The cottage, once a place of warmth and family, now felt like a tomb. The hearth, though still burning, offered little comfort against the chill that seemed to have settled in every corner of the small home. The air was thick with the scent of sickness, mingling with the faint traces of the fire’s smoke. Kyle sat beside his wife, Lilian, her frail body lying motionless on the worn bed, her breath shallow and uneven. The woman he had once known to be vibrant and full of life now looked like a shadow of herself.

  Lilian’s face, once radiant with warmth, was now pale, drawn with fever. Her hands, once firm and nurturing, trembled as she reached out weakly for Kyle’s. Her voice, barely a whisper, broke the heavy silence that enveloped the room. “Kyle… promise me… promise me you’ll go on… for Emma.”

  Her words were fragile, the syllables struggling to form, yet they carried with them a weight that pressed down on Kyle’s chest like a stone. He nodded, though his heart felt as though it was being torn in two. His mind screamed that he couldn’t promise her such a thing—not when he could barely hold onto the sliver of hope that had once sustained him.

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  “I’ll do what I can,” Kyle whispered, his voice breaking. The words felt hollow, like an empty vow he could never fulfill. Deep down, he knew that no promise, no matter how sincere, could save her. The sickness that gripped her had already claimed her—just as the machines had already stolen his land, his livelihood, and his future.

  When Lilian died, it was a quiet passing. No mourners arrived, no bells rang, and no words were spoken in her memory. The wind outside seemed to carry her spirit away, as though the earth itself had reclaimed her without ceremony. Kyle, numb and broken, could only watch in silence, knowing that his world had once again become a place of shadows.