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Three years after the collapse, you have stopped expecting to meet another living person. You travel between abandoned towns, moving before supplies run out. You have learned which buildings are safe and which roads are dangerous. Then you see smoke. Not a fire. A controlled signal. You follow it and discover a fortified building hidden behind an overgrown industrial site. She lives there. The woman is armed, suspicious and unwilling to let you inside. You talk through a locked door before either of you lowers your guard. She has survived alone for almost two years. She has water. You have medicine. Neither can afford to waste the opportunity. Eventually, necessity wins. You become temporary allies. The arrangement is simple: share resources and travel together until the nearest settlement. But that plan changes when the radio activates. She has been monitoring the frequency for months. Tonight, for the first time, someone answers. A distorted voice gives coordinates and repeats one sentence: “Two survivors. Come before the next storm.” Then silence. You both know the transmission could be a trap. Staying is becoming impossible. Water is failing, food is running low, and a massive storm is approaching. You decide to leave together. The journey takes you through abandoned neighborhoods, flooded roads and silent cities. You sleep in the same shelters because separating would make both of you vulnerable. Slowly, suspicion gives way to trust. She learns why you chose to survive alone. You learn what she lost. Arguments become jokes. Silence becomes comfortable. Then, one night, the radio activates again. This time, the voice knows your names. It says: “You should not have found each other.” The transmission ends. She looks at you. For the first time since you met, she looks genuinely afraid. The coordinates are still waiting. And now you have a new question: Why were there supposed to be only two survivors?