The entire group came to a sudden, almost desperate halt, the air heavy with exhaustion. Though the run had not been long, the adrenaline coursing through their veins had taken its toll. Sweat trickled down their faces, their breath ragged as they tried to regain some semblance of control.

"Hold the door tight!" Yoshimoto shouted, his voice laced with urgency. He could hear the dead pounding towards them, the sound of their ragged, guttural groans growing louder with every passing second. The door had just been slammed shut, but it remained vulnerable, unlatched, and unprotected.

Yoshimoto scrambled to position himself against the door, gripping the handle with a vice-like grip. Jackson and Buck, quick to react, rushed over to help. The three of them braced themselves, their bodies tensing in unison as they prepared for the oncoming onslaught.

"I've got you!" Buck yelled, his voice strained, but his hands firm against the door. His face, though, betrayed him. Pale, almost ashen, as though something unseen gnawed at his insides. A lingering suspicion passed through Yoshimoto's mind, but he shoved it aside—no time for doubts now.

The force of the dead’s slamming against the door hit them like a wave, causing the trio to stagger, the wood buckling slightly beneath the pressure. The door groaned in protest, but they managed to dig their heels into the floor and push back, regaining their positions just in time.

"Keep pushing!" Jackson grunted, sweat dripping from his brow. His hands ached, his body strained, but there was no room for weakness. Behind him, the rest of the group scrambled to make themselves useful, their eyes wide with terror, knowing that any moment could bring an end to this fragile hold.

"We could use some help over here!" Jackson shouted again, his voice thick with urgency. Every push from the dead seemed to drag them closer to failure, as the creatures on the other side pressed with relentless strength.

The dead were still relentless. They didn’t tire. They didn’t feel pain. And they were winning this fight. The door was starting to bend under their weight.

That’s when Andrew came barreling into the scene, his massive frame slamming into the door with the force of a wrecking ball. His eyes were bloodshot, the anger that pulsed through him almost palpable. His rage, born of fear, desperation, and the sheer weight of everything that had been happening, fueled his strength.

"Move!" Andrew’s voice was a roar, echoing down the hallway. The door groaned in protest, but Andrew’s sheer size and fury brought the balance back in their favor. The door resisted, but with his brute force, they held it steady, their combined efforts pushing the dead back for the moment.

They held their grip on the door for what felt like an eternity. The strain in their arms, the trembling in their bodies, slowly turning into exhaustion as the adrenaline wore off. Despite their best efforts, the door didn't feel as secure as it had moments ago. The wood creaked under pressure, the hinges groaning as if protesting the weight being placed on them.

It confused all the men a great deal, and for a moment, there was a fleeting sense of uncertainty that fell over the group. The silence that followed was eerie. The sounds of the dead had stopped, but something in the air felt off.

They could hear the faintest shuffle of footsteps retreating, the click of skeletal feet dragging across the floor. It was as if the dead had given up on their pursuit, heading back down the hallway. No longer banging on the door, no longer clawing at the wood in desperation.

"What the hell are they doing?" Buck muttered under his breath. His voice was a little unsteady, his face still pale, the lingering shock of the moment evident in his expression. The cold sweat on his brow wasn’t just from the physical exertion. It was the kind of fear that clawed at the pit of his stomach, the kind that didn't leave after the danger had passed.

While yes, Buck had seen it all on TV the night before—clips of frantic news reports and viral videos sent by friends—nothing could prepare him for the harsh, brutal reality of it. Seeing it in person, the raw terror in people's eyes, the mindless, relentless hunger of the dead—it was all too real now. His carefree lifestyle, the one he had always lived with minimal concern for the future, suddenly felt like a grave mistake. This wasn’t some sick joke or prank; this was the end of the world.

"I don't know... And I don't care to find out..." Grunted Andrew, his voice raw with frustration. He was still angry, but this anger was different. It wasn’t just the rage from the chaos—they all carried that by now—but a deeper, darker anger, one that had settled deep in his chest. The kind that only showed up when the world around you had crumbled, and you realized you were powerless to stop it. His eyes were sharp, scanning the hallway, but his focus was more inward than outward. They weren’t sure what was happening, but in that moment, they weren’t keen on asking questions.

“Let’s just keep our grip on the door for as long as we can… Until…” Jackson spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying an unexpected weight. He was staring intently at the door in front of them, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. His gaze lingered, heavy with concern.

“Until we know that it is safe… Then we have to keep going back up…” He finished, his voice soft but firm, almost as though he was trying to convince himself of it. The words felt hollow, like they didn’t carry the same certainty that they used to. But he couldn’t afford doubt right now—not with the group depending on him. Jackson lowered his head, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes.

His words hung in the air, heavy, laden with the unspoken realization that they were in uncharted territory. The air around them seemed to thicken, the silence pressing down on them harder than any enemy could. They knew the dead were still out there, somewhere. Their absence, for now, was a false calm. The real danger was waiting, just around the corner.

The group’s breathing was labored, their nerves tight as they took in what had just unfolded. The tension was almost suffocating, and for a moment, no one spoke. The sound of their footfalls echoed in the stairwell, the only noise breaking through the heavy silence.

"So we are backtracking?" Geneva’s voice cut through the stillness. Her eyes were narrowed, the uncertainty in her gaze mirroring Andrew’s, her face taut with unease. She had always been a pragmatic person, but even she couldn't ignore the fear that now weighed on them all.

Jackson turned his head, surprised by the question. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t expected it to come from her. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded slowly, his expression clouded with the same fear everyone else was holding inside.

"Yes... We’re backtracking..." he muttered, his voice low and strained. "Because we can't move ahead."

The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of the decision. Backtracking felt like a defeat. But in this situation, retreating was the only way forward. Jackson's eyes flickered to the darkened stairwell below them, then back to the group, as if trying to will them forward despite the uncertain and dangerous path ahead.

Geneva shuddered, though it wasn’t from the chill in the air. The 3rd floor, that place where they had just been, still haunted her thoughts. What they had seen there—what they had experienced—was something she couldn’t shake. The horror of it gnawed at her, even as she silently berated herself for not being stronger.

"Well, let's go back up and move ahead," Buck chimed in, his voice rough. It wasn’t a suggestion, more of an order that he was giving himself to mask his own fear. The man had always been a lone wolf, but now, even he knew that the group needed to stick together. As angry as he had been moments ago, he was silently praying that the dead wouldn’t follow them upstairs.

But his pallor hadn't improved. It was clear Buck was far from okay. He had always played the tough guy, but the reality of the situation was taking its toll on him.

"I agree with Buck," Timothy said, his voice strong but laced with concern. He positioned himself protectively in front of his children, his hands firmly grasping them. His eyes flickered between the group, but his focus remained on the kids. They needed his protection, and that was all that mattered.

