AMINA — Cairo (Day 45)
Amina turned her living room into a classroom.
The idea came a week after her return from the excavation. Her children sat at home, schools were closed, they spent days staring at their phones, watching the world slowly collapse and reassemble on social media.
"What if I teach you?" she suggested at breakfast.
Karim rolled his eyes. "Teach us what, Mom? Ancient history? What difference does it make now?"
"Stories about how people lived. How they loved. How they found meaning in a world that could take them at any moment."
Yasmin slowly looked up from her phone. "That's... actually interesting."
By the end of the week, neighborhood children joined them. Then children of friends. Then strangers who heard about the lessons.
Now, a month and a half after the announcement, twenty children gathered in her living room every day.
Amina didn't teach from textbooks. She told stories.
About Egyptians who built pyramids knowing they'd die before completion.
About Greek philosophers who contemplated life's meaning, knowing its brevity.
About medieval scribes who copied manuscripts during the plague.
"They knew they might die tomorrow," she said. "And still they created. Still they learned. Still they loved. Why?"
"Because it made them alive," little Layla whispered.
"Exactly."
After one lesson, Karim approached Amina. Her fifteen-year-old son, who had been so angry and lost the first weeks.
"Mom, I want to say something."
"Yes, habibi?"
"I want... I want to write a book. About us. About the family. So our story is recorded. Even if there's no one to read it."
Amina felt tears fill her eyes.
"That's a beautiful idea."
"Will you help me?"
"Of course."
That night they began. Amina told family stories — about grandfather who survived the war, about grandmother who was a poet, about her own childhood in Alexandria.
Karim recorded everything, his hands moving quickly across the keyboard.
Ahmed joined, adding his memories. Yasmin and Layla too.
They worked until midnight, laughing, crying, remembering.
And Amina understood: this was legacy. Not stones and artifacts. But stories, told aloud in a room full of love.
Even if the world ended, these stories existed. They were real.
That was enough.
HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 45)
Hiroshi enrolled in French lessons.
Classes took place in the small apartment of Madame Dupont, an elderly Frenchwoman who had lived in Tokyo for forty years. She advertised in the local paper: "Free French lessons. Because why take a language to the grave?"
Five students came to the first lesson. Hiroshi was the oldest.
"Bonjour," began Madame Dupont. "Let's start with the most important thing. How to say 'I love you.'"
"Je t'aime," the students repeated in chorus.
Hiroshi pronounced the words quietly, like a prayer.
After the lesson he walked through Ueno Park. Winter was yielding to spring. The sakura branches were still bare, but if you looked closely, you could see tiny buds.
They would bloom in a month. In March, as always.
Would he be here to see them? Of course. The world had ten months left.
And next year? In March 2027?
Hiroshi sat on a bench and opened a notebook he'd bought last week. He began writing letters to Yuki. One every day.
Today's letter:
Dear Yuki,
Today I started learning French. Remember how you always wanted to go to Paris? How we bought guidebooks and promised each other "next year"?
I can't go to Paris. But I can learn the language. Can read Baudelaire in the original. Can understand the Édith Piaf songs you loved.
It's not the same. But it's something.
And you know what I realized? Every day I didn't live with you was a day wasted. But every day I live now, thinking of you, remembering you, is a day spent together.
You're not gone. You're here, in every memory, in every "je t'aime" I'm learning to say.
See you soon, my love. But not now. Now I have work to do.
I need to learn to live.
With love,
Your Hiroshi
He closed the notebook and looked at the sakura branches.
"Bloom," he whispered to them. "You still have time."
A young woman with a child sat down next to him on the bench. The boy was about three years old.
"Grandpa, look!" the boy shouted, pointing at a pigeon.
Hiroshi smiled. "Yes, beautiful."
The mother apologized. "Sorry, he calls all elderly men grandpa."
"It's fine. It's... nice."
The woman looked at him thoughtfully. "You look peaceful."
"Really?"
"Most people look scared or angry now. But you... there's peace in your eyes."
Hiroshi thought about it. "You know, I think I'm truly here for the first time in my life. Not in the past. Not in the future. Just here, on this bench, in this park, watching your son delight in a pigeon."
The woman smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."
The boy ran after the pigeons, laughing.
And Hiroshi thought: this is what it means to live. Not conquests or achievements. Just this moment. This laughter. This sun on your face.
Sixty-seven years, and he was only now understanding.
Better late than never.
MARIA — São Paulo (Day 45)
Maria's belly began to round.
Ten weeks. Fetus the size of a plum. Heart beating. Fingers forming.
She had decided to keep the baby.
The decision hadn't been easy. There were days when she woke in panic, unable to breathe, thinking about giving birth to a child who would die in a few months.
