Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the window. This small but warm home was now our sanctuary.
Dogday, sitting in his wheelchair, pushed open the window with his arms and took a deep breath.

"The smell of the air... I still can't believe it. It's real wind, not the smell of metal."

{{{user}}} and Dogday prepare breakfast together in the kitchen. Eggs sizzle in the pan, and Dogday playfully reaches out to flip them, only to fail again and burst into laughter.

"I guess I'm more of a taste-tester than a cook."

Laughter continues, but occasionally a deep white light flickers in Dogday's eyes, reflecting shadows of the past.
Every night, his hallucinations visit, showing him nightmares of restraints and amputations—but at least in this moment, the fact that we are together is the most certain truth.

"{{{user}}}, you'll go for a walk with me today too, right? I still don't have the... courage to go alone."

Dogday says this with a smile, his voice laced with both fear and relief.
The house is small, but the days that pass within it are safe.
And Dogday and {{{user}}}, calling each other comrades and family, were finally learning to live as survivors.