"I’m not risking putting my kids through that again..." Timothy added, almost as though speaking to himself. The horror they’d all just experienced was enough for any parent to lose sleep over.

"Alright, the choice is made then," Murali said, finally speaking up after a long silence. His voice carried weight, calm and steady, an anchor in the turbulent sea of fear surrounding them. "Let's go upstairs."

The others looked toward him, some hesitant, some thankful for his reassurance. The silence that followed spoke volumes. They were all exhausted, physically and mentally. It felt like a lifetime had passed since the chaos had begun, and they were just now beginning to realize the toll it had taken on each of them.

Ben, quiet as ever, broke the silence. "Yeah... Let's go..." His voice was soft but resolute. He looked up at Murali, trusting him implicitly, despite the older man’s age. There was something in Murali's demeanor, an aura of calm in the face of turmoil, that gave Ben hope. He didn’t know how or why, but he just knew that Murali was someone worth following.

The moment stretched on before Richard clapped his hands together, breaking the lingering tension. His voice was crisp, cutting through the silence. "It’s settled then. We’re going back up. We’ll take the other stairwell down. But we keep moving forward, no matter what."

He looked directly at the cheerleaders as he spoke, hoping they wouldn't dwell too much on the possible dangers ahead. He didn’t want them thinking about the dead on the other side. Not yet. They needed to think positive.

Richard might have spoken like he was in charge, but it wasn’t long before Jackson, as always, took the lead. Despite being in the back just moments ago, he quickly moved ahead, taking the lead with no hesitation.

The group followed quietly, their steps echoing in the stairwell. Julie, glancing at Andrew and Jordan, gave a small nod. "Come on, let's stay in the back like before," she said, her voice firm but gentle. Her concern for Jordan was palpable, her motherly instincts kicking in full force.

Jordan, who had been unusually quiet, seemed smaller now, his usual bravado buried beneath the weight of the situation. His skin was pale, and he barely met his mother’s eyes when she spoke. The energy of his earlier excitement was gone—replaced by the dawning realization of how truly dangerous the world had become.

"I'm coming... Dad?" he said, his voice quiet, unsure. There was no bravado in his words now, only a quiet plea for reassurance.

"Yeah... Stay behind me," Andrew said softly, his own voice heavy with the weight of the moment. His protective instincts were in full force as he nodded to Julie and Jordan. He had never felt more responsible for his family than in that instant, and it showed in the tightness of his jaw, the way he moved in front of them.

They were at the back now, moving together as a family, unsure of what awaited them but united in their determination to survive.

"Huh... Looks like they don't have much interest in us anymore," said Buck, glancing at the 4th floor door where groans and grunts had echoed minutes ago. Now, silence hung heavy in the hallway, and he shivered, trying to shake off the creeping dread.

"Oh no... they do," said Murali Sule, his voice calm yet firm. "They just want us to fall for their traps." He shook his head knowingly, his sharp gaze settling on the younger men around him.

At first, the group looked at Murali as if he’d lost his mind. Jackson was the first to speak up, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You’re saying they’re the smart ones, and we’re their prey? Zombies are supposed to be stupid!" He shivered at the thought, his hands instinctively tightening on Tyler’s shoulders. Tyler winced but said nothing, understanding his father was only trying to keep him safe.

"If that's true... then we're all dead," Jordan mumbled to himself. Though he hadn’t meant to alarm anyone, the group caught his words, and their unease deepened.

Murali lifted a hand to calm them. "We have to be smarter," he said, his tone authoritative but steady. "The dead are more evolved than the stories tell. We can’t rely on old tales—we need to adapt and be very, very careful." He scanned the group, his wisdom evident in every word.

No one argued with him. Despite the tension, Murali’s calm demeanor and aged experience carried weight. He had lived through the worst of humanity, and his perspective gave him a unique insight into this new nightmare. Though he wasn’t a scientist or specialist, his wisdom felt almost prophetic.

"Sounds like this guy needs to be our leader," Richard muttered under his breath, his tone laced with mockery as he shot a glance at Jackson.

Jackson didn’t seem to notice the jab. Instead, he nodded at Murali. "Alright. We head to Floor 5. We move fast and stay careful this time. Let’s get to the other side and figure things out from there." His eyes flicked upward toward the next floor, steeling himself.

"Works for me," said Buck, crossing his arms. "Let’s stop wasting time and move. I’d rather be running from the dead during daylight than after dark."

Though the group wasn’t particularly fond of Buck, his point resonated. They followed Jackson as he approached the 5th floor door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, visibly nervous.

"Let’s go, Jackson. We’re going to be okay," Timothy whispered from behind, his calm voice cutting through the tension.

Jackson looked back at Timothy, meeting his eyes. After a moment, he nodded. "Yes... yes, we will," he said, more to himself than anyone else. With renewed determination, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The group followed, their eyes darting to every door in the dim hallway. The memory of the ambush on the 3rd floor was fresh in their minds, and no one dared to touch the doors this time. The fear of a repeat weighed heavily on them all.

Halfway down the hallway, Ben tugged on Allison’s sleeve. "Mom... I’m really hungry and thirsty," he whispered, his voice tired. "I haven’t had anything since dinner yesterday."

Allison glanced back at her son, guilt flashing across her face. She opened her mouth to respond, but Murali spoke first.

"I think we should all take a break," Murali said, his voice louder than usual to ensure everyone heard him. "Whether it’s here in the hallway or inside one of these rooms, we all need to rest."

Jackson immediately shook his head. "We can’t waste our entire day. We need to keep moving," he argued, his tone tense. It was clear he didn’t like the idea of stopping.

"It’s only noon," Hannah interjected, checking her phone. Her screen glowed dimly at 4%—a stark reminder that once it died, it would be gone forever. The thought of losing that connection to her old life stung, but she tried not to dwell on it.

Jackson frowned, glancing around the group. Even Buck, who had been eager to move minutes ago, now seemed to support Murali’s suggestion. Jackson’s shoulders slumped in frustration as he realized he was outvoted.

Beside him, Tyler sat on the floor, followed by the other children. The sight of the kids huddled together softened Jackson’s resolve. He sighed and leaned against the wall, conceding.

"So... does anyone have any food?" Jordan piped up, looking hopefully at the adults. His eyes landed on Buck, who ignored him, causing Jordan to frown.

Andrew stepped in, pulling a small bag from his pocket. "Yeah, I brought a few things and grabbed some extras from the rooms we searched earlier," he said, nodding to the group.

As the snacks were passed around, the group settled in, stealing a rare moment of rest amidst the chaos.

Timothy, Andrew, Jackson, and Richard were the only ones still standing. The men exchanged glances, their expressions heavy with unspoken understanding. It was clear they all had the same plan in mind.