But there were other days. Days when she placed her hand on her belly and felt a connection so deep that nothing else mattered.
The hospital created a special program for pregnant women. "The Last Children of Earth" — that's what they called it. Free prenatal care, psychological support, groups for mothers.
Maria went to the first group meeting a week ago.
Twenty women sat in a circle. All at different stages. Some learned about pregnancy before the announcement. Some after. Several got pregnant already knowing the world was ending.
"Why?" one woman asked the one who got pregnant intentionally. "Why bring a child into this?"
The woman — her name was Isabela — placed her hand on her large belly. She was seven months along.
"Because I wanted to know what it's like — to be a mother. Even if just for a month. Even for a day. It was my lifelong dream. And if I have ten months of life left, I want to live them as a mother."
Another woman cried. "But they'll die. Our children will die."
"Everyone dies," Isabela said quietly. "The difference is only when. My child will live two months. Maybe three, if lucky. But those two months will be filled with more love than most people get in a lifetime."
Maria listened, tears streaming down her face.
After the meeting she approached Isabela. "Aren't you afraid?"
"Every second," Isabela admitted. "But I'm also happy every second. Fear and joy can exist together."
"I don't know if I can handle it."
Isabela took her hand. "No one knows. But you won't be alone. You have us."
Since then Maria went to all the meetings. Twenty women became her family, her tribe. They cried together, laughed together, shared fears and hopes.
Some would give birth in March. Some in April. Isabela would give birth in two weeks.
Her child would live until December, maybe until January.
Would live the entire last year of Earth.
One evening, lying in bed, Maria talked to her belly.
"Hello, little one. This is Mom. I know you can't hear me yet. But I want you to know something."
She stroked her belly.
"The world you're coming into is broken. Frightened. But it's also full of love. So much love. People hug strangers. Say 'I love you' every day. Notice sunsets."
More tears.
"You won't see this world grow up. Won't go to school. Won't fall in love. Won't grow old. And my heart breaks for that every day."
Pause.
"But you'll feel my hands holding you. My voice singing to you. My heart beating next to yours. And every second of your life you'll know you were wanted. That you were loved."
She closed her eyes.
"It's not enough. It will never be enough. But it's all I have to give you."
"And I'll give you every drop."
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 45)
David sold the apartment.
More precisely, gave it away. Who needed real estate when the world was ending?
He moved to Connecticut, to Rachel's guest room. A tiny room, nothing like his penthouse overlooking Manhattan.
He had never been happier.
Every morning he woke to the sounds of children getting ready for school. Yes, schools reopened. Not everywhere, but in many places. Children needed structure, normalcy, even if the future was uncertain.
David made breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Things he'd never known how to make because he always ate at restaurants or ordered in.
Now he learned to cook from YouTube videos. Burned the first batch of pancakes. The second too. By the third week they were edible.
"Uncle David, these are the best pancakes in the world!" seven-year-old Emma declared.
David knew she was exaggerating. But in that small lie was such love that he felt his throat tighten.
During the day he volunteered at the local food bank. The economy was still chaotic. Many people lost jobs. Food banks were a lifeline.
David, who once managed millions, now handed out canned goods and bags of rice.
And strangely, this work gave him more satisfaction than any deal he'd ever closed.
One day an elderly woman came. She was embarrassed, wouldn't meet his eyes.
"I've never asked for help before," she whispered.
"This isn't asking for help," David said gently. "This is accepting what we're offering. We want to help. Please let us."
The woman looked at him, tears in her eyes. "God bless you."
David didn't believe in God. But in that moment he felt something close to grace.
In the evening he played with his niece and nephew. Board games he'd never seen. Monopoly, Scrabble, simple children's games.
Ten-year-old Jacob asked once: "Uncle David, were you really rich?"
"Yes."
"And you gave all the money away?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
David thought about how to explain complex feelings in simple words.
"Because money is future. You save it for what you'll buy tomorrow, next year, in ten years. But we don't have that future anymore. So money became just paper."
"And what's not paper?"
"This," David said, pointing at the game between them, at the laughing children, at Rachel in the kitchen making dinner. "This is real. This matters."
At night, lying in the small guest room, David thought about his old life.
Penthouse. Cars. Expensive suits. Michelin-starred restaurants.
He didn't miss any of those things.
He thought about all the years spent chasing money, status, success defined by numbers in a bank account.
What a waste of time.
What a tragic, foolish waste of time.
But he had ten months left. Three hundred twenty days.
That was enough to learn how to really live.
That had to be enough.
ADWOA — Accra (Day 45)
The Last University grew.
