world that once was.

The fire crackles, the warmth seeping into my bones. I hear Zerakhis shift, his silhouette still visible in the corner of my vision—tall, still, those glowing eyes reflecting the golden firelight like a predator in the night. I wonder if, somewhere deep down, he envies the humans he’s helped destroy. If the music, the stories, the rituals—all the things that make us who we are—are the very things he wishes he could understand.