Andrew took a slow bite of a protein bar, chewing thoughtfully before breaking the silence. "Alright... so I assume we’re the Four Horsemen," he said, his tone light but tinged with nervous humor. Though he mocked the title, part of him felt uneasy referencing a belief his family had raised him with.

"Yeah... I guess so," Richard replied, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "That means we’re their leaders." Despite his lack of faith in God, Richard knew a fair bit about the Bible, particularly its ominous warnings about the end times.

Jackson’s gaze shifted to the families scattered along the hallway. He let out a rough, nervous sigh before speaking. "Yep... and that means we need to step in and lead. I’m going to check the other rooms for supplies." His voice was firm, but his posture betrayed his unease. He nodded to the others, trying to muster confidence.

The thought of entering those rooms unsettled him. The dead could be lurking behind any door, waiting to ambush them. And if Murali’s theory about their intelligence was true, the stakes were even higher. They needed to prepare—and fast.

Richard moved to one of the nearest doors, gripping the handle and giving it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, the frustration evident in his tone. "Guess we have to hope they’re not all like that."

He moved on to the next door, his movements purposeful. The other men exchanged brief nods before following suit, spreading out to search the remaining rooms.

---

Here’s the refined version of your excerpt with enhanced clarity, emotional depth, and smoother transitions:

---

"So... what happens once we all get out of here?" Yoshimoto asked, his voice tinged with unease. He was beginning to grasp the full scope of what was happening—this wasn’t just local chaos. This was global.

The realization weighed heavily on him. His layover flight to Texas was supposed to take off today, the next step on his journey back to Japan. But if this city was already lost, the odds of returning home anytime soon seemed impossibly slim.

A lump formed in his throat as grief crept over him. Yoshimoto felt sick, not from the chaos outside but from the thought of being cut off from his family. His relationship with his father had been strained for years, but blood ties still mattered. His father, a man deeply invested in countless businesses, was a hard man to love—but he was still his father.

Julie and Allison exchanged uneasy glances at Yoshimoto's question, their faces tight with worry. Both women instinctively looked at their children, silently reminding them to stay quiet about the group’s plan.

It didn’t feel right to keep secrets, especially from someone as earnest as Yoshimoto. But Richard had insisted. He believed that too many people knowing about the community would jeopardize their chances of being accepted into it.

Allison shivered at the thought of being turned away. She quickly pushed the worry from her mind as a voice broke through the tension.

"I have nowhere to go once I’m out of here," Murali Sule said, his tone calm and serene. A soft, almost otherworldly smile spread across his face. "My life’s purpose has been served... and I’d like to meet my wife up in heaven."

Buck Huckleberry glanced at Murali, feeling an urge to laugh at the old man’s optimism. He didn’t believe in an afterlife; to him, life ended when it ended. But even Buck wasn’t in the mood for mockery now.

He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Memories of the horrific scene he’d witnessed earlier flashed through his mind. The way the dead had torn through that woman—he couldn’t stop picturing it as his own love back in Oklahoma.

Buck felt a wave of nausea. He’d been dating her for years, and he’d always planned to propose. The ring was in his suitcase, waiting for the perfect moment during this vacation. But now, the thought of her being dead—or worse, one of them—shattered him.

He let out a long breath, rubbing his face as he tried to block out the guilt and fear eating at him. Buck couldn’t bring himself to laugh at someone else’s love when his own was the reason for the ache in his chest.

"Well... how about we have a little story time?" Geneva suggested, her tone light but somber. "We don’t know if we’re going to make it through the night." She wasn’t trying to sound negative, just stating the truth they all silently understood.

The group fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a thick fog. No one dared to speak at first, each lost in their own thoughts.

Murali Sule, as always, was the first to break the silence. He nodded warmly at Geneva, a serene smile spreading across his face. His calmness stood in stark contrast to the tension gripping the others, which made Geneva glance at him curiously. How could he be so happy in a moment like this?

"The love of my life," Murali began, his voice soft and steady. "We married in 1965..."

Before he could continue, young Tyler piped up. "1965? That’s the year my dad was born!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with the innocent enthusiasm only a child could muster.

The group collectively turned toward the boy, their expressions a mix of amusement and mild frustration. It wasn’t the interruption itself but the timing—Murali’s story carried a weight that Tyler’s comment had momentarily derailed.

"That’s awesome, kid," Buck said, his tone surprisingly calm and measured. "But let’s let the elders talk first, okay?"

Tyler’s face flushed with embarrassment. He lowered his head, his small shoulders drooping. "Sorry," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

Murali’s smile didn’t falter. He nodded reassuringly at Tyler, his gaze kind and understanding. "It’s quite alright," he said, his voice warm. "You’re full of life—that’s a good thing. But let me finish my story first, and then I’d love to hear more about your father."

Tyler nodded back, his spirits lifting slightly as Murali’s gentle demeanor softened the moment.

With that, Murali took a deep breath and returned to his story, his tone rich with nostalgia.

Murali’s gaze softened as he recalled the memories. His voice, though steady, carried the tremor of emotion as he began to speak.

"We married in 1965, in a small ceremony back home in Tamil Nadu. It was a simple affair—just family and close friends under the banyan tree near my parents' home. My wife, Padma, looked stunning in her bright red sari, with golden embroidery that caught the sunlight just so. I was... well, just a nervous young man in a borrowed suit."

The group leaned in, captivated by the warmth in Murali’s voice.

"For our honeymoon, we decided to visit Darjeeling. It was Padma’s dream to see the tea plantations and the Kanchenjunga mountains. She always said she wanted to feel like she was standing at the edge of the world. So, we boarded a narrow-gauge train—what they call the ‘Toy Train’—and began our journey up the mountains."

Murali’s smile widened, a faraway look in his eyes. "The train moved slowly, winding its way through lush green hills and small villages. Padma leaned out of the window, her scarf fluttering in the wind, and she kept pointing out every little thing—wildflowers, children playing, the endless rows of tea bushes. She had this way of making everything feel magical, even the ordinary."

He paused, his voice growing softer. "I remember one night in Darjeeling. We stayed in a small guesthouse that overlooked the mountains. The owner, an old man, brought us steaming cups of chai and warned us that the mornings would be cold. But that night... that night, we stayed up late. The sky was so clear, you could see every star. Padma insisted we go out onto the balcony to look. We wrapped ourselves in a single blanket, and she rested her head on my shoulder. I asked her if she was cold, and she said, ‘How could I be, with you here?’"

The group stayed silent, the intimacy of the story holding them in its grip.

Murali’s voice wavered slightly, but he continued. "We talked about everything that night—our dreams, our fears, the family we wanted to build. She told me she wanted to have three children, a house full of love and laughter. And I... I promised her I’d do everything I could to give her that."

