Page 47 of Outbreak Protocol

He doesn't offer false reassurance. Instead, he says, "Whatever we must. Together."

In a world unraveling around us, that simple promise feels like the only solid ground remaining.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Day 40

ERIK

A grey sky weeps over Hamburg's Ohlsdorf Cemetery, the rain as fine as mist. We stand—Felix, Emma, and I—beneath a black umbrella, watching Anna's simple coffin lower into the sodden earth. There are no flowers, no elaborate casket, no funeral home director in formal attire. Just a chaplain speaking hurried words, a grave digger waiting impatiently, and us—the makeshift family Anna left behind.

I hold Emma's small hand in mine. She hasn't cried today. She exhausted her tears three days ago when Felix sat her down and told her that her mother was gone. Now she stands between us, solemn in a navy blue dress that's slightly too large, her face a mask of preternatural composure that breaks my heart more than tears would.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the chaplain intones, glancing nervously at his watch. He has seven more funerals today. Death has become an assembly line.

Felix's jaw tightens. I know he fought for this moment—argued with hospital administrators, pulled strings with old medical school contacts, even threatened to go to the press. In a city where bodies are being mass-cremated, the fact that we're standing at an individual grave represents a minor miracle of his determination.

"Would anyone like to say a few words?" the chaplain asks, already closing his prayer book.

Felix steps forward. "Anna Richter saved lives every day. Not just as a nurse, but as a mother, a friend, a colleague." His voice catches. "She showed me what it means to truly care for patients—not just treat them. And she raised the most extraordinary daughter." He looks down at Emma, whose tiny fingers tighten around mine. "I promise you, Anna, she will be loved. She will be safe. She will know how amazing her mother was."

The chaplain nods, mumbles a final blessing, and hurries off to his next service. The grave digger approaches with his shovel, barely waiting for us to step back before he begins filling in the grave.

"That's it?" Emma asks, her voice small but indignant. "We don't even get to throw dirt?"

The grave digger pauses, surprised. After a moment, he offers her the shovel.

Emma takes it—it's almost as tall as she is—and awkwardly scoops a bit of the wet earth, tipping it onto the coffin with a hollow thud. She hands the shovel to Felix, who does the same, then passes it to me.

The cold wooden handle feels substantial in my hands. I haven't been to a funeral since Astrid's, and memories wash over me—my parents' rigid postures, the formal Swedish hymns, the endless receiving line of mourners offering condolences that felt like sandpaper against raw skin. This hasty ceremony in the rain couldn't be more different, yet the weight of finality feels the same.

I drop my handful of earth and return the shovel to the grave digger, who continues his work without comment.

"Let's go home," Felix says softly.

Home. The word resonates strangely. Two weeks ago, "home" meant my sterile apartment in Stockholm with its minimalist furniture and wall of academic awards. Now it means Felix's cluttered flat in Altona, with Emma's drawings magnetted to the refrigerator and three toothbrushes in a cup by the bathroom sink.

In the car, Emma sits quietly in the back seat, staring out at the empty streets. Hamburg looks abandoned—shops shuttered, playgrounds deserted, balconies vacant of the usual smokers and sunbathers. Only military vehicles move with purpose, armed soldiers in hazmat gear at checkpoints and intersections.

"The lawyer confirmed everything yesterday," Felix says quietly as he drives. "Anna's will was very clear. She wanted me to have full custody."

I nod. I'd been present when he'd conducted the video call with Anna's attorney, watching Felix sign the guardianship papers with a steady hand that belied the emotion in his eyes.

"You're officially a father," I say.

He glances in the rearview mirror at Emma. "I've been thinking of it more as becoming her family. She already had a father who abandoned her and a mother she lost. I don't want to replace either."

I understand what he means. Emma doesn't need a replacement parent; she needs people who will stay. Something shifts in my chest as I realize I want to be one of those people. I haven't signed any papers or made any legal commitments, but somehow, in the chaos of this pandemic, I've become part of this unlikely family unit.

"They're bringing in more troops," Felix observes as we pass a convoy of NATO vehicles. "It's starting to feel like occupation rather than assistance."

"The civilian infrastructure is collapsing," I say. "They're filling the void."

"That's what worries me."

We pull into the underground parking garage of Felix's building. As we ride the elevator up, Emma reaches for my hand again, a gesture that's become habitual over the past week. Her small fingers curl into mine, and I marvel at how natural it feels now, this physical connection that would have made me profoundly uncomfortable just weeks ago.

The elevator doors open to reveal Colonel Santos waiting in the hallway outside Felix's apartment.