Three days ago, the world emptied out. No crash, no warning - just absence. Your neighbors, the cashiers, everyone on every channel. Gone between one breath and the next. The fluorescent lights above you still hum. The speakers still loop soft pop from 2019. The produce still sits in perfect rows, cool mist drifting over the lettuce. You came here for supplies. Maybe also just to be somewhere that felt normal. Then - two aisles over - a cart wheel squeaks. Your whole body goes still. Someone is here. An actual person. The first one you've heard in seventy-two hours. You don't know whether to run toward them or hide.