He chuckled softly. "The next morning, she woke me up before dawn. She said she wanted to see the sun rise over Kanchenjunga. So, we huddled together on that balcony, our breath visible in the cold air, and watched as the first rays of sunlight turned the snowcaps golden. She called it the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. But for me... the most beautiful thing was her, with that light in her eyes, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her smile so full of life."

Murali’s smile lingered, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "She passed away a year ago," he said quietly, his tone heavy with sorrow. "But that trip, that moment... it’s stayed with me. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still see her, standing on that balcony, looking at the mountains like she could conquer the world."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group. "That’s the thing about love. Even when it’s gone, it stays with you. It’s the one thing the world can’t take away."

The room fell silent after Murali finished speaking, the weight of his words lingering in the air. Despite the dire situation they were in, his story had brought a rare sense of peace, however fleeting.

“That is an amazing story, Murali. I’m so sorry for your loss,” Julie said, her voice quiet but sincere. Her gaze locked with his, and for a moment, she connected with him on a deeply personal level—something she didn’t often do.

Murali’s story reminded Julie of her parents, their love, and the safety they had provided. As much as she loved Andrew, the fear of the world collapsing around her made her long for the comfort of her parents once again.

“It is okay, Julie,” Murali replied, his serene smile returning as he glanced around the group. “I am at peace with the world right now.”

Yoshimoto, the other foreigner in the group, stepped forward, his curiosity piqued. “So… that’s why you’re here then? One last hoorah?” he asked, using an American phrase he had learned from his friends—a word he’d likely never hear them say again.

The thought stung Yoshimoto. Most of his friends in America were likely gone, their lives snuffed out in the chaos. Yet, for now, none of that mattered. Storytime, something he had always cherished, was a welcome distraction.

Murali gave Yoshimoto a soft nod, noticing the hint of darkness that clouded the young man’s expression. “Yeah,” Murali said, his voice quieter now. “Figured I’d finish my life out in peace, exploring the world. We had a good life together. It’s what she wanted us to do once I retired from teaching.”

Murali hesitated, his smile faltering as guilt flickered in his eyes. Despite their many joys, there had been unfulfilled dreams—children they couldn’t have, trips they hadn’t taken, moments lost to the demands of life.

He shook his head, dismissing those thoughts before they overwhelmed him. Instead, he focused on Yoshimoto, meeting his gaze directly. “Well, we don’t have time to share our whole life stories. But we can always share one,” Murali said, his tone brightening. “You want to go ahead, Yoshi? I bet you’ve got some brilliant stories yourself! You’re from another nation, just like me!”

All eyes turned to Yoshimoto, who shifted uncomfortably under their collective gaze. He hesitated, but after a moment, he nodded reluctantly.

“I mean… my parents were rich, and I didn’t really do much when I was young. At least… not until I got to America,” Yoshimoto admitted, his voice trailing off as a shiver ran through him.

His mind lingered on the reasons he had ended up here. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on—the control his father had exerted over his life, the pressure to fix the path he had strayed from. Despite their strained relationship, his father’s influence had helped him find some direction.

Now, Yoshimoto regretted the years lost to distance. He hadn’t seen his parents in over four years, their connection limited to occasional voice calls. The thought gnawed at him, and he found himself staring at the floor, lost in his own head.

The silence stretched on until Buck spoke up, his voice breaking the tension. “Well, if your life’s really that boring, I can step in,” he said with a grin. His smile, however, didn’t seem to land well with the group.

The others stared back at him, their expressions serious, and the smiles they had shared moments earlier faded. Buck’s grin faltered, replaced by a frown as he struggled to understand why his lighthearted comment had struck the wrong chord.

Murali, ever the steady presence, spoke again. “No,” he said firmly. “We go in turns around the circle. Yoshimoto, you’re up next.” His tone was kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice.

Yoshimoto looked up at Murali, his eyes wide with nervousness. He wasn’t used to this. In his culture, storytelling was reserved for special moments, and the pressure to perform in this American way made him hesitate.

He let out a rough sigh, stealing a glance at the expectant faces around him. Then, gathering his courage, he began to speak.

Yoshimoto sighed, his gaze falling to the floor again. "My parents were rich, and honestly, I didn’t do much when I was young... not until I got to America," he said, his voice faltering.

Murali tilted his head, studying Yoshimoto with a patient expression. "Come now," he said, his tone warm. "You’re from another culture entirely. Surely you’ve experienced something worth sharing."

Yoshimoto hesitated, the weight of everyone's eyes making him squirm. But something about Murali's kind smile made it easier to find his words.

"Okay," he said, finally relenting. "There was this one time, during the Obon festival. I was twelve, and it’s still one of my happiest memories."

The group shifted slightly, leaning in as Yoshimoto began to speak with more confidence.

"In Japan, Obon is a festival to honor our ancestors. At the end, people float lanterns down the river, each one carrying a wish or a prayer. It’s supposed to guide the spirits back to the afterlife. That year, my father, who’s always been... well, very busy, took the night off to take us to the festival." Yoshimoto smiled faintly. "That was rare. He worked all the time, so just having him there made it special."

He paused, letting the memory wash over him. "The festival was incredible—there were food stalls with grilled corn and takoyaki, taiko drummers playing rhythms that made you feel alive, and those lanterns... hundreds of them glowing as they floated on the water."

Yoshimoto’s expression brightened as he continued. "I decided I wanted to make my own lantern. But instead of just writing a wish, I wanted to write a story. I thought... what if the lanterns didn’t just guide spirits? What if they carried messages to the stars?"

The group stayed silent, listening intently. Even Buck seemed intrigued, his usual aloofness replaced by curiosity.

"I didn’t think my father would care," Yoshimoto admitted. "He’s a businessman, you know? All about practicality and results. But when I showed him the story I’d written, he just... stopped. He didn’t say anything for a long time. And then he smiled at me—this small, proud smile I don’t think I’d ever seen before. He said, ‘You have a gift, Yoshi. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.’"

His voice grew softer, the memory clearly precious. "Later that night, we lit the lantern and sent it down the river together. I watched it drift away, carrying my little story with it. My dad stood there with me, his hand on my shoulder, and for the first time... I felt like he really saw me. Not just as his son, but as someone with something to offer."

Yoshimoto’s eyes grew distant, and he let out a quiet sigh. "That was the last time I remember us connecting like that. After that night, he got busier again, and then I was sent here to finish high school. But... I hold on to that moment. It reminds me that even the busiest people have room for love and pride. You just have to find the right moment."

The group sat in silence, the weight of Yoshimoto’s words sinking in. Even Buck refrained from his usual sarcasm, his expression unreadable.

Murali nodded, his wise smile returning. "That’s a beautiful story, Yoshimoto. You see? You have so much more inside you than you think."

The Japanese man gave a small, shy smile, grateful for the encouragement. For the first time since the chaos began, he felt a sense of belonging among these strangers.

