The day begins with the soft sound of an alarm clock. Martina stretches in bed with a peaceful smile, reaching her arms toward the ceiling as if embracing the dawn. The faint glow of the sun filters through the curtains, bathing her room in a comforting warmth. Jumping out of bed with energy, she walks barefoot across the wooden floor to the bathroom.

  Her morning routine is a ritual she has perfected over the years: brushing her teeth, washing her face, tying her hair into a high bun. Every movement is fluid, almost mechanical, yet filled with an inexplicable joy. She hums a soft melody as she steps onto the small balcony, watering her plants and speaking to each one as if they were lifelong friends.

  Afterward, she returns inside and walks to the calendar hanging on the wall. Taking a red marker, she draws a thick line over the previous day with a smile. Another day crossed off, out of ninety. Everything is in order.

  The kitchen awaits. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, wrapping the house in a familiar sense of calm. Martina places two croissants on a plate and sits by her window, watching the clear blue sky, devoid of clouds. Every morning follows this same sequence, in perfect balance, as if time and space were constants, immutable.

  However, something in the silence of this morning feels... different. It is as if the world around her is too still, too contained. But Martina does not dwell on it. She takes out her sketchbook and begins to draw the sky, her brush gliding naturally over the paper, tracing the lines of a serene day.

  Suddenly, a dull, distant sound breaks the air. Something collides against her door, and for a moment, Martina frowns. Then she sighs, unbothered. She rises slowly, as if she had forgotten something, and walks to one of the dining room walls, where a shotgun rests. She takes it with an unusual tranquility, walking toward the front entrance, where she places two additional planks over the door, securing them with nails that seem to be ready for moments like this.

  The windows are reinforced with metal, and the hallway leading to the dining room is filled with barricades, leaving barely enough space to move. From behind the thick curtains, the distant sound of groaning echoes in the air. She remains unfazed. Returning to her chair, she takes a sip of coffee and looks at her drawing once more.

  The hordes outside seem endless, but her gaze stays fixed on the artwork before her. In the distance, the dragging footsteps of zombies surround the house. The sky she paints in her sketchbook is bright, blue, full of hope, in stark contrast to the darkness reigning beyond her improvised fortress, stocked with ample food and a large water supply.

  Martina takes a deep breath, inhales the aroma of coffee, and smiles to herself. The chaos outside feels distant, irrelevant. She keeps painting, feeling how each brushstroke connects her to something greater, something more beautiful.

  She looks at her work with satisfaction, sets the brush aside, and, with her eyes closed, inhales the fresh air seeping through one of the few unblocked cracks in the window.

  "Good morning," she whispers, before taking another sip of coffee, ignoring the insistent knocking of the undead on the other side of the door.

  The zombies’ breathing is a distant roar, a chilling whisper slipping through the cracks of her fortress, as if the outside world refused to let her forget how close she is to death.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Outside, the landscape is desolate. The streets are littered with debris, overturned cars, shattered glass, and lifeless bodies that were once human. The walls of nearby buildings are stained with dried blood, and the air reeks of decay, of rotting flesh under the scorching sun. The hordes of zombies shuffle clumsily, their dragging footsteps leaving deep imprints in the accumulated dust. Some have intact bodies, while others, grotesquely mutilated, move as if unaware of pain or time. Their deformed faces turn in unison at any sound, as if the echo of a past life still pulled them toward what was once human.

  The pounding of the zombies against her house is relentless, but her home, her refuge, has withstood it all. Wooden planks cross every window, reinforced with thick nails, and behind the front door, multiple locks and chains ensure that, at least for now, her small stronghold remains intact. In the corners of the ceiling, small homemade traps hang, ready to launch nails and blades in the event of a massive attack.

  The noise intensifies. A heavier thud resonates against the front door, as if something larger, heavier, is trying to break through. Martina does not react with terror or anxiety. Instead, her breathing slows even more. She gently caresses the rim of her coffee cup, taking a small sip and savoring the bitter warmth that reminds her she is still alive.

  She looks at her sketchbook, the drawing of the sky nearly finished, and smiles. The contrast between what she is putting on paper and the reality surrounding her is so brutal that it feels almost poetic. The sky she paints has no dark clouds or dense smoke covering the horizon outside. In her art, the sky is clear, serene, bright, like the one she remembers from before everything fell apart. An impossible sky.

  Suddenly, a loud creak makes her lift her gaze. One of the zombies has managed to climb onto the roof of a car and is frantically hitting a second-floor window. Its broken, bloodied nails scrape against the glass, desperately trying to break through. Others, seeing it, gather, pressing against the house’s facade.

  "AHHHHHH!" a scream erupts from the street—the cry of some poor soul. His barricades did not hold. He stumbles out, his arm injured, wielding a metal crowbar.

  Martina looks at him but decides to ignore him. He pleads for help, his screams shattering the peace of her brushstrokes, making her paint something she did not intend. Martina sighs and puts on her headphones, humming along to her music as she corrects the mistake on her canvas.

  The man’s voice fades from screaming for help, but the silence comes too late. He is surrounded from all sides. Slowly, the dead close in. He tries to flee, but it is in vain. The undead begin their feast on his flesh, and within seconds, he is torn apart.

  If there is one thing we have learned, it is this: if Martina ever asks you for help, do not ignore her, nor threaten to throw her out onto the streets.

  The collective roar amplifies. Desperation seeps into the groans of the dead. But Martina, with an almost inhuman calm, sets her brush down on the table. Blue paint stains have splattered onto her fingers, and she observes them with mild curiosity before wiping them off on a cloth.

  The air that seeps through the small crack in the window carries a rancid smell, a mix of decay and old blood, yet to her, it is fresh. It is the only thing left of the world she once knew, a lingering memory of what normal used to be. In her mind, that air still carries the breeze of an open field, the scent of flowers that no longer exist, the laughter and voices of cities now silenced—nothing remains but death and chaos.

  The dead struggle to break in, but they cannot. The door is too much for them. It is sturdy and well-reinforced; their weak and sometimes powerful blows fail to even budge it, only making noise—an annoyance to Martina, but nothing that music cannot fix.

  The horde outside will not disappear; she knows this. But neither will her inspiration. Every brushstroke, every sip of coffee, is a reminder that despite the terror and horror surrounding her, she still owns her own world. A world where the sky is blue, where life remains beautiful, even if only on her canvases.

  "I'm inspired; it's a perfect day to paint," she says with a faint smile, loading her shotgun and beginning her art.

  Truly, it is a good day outside.