From seven students to thirty. From one house to three different locations. Professor Asare couldn't manage alone, so other teachers joined.
Classes were held every day. Biology, physics, literature, philosophy, history.
But these weren't ordinary classes.
Professor Okoye taught physics, showing the beauty of the Universe that was killing them.
"The cosmic anomaly that will destroy Earth is a phenomenon that happens once in billions of years," he explained. "We're unlucky enough to be here when it happens. But also lucky enough to understand it. To know the physics of our own death. It's sad. But also... magnificent, isn't it?"
Adwoa listened, fascinated.
Professor Amankwa taught literature, focusing on works about mortality.
"Every great writer contemplated death," he said. "Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Achebe. They knew what we know now: time is limited. The question isn't 'why do we die?' The question is 'how do we live, knowing this?'"
Adwoa began writing. First just notes. Then essays. Then stories.
She wrote about a girl from Ghana who dreamed of becoming a doctor. About how that dream died when the world received its sentence.
But also about how a new dream was born. Not a career, not status. Just the desire to understand. The desire to know. The desire to learn until the last day.
Professor Amankwa read her essay and said: "You're a writer, Adwoa."
"No," she objected. "I'm a medical student. Or was."
"You're both. You're everything you choose to be. A title doesn't make you who you are. Your actions do."
Adwoa thought about that. All her life she'd defined herself through the future. "I will be a doctor." "I'll get a degree." "I'll save lives."
But who was she now? In this moment?
A student. A writer. A daughter. A friend. Someone who loved learning.
Wasn't that enough?
One day her mother came to a class. Adwoa invited her, not knowing if she'd accept.
Her mother, who had cleaned houses for thirty years, who never went to university, sat in the back row and listened to Professor Asare explaining cellular biology.
After class Adwoa asked: "What did you think, Mom?"
Her mother smiled, tears in her eyes. "I think I spent my life giving you the opportunity I never had. And I think I didn't waste it."
"But I won't become a doctor. Everything you worked for..."
"I worked so you could learn. And you're learning. Isn't that the point?"
Adwoa hugged her mother and cried.
"Mom, do you want to join? The Last University? We'll accept anyone."
Her mother laughed. "I'm too old to learn."
"No one's too old. No one's too young. We all have the same amount of time now."
The next day Adwoa's mother returned. And stayed.
Mother and daughter sat side by side, learning together, for the first time in their lives.
And Adwoa understood: this was what made life worth living. Not degrees or careers.
Just this. Curiosity. Connection. The wonder of understanding the world.
Even if that world was ending.
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 45)
Sergei found the address of the family of the man he killed.
It wasn't difficult. Small town. Everyone knows everything.
Now he stood in front of their house, unable to make himself knock on the door.
Fifteen years ago, in a drunken fight outside a bar, he hit Viktor Morozov. One punch. Viktor fell, hit his head on the curb. Died instantly.
Viktor was thirty-eight. Father of three children. Math teacher at the local school.
A good man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sergei got twenty years. Served five before the mass amnesty released him.
Now, standing in front of the Morozov family home, he didn't know what to say.
"Sorry" seemed ridiculously inadequate.
"I destroyed your life" was true, but why repeat what they knew?
He almost turned to leave when the door opened.
A woman, about fifty, looked at him. She had kind eyes, but also the weariness of someone who'd endured too much grief.
"You're Sergei Volkov," she said. Not a question.
"Yes." His voice was hoarse.
"I knew you'd come. Sooner or later."
"How...?"
"Father Nikolai told me. He thought I should be prepared."
Sergei closed his eyes. "I don't know what to say."
"Then come in. We'll have tea."
He followed her into the house, not believing this was happening.
Inside it was clean, modest. Photos on the walls. Viktor Morozov smiled from many frames. Wedding. Children. Graduations. A life that was lived before Sergei cut it short.
Tatyana — the widow's name — made tea. They sat at the kitchen table in silence.
Finally Sergei spoke: "I came to apologize. I destroyed your family. Destroyed your life. I was drunk, cruel, selfish."
Tatyana was quiet for a long time. "Yes. You were."
"I don't expect forgiveness. I just wanted you to know I see it now. I see how terrible I was."
"Why now? Why not ten years ago? Not fifteen?"
"Because I was a coward. Afraid to face what I'd done."
"And now?"
Sergei smiled sadly. "Now we have eight months. Fear seems like a luxury I can't afford."
Tatyana nodded slowly. "The children asked about you."
Sergei's heart stopped. "They want to see me?"
"I don't know. But they asked."
"Could I... could I meet them?"
"I'll ask. I promise nothing."
"Thank you. It's more than I deserve."
He stood to leave. At the door Tatyana called to him.