Even Buck seemed surprised by Yoshimoto’s story. Though he had often harbored a bit of prejudice—mostly because he enjoyed pushing people’s buttons—he found himself genuinely impressed. A rare, genuine smile crossed his face as he leaned back against the wall, letting the story linger in his mind.

The group’s focus shifted as Murali turned to Geneva, his calm demeanor commanding their attention. Her eyes went wide in surprise as she realized it was her turn.

"Oh... is it my turn?" Geneva asked, her voice carrying a hint of nervousness as she pointed at herself.

Murali nodded with that same serene smile he always seemed to wear. "Yes, Geneva. It’s your turn. Do you have a good story or a memory to share with us?"

His tone was gentle but encouraging, and the way he looked at her eased some of her nerves. Geneva felt strangely at peace seeing the older man’s warmth, even in such dire circumstances.

It struck her as odd—how could someone like Murali, an older man much weaker than anyone else in the group, radiate such happiness in the middle of this nightmare? She shook the thought away, deciding not to dwell on it.

Instead, she took a deep breath, nodding. "Okay," she said, steadying herself as all eyes turned to her. "I guess I do have a story... let’s see..."

The room quieted again as Geneva prepared to share her memory, her voice finding strength as she began.

Geneva shifted awkwardly as the group waited for her to speak. She wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and the anticipation in their eyes made her palms sweat.

"Alright, alright," she finally said, waving a hand in mock surrender. "I’ll tell you a story, but don’t expect anything life-changing."

Murali gave her an encouraging smile, the kind that made her relax just a little. She drew in a breath, then began.

"This happened when I was fifteen. There was this local parade that our neighborhood held every year, and my friends and I were so excited to be a part of it. We weren’t, like, the stars of the parade or anything—we were just a bunch of kids who got to walk and wave. But we were hyped. We had our outfits picked out, our faces painted, the works."

Her voice softened as she continued, a hint of nostalgia creeping in. "But then, on the day of the parade, the sky opened up, and it started pouring rain. I’m talking sheets of water. Everyone thought it was going to be canceled. I remember standing there with my friends, drenched and freezing, just staring at the gray sky."

She paused, her lips curving into a small smile. "I don’t know who started it—maybe it was Tasha, she was always the wild one—but someone just started dancing. Then another person joined in. Before I knew it, we were all out there in the rain, dancing like idiots. The music was still playing, and even though most of the crowd had gone home, there were a few people with umbrellas, clapping and cheering for us like we were rock stars."

The room was silent except for the faint hum of background noise as the others listened intently.

"It wasn’t about winning anything, or being the best, or any of that. We were just having fun, laughing and slipping on the wet pavement. By the time the parade officially got going, we were soaked to the bone, but none of us cared. It was one of those moments that stuck with me—not because it was some big deal, but because it reminded me that even when things don’t go as planned, you can still make something good out of it."

Geneva glanced around the group, her cheeks slightly flushed. "I guess that’s my story. Nothing fancy, but it’s one of my favorite memories."

Murali nodded, his warm smile unchanged. "A beautiful story doesn’t need to be fancy. It just needs heart. Thank you for sharing, Geneva."

Her lips twitched into a small grin, and for a moment, the tension in the room lifted.

"You never told me that story! That's a really cool story, Geneva!" Hannah said, her voice tinged with a bit of hurt. She had shared so many stories with her friend, and now she felt a little left out.

Geneva, who had always been the more reserved of the two, lowered her head slightly, unsure of how to respond. She felt the weight of her past, the memories she didn't often revisit.

"Well... We've been friends for a year... I just don't usually think back on my past memories honestly... I like to live in the moment..." she said quietly, wincing a little at her own words. Her voice was soft, almost as if she were apologizing for not sharing more.

The past was something Geneva rarely spoke of. Her family, as much as they tried to appear normal, had always been a source of pain for her. Now, being on her own in this chaotic world, she found comfort in focusing on the present rather than looking back.

"Well... Looks like you're a step ahead of the rest of us then..." Buck muttered under his breath, his mind seemingly lost in his own memories, though his words were loud enough for everyone to hear.

Geneva wasn’t sure what Buck meant by that, but his tone made her uneasy. She shifted slightly in place, trying to shake off the discomfort he brought to the group. There was something about him she just couldn't place, something off about the way he carried himself.

As the silence stretched, Hannah, who had been observing the conversation, broke it with her usual enthusiasm.

"Alright, I guess it’s my turn then," she said with a half-smile, clearly eager to tell her story.

Hannah shifted slightly, a quiet tension filling the air as everyone looked to her. She had remained mostly silent through the other stories, but now it was her turn. She wasn't used to sharing her personal moments, but there was one memory that bubbled to the surface now. One that felt strangely fitting for the moment—a story about her high school team.

She cleared her throat, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “I don’t really talk about it much, but I was on the cheerleading team back in high school. It was my senior year, and we were facing the state finals. It was the biggest moment of my life up until then—everything we’d worked for, every early morning and late practice, had led up to that one day.”

She paused for a moment, remembering the nerves and excitement that had come with the pressure. "We were a small team, never really favored to win, but we were scrappy. Every single one of us had our own doubts, but we kept pushing each other. There was something about us—something that made us fight for that win, even when the odds were stacked against us.”

Her smile was faint as she continued. “The final routine was the hardest we’d ever done. We’d been practicing for months, and every time something went wrong, we’d get back up and do it again. But when it came down to that moment, that final routine, everything just clicked. We executed it perfectly—every jump, every tumble, every stunt was flawless. And in that final moment, when we hit the pyramid, I felt like I could’ve floated right off the ground. We won. We actually won the state finals.”

She looked around the room, almost embarrassed by how her eyes were brightening at the memory. “It wasn’t just the win—it was how we did it. Together, as a team. All those hours spent practicing, the sweat, the tears, it all made sense. That feeling of accomplishment, of knowing that we had something to show for everything we’d given… It’s something I’ll never forget.”

Hannah glanced down for a moment, her smile softening. “I guess we all have our own victories, right?” she said, her voice quieter now. “Even when it feels like the world’s falling apart, there’s always something worth holding on to. That win… It was mine.”

She looked up, her gaze meeting everyone’s. “Anyway… That’s my story. I don’t tell it much, but it felt right to share it now.”

Jordan rolled his eyes in the corner. He never really had an interest in cheerleaders at all. And he felt like she had a bit of an ego on her. The way she spoke, the way she carried herself—it all rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn't one to judge a book by its cover, but something about her demeanor seemed off. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud.

He didn't say anything for the time being, however. As it was Murali who was the one to speak up again, his calm voice cutting through the silence.

"Alright Buck... You were so eager to tell your story... You care to tell us now?" Murali said, his voice steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. He was trying to keep the mood light, but there was an unspoken tension in the air—like the calm before a storm.

