Chapter 1: Awakening in Silence

I woke up to silence.

Not the kind I used to know—the peaceful stillness of early mornings, the muffled quiet of my room when I shut the world out. This was different. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind that pressed against my chest, making it feel like the world itself had stopped breathing.

I stayed still, staring up at the cracked ceiling of the convenience store. The fluorescent lights had long since died, leaving only the gray glow of an overcast sky filtering through the shattered windows. A faded "OPEN 24/7" sign dangled by a single chain, swaying slightly in the wind.

The aisles were stripped bare—empty shelves, scattered wrappers, dust, and dried leaves. Near the counter, an old security camera hung lifeless, its cracked lens staring into nothing.

I sat up slowly, wincing as my stiff muscles protested. Sleeping on a cold tile floor wasn't ideal, but it was safer than the open streets. My backpack was beside me, half-zipped, its contents spilling out—an empty water bottle, a crowbar, my flashlight, and my last can of beans.

I rubbed my face, exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. Food. Water. Shelter. Those were my priorities. Everything else—memories, regrets, the weight of the past—came second.

Then I heard it.

A soft crunch.

I froze. My pulse spiked instantly.

Another step. Slow. Cautious.

Not human.

I tightened my grip on the crowbar and turned my head just enough to peek past the end of the aisle.

A dog stood near the shattered entrance.

He was lean, his dark fur streaked with dust and grime. His ribs faintly showed beneath his coat, but his stance was steady—alert, calculating. His ears twitched slightly, and his golden eyes locked onto mine.

I didn't move.

Dogs didn't last long out here—at least, not as dogs. The ones that survived either ran in packs or changed. Twisted. Became something worse.

I tightened my grip on my weapon. If it lunged, I'd have to act fast.

But it didn't.

It just stood there, watching me.

I swallowed hard. The silence stretched between us.

Finally, I broke it. "You just gonna stare at me?" My voice was hoarse from days of disuse.

The dog's ears twitched. He sniffed the air once, then took a slow step forward.

I tensed, shifting my weight, ready to move if I had to.

Another step. His paws barely made a sound against the debris-covered floor. His eyes never left mine—not hostile, not fearful. Just… waiting.

I hesitated. I could scare him off, throw something, make noise. But something about the way he moved, the way he didn't immediately attack or flee, made me pause.

Slowly, keeping my movements calm, I reached into my backpack. My fingers closed around the can of beans.

I rolled it toward him.

The can rattled slightly as it stopped just in front of him. The dog flinched but didn't bolt. He sniffed it, his nose twitching.

For a long moment, he did nothing.

Then, to my surprise, he sat down.

I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"…Alright," I muttered, leaning back against the shelf. "Guess that means you're not looking to kill me."

The dog flicked his ears but didn't move.

I watched him, unsure what to do next. I didn't have food to spare, not really. But the dog was just like me—hungry, alone, surviving.

The wind outside howled through the broken glass doors, rattling an old newspaper against the floor. The dog didn't flinch. He just kept watching me.

I sighed. "Well… if you're gonna stick around, you better not slow me down."

The dog didn't react, but for some reason, I felt like he understood.

I didn't know what to call him yet.

But something told me he wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

Later That Night…

I built a small fire just outside the convenience store, using scraps of wood from an old display shelf. It was risky—light could attract attention—but the cold gnawed at my bones, and I needed warmth.

The dog lay a few feet away, curled up but alert. He hadn't left.

I pulled out my knife and jabbed it into the can of beans, prying it open. The smell wasn't great, but it was food.

I took a bite, then glanced at the dog. His ears twitched, but he didn't move closer.

"You hungry?" I asked, scooping out a small portion and setting it down between us.

He hesitated, then stood up and stepped forward. His movements were careful, precise—he had been trained once, maybe even had an owner before all this.

He sniffed the food, then ate it without rushing.

I watched him for a moment before saying, "You just… listen, huh?"

The dog glanced at me, licking his muzzle.

I huffed a small, tired laugh. "Like an echo."

His ears twitched again.

I stared at him for a moment before nodding to myself. "Yeah… Echo. That fits."

The dog—Echo—tilted his head slightly, as if considering it.

Then he lay back down, resting his head on his paws.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't alone.