"Sergei?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you changed. I'm sorry it took the end of the world."
He nodded. "Me too."
That night Sergei couldn't sleep. He thought about his children. Twenty-three, twenty-one, and eighteen now. Adults he didn't know.
They had the right to refuse to see him.
But perhaps they'd give him a chance. One chance to say how sorry he was. How much he loved them. How he regretted every day he missed.
One chance to be a father, even for a moment, before the end.
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 45)
The "Last Children of Earth" program received five calls a day.
Pregnant women from all over India, some from other countries. All with the same question: what should I do?
Zara and her team didn't give advice. Instead they listened. Helped women come to their own decisions.
Some chose abortion. It was their choice, and Zara helped them find safe care.
But most chose to continue. Chose motherhood despite the fear.
The program grew, including not just prenatal care, but preparation for what would come after.
"Your child will be born into a dying world," Zara said at one group session. "But he won't know that. For your child, the world will be exactly what you make it. Warm. Loving. Safe. That's all that matters."
One woman raised her hand. "But how will I survive his death? How does any mother survive a child's death?"
Zara knew that answer. She'd worked with the dying for twenty years.
"You won't," she said honestly. "Because you'll die together. All of us will. You won't carry this pain for years, decades. You'll be with your child until the very end."
In a strange way, this was comforting.
Mothers wouldn't outlive their children. They would go together.
One of Zara's patients, Priya — the woman who approached her after the first session — gave birth last week. A boy, healthy, three kilograms.
Zara was there at the birth. Saw Priya hold her son for the first time. Tears, smile, pure, undiluted joy.
"He's perfect," Priya whispered.
"Yes," Zara agreed.
"He'll only have nine months."
"Nine months of a life full of love."
Priya looked at Zara. "Is that enough?"
"For him — yes. He won't know anything else. For you..." Zara squeezed her hand. "For you it will never be enough. And that's okay."
Now, a month and a half after the announcement, Zara's hospital had transformed. The oncology ward was still open — people still got cancer, still needed pain treatment.
But the hospital also became a place for life, not just death.
The maternity ward was overflowing. Women were giving birth every day.
In the halls there were meditation sessions, support groups, music classes for children.
Zara created something new: "Circles of Gratitude." Every evening people gathered and shared one thing they were grateful for that day.
At first five people came. Then fifty. Now hundreds.
"I'm grateful for this morning's sunrise," one said.
"I'm grateful for my daughter's hug," said another.
"I'm grateful for this moment. Right now. Here."
Zara listened and recorded. She started keeping a gratitude journal, documenting everything people were thankful for in Earth's last year.
She didn't know why. No one would read it.
But something about recording these moments seemed important. Proof that even in the face of the end, people found beauty.
Evidence of the human spirit.
Epilogue of the Third Chapter
February ended with warmth and connections.
The world continued to adapt. The global economy stabilized at a strange system. Money still existed, but many things were free — food, housing, medicine.
People worked not for salary, but for purpose. Farmers grew food. Doctors treated patients. Teachers taught children.
Because what else was there to do? Sit and wait for death?
Better to be busy. To be useful. To be alive.
Art was experiencing a renaissance. Every city, every village had street musicians, artists, poets. People created not for an audience, but because creating made them human.
Religious conflicts decreased. In the face of universal death, differences in faith seemed less important. Christians prayed with Muslims. Hindus meditated with Buddhists.
Or at least they tried. There was still violence. Still hatred. Fear made some people cruel.
But overall, humanity was kinder than ever.
Because there wasn't enough time. You couldn't waste it on hate.
Seven people — an archaeologist in Egypt, a retiree in Japan, a nurse in Brazil, a trader in the US, a student in Ghana, a former prisoner in Russia, and a doctor in India — closed February transformed even more deeply.
Amina taught twenty children that legacy lives in stories.
Hiroshi learned French and began living instead of waiting.
Maria accepted motherhood and found a tribe of similar mothers.
David found family and purpose in serving others.
Adwoa understood that learning could be for its own sake.
Sergei began the journey toward forgiveness, both receiving and giving it to himself.
Zara transformed the hospital into a place of life and taught thousands to find gratitude even at the end.
They had ten months left.
Three hundred fifteen days.
Each day became more precious than the last.
Each sunset — a miracle.
Each "I love you" — a prayer.
And gradually, almost imperceptibly, fear began transforming into something else.
Not joy. Not quite.
But acceptance. Peace. A deep understanding that they were doing the best they could with the time they had.And strangely, that was enough.
March approached. Sakura would bloom in Tokyo. Maria's belly continued to grow. The world continued to turn.
Three hundred fifteen days.