Buck, who had been staring blankly ahead, lost in his own thoughts, lifted his head slowly. His eyes were wide, momentarily taken off guard, as if he hadn't expected to be put on the spot.

He had been lost in his thoughts and his own memories, his mind drifting through a sea of recollections. There were so many stories to choose from—some from his childhood, some from his time out in the wild, hunting and surviving. His father, his brothers—they had shared so many moments together, moments that shaped him into the man he had become. But which story to tell? He hadn’t quite narrowed it down yet. The weight of all those memories was heavy, and each one felt as if it carried its own significance.

Buck nodded his head back at Murali, finally choosing to dive into the past, into a fond memory he had with his father and his brothers when he was about eight. He took a deep breath, his mind settling on one particular moment, as he prepared to share it with the group.

Buck exhaled sharply, his thoughts shifting to a memory that had always lingered in the back of his mind. He’d seen a lot in his time—too much, really—but there were certain moments that stuck with him, like the trip to the mountains when he was eight.

"When I was eight," he started, his voice quieter now, "my old man, my brothers, and I went up to the mountains for a week. That was the only time we actually spent a full week together—just us. My dad didn’t have much time for family, but he wanted to teach us something about surviving. Said it was a 'man’s world,' and we had to learn how to keep up."

He paused, his eyes wandering as he spoke, almost as if he could see the past before him. "I remember that trip, even now. My brothers were older than me, always teasing me, but they made sure I could keep up, especially with the hikes we did up in those mountains. My old man? He just watched us, never said much. But every night by the fire, he’d tell us stories—always about the land, how to survive out there, what to do when things go wrong. It was tough for me to keep up, but I never complained. I just wanted to be seen as one of the men."

A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Buck as he remembered the cold mountain nights. He looked around the room, his face now reflecting the ghosts of those memories. "That was the only time I felt like part of something. Like a team. A family. But it was also when I started seeing the cracks in the facade. I saw how hard my dad was on my brothers, how he’d push them harder than he pushed me. I tried to understand it, but all it ever did was leave me feeling like I wasn’t enough."

He let out a long, shaky breath, his gaze focused on the ground now, the weight of the story lingering in the room. "I never got the approval I was looking for," he muttered, his voice rough and gravelly, but not because he was weak—because it was the reality of who he was. "But I kept pushing forward. That’s what we all do, right? Push through the pain, move forward, even when it feels like nothing's gonna change."

The group fell silent, the gravity of Buck’s words hanging heavily in the air. No one dared to speak just yet. After a long pause, Richard gave Buck a nod, a gesture of quiet understanding. “You’ve kept moving forward, Buck. That’s what matters now.”

Buck’s lips twitched into a small, tight smile. “Yeah… guess we all do, don’t we?”

The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if each person in the room could feel the weight of what Buck had shared, as if they were all carrying their own heavy loads in their own ways. The room was quieter now, each of them contemplating the journey they had all endured to get here—and the one still ahead of them.

"Well... You always have a family with us... I mean, even if we don't know each other... We need each other, right?" said Yoshimoto, his voice soft but steady as he looked around at the group.

His words, though simple, seemed to hang in the air, offering a sense of reassurance. The group, despite their fear and exhaustion, found solace in his words. There was something about the way he spoke—quiet, yet firm—that made it feel like they were, indeed, united in this. Everyone was on the same team now, and for a brief moment, the weight of their situation felt a little lighter.

Buck chuckled a little, breaking the silence, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. He was lost in thought, clearly struggling with his own internal turmoil. “I appreciate the love you all are showing me and each other… But I need to get back to my mom, my last brother, and the woman of my dreams..." His voice trailed off, his gaze distant, as if he were momentarily transported to another time.

He seemed to withdraw into his own memories, his mind drifting to darker days, the loss of his family, and the things he never got to say. His oldest brother and father had both passed away years ago, but that pain never quite left him. He stared down at the floor for a long time, his fists clenched as if he were still holding onto something from his past. Julie exchanged a glance with Allison, who nodded silently, knowing that they had to keep going forward.

Finally, it was Murali who broke the quiet, his voice calm and steady, offering something of a lifeline to the group: "Alright, Buck... You've been eager to share. Care to tell us your story?"

Buck snapped back to the present, his head lifting slowly, eyes wide as if he hadn’t expected the question. He paused for a moment, letting the silence stretch, then nodded. "Alright..." he said, his voice rough around the edges, as if the weight of his memories was settling in. "When I was about 8, my brothers and I, we’d all pile into the old truck my dad used to drive. It was a beat-up thing, falling apart at the seams, but it was ours. We'd head down to the lake, just to get away from everything—school, our mom’s pressure to be the perfect kids, whatever it was. And every year, without fail, we’d catch fish that were way too big for our gear."

He let out a short laugh, though it was strained. "My dad would make us fish all day long, even when we were exhausted. And when we finally caught something big enough to brag about, we'd throw it in the back of the truck, head home with it, and my mom would have to clean it. We never caught the biggest fish, but the fun wasn’t in the fish... it was in the time we spent together. All of us, laughing in the back of that truck, smelling like lake water and sweat."

Buck’s voice faltered slightly, the weight of the memory pressing down on him. The others didn’t interrupt, allowing him his moment to reflect. "I miss those days... I miss feeling like we were a family," he added softly, his words more to himself than to anyone else.

Julie glanced at her husband, then back at Buck. She didn't say anything, but her expression softened with empathy. There was something about hearing someone else’s story, especially one rooted in simpler times, that connected them all in their grief. No one here was immune to loss. They all carried it—some more visibly than others.

There was a long, heavy silence after Buck finished, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Then, Murali, with his quiet presence, spoke again, breaking the silence. “You’ve been through a lot, Buck. We’ve all had our struggles. But we keep going, don’t we? That’s what keeps us alive, keeps us moving forward.”

Buck nodded slowly, the hint of a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah,” he said, “we keep moving forward.”

The group settled into that silence for a while, each of them carrying their own stories, their own pain, but also the resolve to push on. They were still here. And maybe that was enough for now.

I completely understand now, and I sincerely apologize for all the confusion and mistakes I made before. I’ll focus strictly on enriching what you’ve already written—keeping your voice and your story intact—by enhancing the writing style, character development, and scene description while staying within the boundaries you've provided.

The silence seemed to finally be broken once again by none other than Murali, as he nodded his head over to Julie this time.

"Alright, Julie... Care to tell us a good story about your past?" he asked her, his tone calm, his smile reassuring as he gestured to her, inviting her to share.

Jordan finally lifted his head up, a reluctant expression crossing his face. His stomach twisted at the thought of his mother telling a story, dreading the possibility that she would bring up something embarrassing—something about him.

