In the Dark, We Chose - the Valentine Reset
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 3: Below the World
By the third day, silence had become a sound.
Not the quiet of peace, not the stillness of rest, but the hollow kind that followed something breaking so completely there was nothing left to echo.
Tom stood at the living-room window just before dawn, watching the street emerge from darkness. No engines. No hum of traffic. No faint glow of porch lights switching off as people left for work that no longer existed.
The world wasn’t asleep.
It was stunned.
Across the street, Mrs. Keller stepped out onto her porch wrapped in a blanket she probably didn’t need for warmth. She looked toward the Bryans’ house and didn’t look away when Tom noticed her.
That was new.
People used to glance at each other out of habit. Now they looked like they were counting.
He stepped back from the window.
Behind him, the house was quiet except for the low hum of the generator cycling through its morning pattern. The sound was comfort and danger all at once.
Sarah sat at the kitchen table with a mug of instant coffee, hands wrapped around it like it might disappear if she let go. She’d slept on the basement couch again. Tom’s mother insisted she take the guest room upstairs, but Sarah said she liked being close to the power source.
Tom knew the truth.
She liked being close to him.
They didn’t talk about that yet.
They talked about supplies. About neighbors. About what the radio didn’t say.
“People are clocking us,” Sarah said quietly when Tom sat across from her. “Not just Mrs. Keller. The guy two houses down stood outside this morning like he was timing how long our lights were on.”
Tom nodded. “I know.”
He hadn’t slept much. Every noise outside sounded like a decision someone else was making about them.
“Your dad planned for this,” Sarah said. “Didn’t he?”
Tom swallowed. “He planned for something.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair. “That’s worse.”
They both knew it.
Planning meant intention. Intention meant guilt.
Tom’s mother moved through the house pretending normal was a skill that could be mastered with repetition. She wiped already-clean counters. Folded towels that didn’t need folding. Hummed songs from years ago.
She refused to listen to the radio now.
She didn’t want to hear how bad it was.
She wanted to believe this was temporary.
Tom wished he could too.
By noon, the street had changed.
Not with violence.
With posture.
Neighbors stood in doorways instead of porches. Conversations were hushed. Movements were slower. People didn’t wave anymore—they watched.
Sarah noticed everything.
She always had.
Growing up, she’d been the kid who spotted patterns in teachers, moods in rooms, lies in smiles. Tom used to think she was just cynical.
Now he understood she was observant.
And observant people survived longer.
They sat in the basement that afternoon, the tablet on the table between them like a third presence. Neither of them had touched it since his father’s message.
It didn’t hum anymore.
It waited.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” Sarah said quietly.
Tom stared at the concrete floor. “Feels like I already am.”
She leaned forward. “Your dad put this on you, not the world. You’re allowed to hate that.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “I don’t hate him.”
Sarah nodded. “I know. That’s the hardest kind of anger.”
Silence settled again—not awkward, just heavy.
Above them, a door slammed somewhere in the neighborhood.
A raised voice.
Another door.
Then nothing.
Tom’s instincts stirred.
“We start cutting visibility tonight,” he said. “No lights after dark except what we absolutely need.”
Sarah didn’t argue. “I’ll tell your mom.”
He winced. “She’s going to hate that.”
Sarah’s lips curved faintly. “She already loves me. I can survive the rest.”
Night came faster now that the world didn’t glow.
By sunset, the street was a tunnel of shadows. Tom shut down everything but the basement light and one lamp upstairs.
His mother protested.
“I feel like I’m living in a cave,” she said.
Tom kept his voice gentle. “Mom, people notice differences now. We don’t want to be a difference.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then nodded.
She trusted him.
That scared him more than anything else.
Later, when the house was dark except for the basement bulb, Sarah sat on the couch and pulled her knees up to her chest.
“I used to think the world fell apart in big ways,” she said. “Wars. Riots. Fires.”
Tom leaned against the wall across from her. “Turns out it’s quieter than that.”
She nodded. “Scarier too.”
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