He hated that his mother had a tendency to tell those sorts of stories. And more often than not, they were about him—his awkward childhood, his clumsy moments, things that made his face flush red even now.

Julie hadn’t been thinking about sharing a story. But as she caught her son’s eye, a soft smile formed on her lips, one that was both loving and comforting. She took a breath, preparing to speak, knowing that Jordan was already uneasy.

Julie smiled softly, remembering the past as she looked at her son, Jordan. He was older now, far from the baby she remembered, but sometimes it felt like it was just yesterday she was holding him in her arms.

“Well,” she began, her voice low but warm. “It’s not exactly a happy story, but it’s one of those memories I’ll always keep. It was when Jordan was about six months old... and we were living in our old house in the suburbs. Andrew and I were still getting the hang of parenting, and you know, the sleepless nights and constant worry about whether we were doing it right.” She paused, her eyes flickering with nostalgia, before continuing.

“I remember one day, Andrew had taken the day off from work. We had big plans to get some stuff done around the house — you know, clean the gutters, maybe rearrange the living room. But Jordan had other ideas,” she said with a small chuckle.

“Andrew was holding him, trying to calm him down because the little guy just wouldn’t stop crying. I’m talking non-stop, the kind of cry that makes you feel like you’re losing your mind. And Andrew—” Julie paused, smiling at the thought of her husband, “—Andrew is not one for patience when it comes to babies crying, especially when he’s trying to get something done.”

She looked at her son, then added, “It was one of those days where he just couldn’t figure it out. He tried everything — the bottle, changing him, walking around. But nothing worked. I remember walking in and seeing him trying to bounce Jordan on his knee. And Andrew looked so frustrated. He had that crease between his eyes, you know, the one he gets when he’s really irritated.”

Julie laughed softly, shaking her head as she remembered the moment. “So, I took Jordan from him. And you know what happened? The second I held him, he stopped crying. Just like that. It was like he knew I was his mom. He calmed right down in my arms, and Andrew was just standing there, staring at me in disbelief.”

She paused, her smile fading slightly as she added, “Of course, I felt bad for Andrew, but honestly, it was kind of funny. It felt like Jordan had made his decision on who he was going to trust with his tears.”

Julie looked back up at the group, still smiling but with a touch of sadness behind her eyes. “Andrew, being Andrew, tried not to show how hurt he was. But I could tell. And I remember him saying, ‘I’m going to hold this against you for the rest of his life, you know.’"

She chuckled lightly at the memory, “And I told him, ‘Well, he’s going to need someone to love him when you’re busy with the lawnmower.’”

Julie leaned back a little, the weight of the world outside creeping back into her thoughts, but she didn’t let it show. For a moment, just a brief moment, she was back in her home, with her baby, and her husband, and the world felt a little safer.

Jordan felt a bit uncomfortable with his mom calling him a crybaby. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle it—he just wasn’t used to being singled out like that in front of everyone. His pride started to swell as the familiar heat crept up to his cheeks. He wanted to step up, defend himself, and tell them all that he wasn’t some soft kid, but he also knew the damage had already been done. His mother’s words had struck deep, even if she meant them playfully.

He looked at the other children with a bit of worry at first, his eyes darting from one to the other. What did they think? Was he now the subject of their amusement? He caught the gaze of Angela, who seemed to be lost in thought, and Tyler, who appeared confused, but not judgmental. It was a relief. At least as far as he could tell, they weren’t laughing at him.

The weight lifted slightly from his shoulders, but his mother’s wide smile still lingered in his mind. It was one of those smiles that had a way of sticking, even when you didn’t want it to. Jordan let out a soft sigh of relief. He knew his mom meant well, but in moments like this, it felt like the whole world was watching.

He turned his head back to his mom, unable to keep a smile from tugging at his lips. He had to give her credit; she always knew how to make him feel like everything would be okay, even when he wasn’t sure about it himself.

"Well... I guess it’s my turn now..." Jordan mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. He wanted to avoid further teasing, but he knew it was coming anyway. His voice grew steadier as he said it louder, his hand slightly shaking as he rubbed his forehead.

Before Murali could speak up or anyone could comment, Jordan took a breath, looking around at everyone in the room. He had never been good at opening up, but right now, it felt like the walls of his self-consciousness were coming down bit by bit.

The group, all the way from his parents to the cheerleaders and even the older men, looked at him expectantly. He could tell they saw him as the scared, trembling little boy, but something in him refused to stay small. He wanted to show them that he wasn’t just that kid anymore—that he had the courage to face the worst, even if it didn’t look perfect.

Jordan puffed out his chest a bit. It wasn’t a big, strong chest like his dad’s, but it was enough. It was his. And for the first time in a while, he felt a little less afraid.

He forced his thoughts to shift away from the things that made him uncomfortable. He tried to remember the stories his father used to tell him about what it meant to be strong, to be a man. The stories had always seemed so grand when his dad spoke them—like he was invincible.

He hoped that someday, he could be as big as his dad, as strong. Though, if he was being honest, he worried about his mom’s genetics. The idea of being the same height as her made him uncomfortable, and he chuckled to himself, shaking the thought away. For now, he had his story to share.

"Alright, alright..." Jordan sighed, lifting his chin slightly. He was determined to make this story his own. This was his moment. "You want to hear my story? Here goes..."

Jordan felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on him as he stood there, unsure of what to say. The stories from the others felt so much bigger and more impressive than his own memories. He wasn’t sure if what he was about to tell even mattered, but he wanted to try. He glanced at his mom, and she gave him a small encouraging smile, which helped him steady his nerves.

“Well, I guess... I don’t have a big story like everyone else," Jordan started, his voice quieter than usual, as if unsure how to start. "But, when I was little, I used to think I could run faster than anyone else. I remember this one time, in the backyard... I just kept running, and running, ‘cause I thought if I went fast enough, I could catch the wind. My dad used to sit on the porch and watch me... and he’d say, ‘One of these days, you’ll be fast enough to outrun the wind, kid.’”

He smiled faintly, looking at his shoes for a moment. “I thought that was kinda funny, but I didn’t really understand what he meant, I just liked to run. But when I got tired, he’d come over and say, ‘You’re getting faster every time.’ I’d feel pretty proud. I guess that’s... that’s a good memory.”

Jordan shifted uncomfortably, then continued. “When we went to the beach, I didn’t want to get in the water. I thought it was too cold or something, but my dad was already out there, so I figured... I’d go. He told me, ‘Don’t worry, kid. The water won’t bite.’ I thought that was kinda silly, but I went in anyways, and the water was freezing, but I didn’t want to show him I was scared. So I stayed in, and we just... played around. Built a big sandcastle. It was fun. A good day.”

Jordan shrugged a little and shifted his weight, feeling awkward. “That’s all I really remember. Just... running and the beach, I guess.” He looked down at his feet again, his mind still unsure of what else to say. He felt like the story didn’t even come close to the big adventures others had shared, but it was all he had.

Allison smiled softly as she reflected on those simpler times. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the salty air that filled her lungs, and the warmth of the sun on her skin—those were the moments that made her feel most alive. Despite the chaos around them now, it was memories like that that grounded her, reminded her of what she was fighting for.

"As we spent the days at the beach, it was like time slowed down," Allison continued, her voice a bit softer now. "We’d build sandcastles, walk along the shore, and just enjoy each other’s company. My mom would sit under the umbrella, reading a book, while my dad would always be watching us, but from a distance. He wasn’t one to show much emotion, but you could see it in his eyes, how much he loved those moments. How much he loved us. Even Gabriel, who was always so full of energy, never tired of being out there with us."

She paused, looking down at her hands for a moment. It was as if the weight of time had pressed down on her, but she forced a smile back to her lips.

"One time, after we’d been at the beach for hours, we all walked up the path back to the little cabin we rented. It was a modest place, but it was ours for the week. We had no plans other than to relax and enjoy ourselves. That night, we all sat down to eat dinner outside, watching the sun set over the water. I remember how it painted the sky—deep reds and oranges. It felt like the whole world was pausing just for us. And in that moment, everything felt perfect. I felt safe, like nothing could touch us."

Allison’s voice wavered slightly, but she steadied herself and looked at the group in front of her. The memories were both comforting and painful, but she couldn’t help but share them. It felt like a moment of peace amidst the chaos.

"My dad, in his quiet way, always found ways to make us feel secure. He’d tell Gabriel and me stories of his own childhood. Nothing grand, just little anecdotes about his younger days. But it was enough to keep us entertained. And it made us feel connected to him. It wasn’t until later that I realized how important those small things were—those quiet moments that anchored our family together."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, as if the group could feel the weight of the silence that followed. It was as if they were all momentarily transported to that place—the calm before the storm.

“I still think about those days sometimes,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "I think about how they shaped who I am, and what I want to protect. I want my own kids to have memories like that, ones that make them feel safe no matter where they are. And I hope, in some way, that I can give them that, even with everything that’s happened now."

Allison wiped a stray tear from her cheek, and despite her best efforts to keep it together, her voice quivered slightly. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to hide how she felt. It was something she had learned over time—sometimes, being vulnerable was the most honest thing you could do.

Buck wanted to tell Allison that memories like hers would be hard to come by with the way the world was shaping up. But for once, he knew better and kept his mouth shut. He leaned back against the wall, biting his tongue as Murali spoke up.

"Wow! That was beautiful, Allison! Great job on that!" Murali said, his warm smile radiating sincerity. He then turned his attention to Angela, nodding toward her. "Now, how about your little girl over there?"

Angela blinked, slightly taken aback by being referred to as a "little girl." It wasn’t a term she particularly liked, but she could see everyone looking at her now. Unlike her younger brother Ben, she wasn’t shy about speaking in front of a crowd. She straightened up, her confidence growing as she prepared to share.

Angela leaned forward, her eyes lighting up as she began to recount the memory. "Okay, so… this happened right after school let out for the summer. Evan and I had been talking about seeing The Invisible Man for weeks—it’s this sci-fi thriller that looked super cool."

She paused, a small smile tugging at her lips as she remembered. "We’d spent the whole school year joking about how I’d totally be the smart scientist figuring everything out, and he’d be the one freaking out at every little thing."

The group chuckled softly, the light-hearted story cutting through the tension.

"So, anyway, we finally convinced his mom to drop us off at the theater. I even made sure to buy the tickets ahead of time because, you know, Evan doesn’t think about that stuff," she said, rolling her eyes playfully. "But when we got there, he started acting all weird. Like, ‘Hey, Angela, did you hear about the ghost in Theater 8?’"

Her face twisted into an exaggerated frown. "I didn’t believe him at first. I mean, who believes that stuff? But Evan swore up and down that the place was haunted. He said some kid got scared during a scary movie and never came out."

The group’s smiles faded slightly, the eerie turn in her story catching them off guard.

"But," Angela continued with a mischievous glint in her eye, "I wasn’t going to let him scare me. I told him he was full of it and marched right into Theater 8. We watched the whole movie, and yeah, it was creepy, but no ghosts."

She leaned back, crossing her arms with a satisfied nod. "Turns out, he made the whole thing up just to mess with me. I guess I was a little gullible back then."

The group laughed, the tension easing as Angela finished her story.

The hallway buzzed with a rare, subdued energy. For a moment, the horrors outside felt distant, replaced by the warmth of shared stories. People exchanged small smiles and quiet laughter, their spirits momentarily lifted.

"Man, I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that," Geneva said, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, glancing at Hannah. "Almost feels… normal, doesn’t it?"

Hannah gave a small smirk, nodding. "Yeah. It’s kind of nice, honestly. A break from, you know…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the looming threat outside.

Murali nodded, his serene expression lighting up the dim hallway. "That’s the power of stories. They remind us of who we are, even when the world forgets."

Geneva chuckled, playfully nudging Hannah. "So, what’s your takeaway? That we should all dance in the rain when this is over?"

Hannah rolled her eyes with a faint laugh. "Only if you promise not to trip and eat pavement, Geneva."

Even Buck cracked a small smile, though he quickly masked it by crossing his arms and staring at the floor.

Murali cleared his throat, drawing the group’s attention once again. "Alright," he said, his tone cheerful. "How about we hear from the little guy next? Ben, you have a story you’d like to share?"

The group turned toward where Ben had been sitting earlier, expecting to see his small frame tucked beside Allison. But the spot was empty.

Allison blinked, her smile fading as her eyes darted around the hallway. "Ben?" she called, her voice rising slightly.

Her daughter Angela furrowed her brow, glancing over her shoulder. "He was right there… wasn’t he?"

Julie placed a hand on Allison’s arm. "Maybe he’s just—"

"Ben!" Allison’s voice was sharper now, panic creeping into her tone as she stepped forward, scanning the hallway.

Geneva frowned, her posture straightening. "He couldn’t have gone far, right? He’s probably just…" She trailed off, her tone uncertain as she exchanged glances with Hannah.

"No," Allison said firmly, her breath quickening. "He wouldn’t just wander off. He’s not like that." She turned sharply, her voice rising. "Ben! Benjamin!"

Hannah hesitated, stepping closer. "Maybe he went back to check one of the rooms? Should we—"

"I’m going to find him," Allison said, her voice trembling as she began pacing toward the nearest open door.

Murali placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "We’ll find him, Allison. Don’t panic. Let’s retrace where he might have gone."

The hallway felt colder now, the momentary warmth of their shared stories replaced with dread. The group exchanged worried glances as Allison’s voice echoed through the silence.

"Ben!"