HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 68)
The cherry blossoms had bloomed.
Hiroshi stood in Ueno Park, surrounded by a sea of pink petals. Every year he had seen this spectacle, but never truly looked. Always rushing. Always thinking about work, about meetings, about tomorrow's tasks.
Now he simply stood. Watched. Saw.
Thousands of people had come to the park. Families spread blankets beneath the trees for hanami—the traditional flower viewing. But this year there was something different. Silence amid laughter. Tears amid joy.
Everyone knew: this would be the last time.
There would be no next spring.
A young couple with an infant stopped beside Hiroshi. The mother held the baby so he could see the flowers.
"Look, Kenji," she whispered. "The flowers. Aren't they beautiful?"
The baby was perhaps three months old. Born after the announcement. One of the "last children."
Hiroshi moved closer. "May I?"
The mother smiled and nodded.
Hiroshi gently touched the baby's tiny hand. The fingers wrapped around his index finger with a strength that surprised him.
"Kenji will only live nine months," the mother said quietly. "But he'll see the sakura. Many people live for decades and never truly see them."
"You're very wise," Hiroshi said.
"No. I'm simply a mother. We have no choice but to be wise."
Hiroshi spent the entire day in the park. He brought a notebook and wrote. Not letters to Yuki this time, but something new.
Poetry. Bad poetry, probably, but sincere.
Petals fallingKnowing their brevityStill they bloom
We too fallKnowing our endStill we live
That evening he went to the French conversation club meeting. There were twenty people now, all ages, all levels.
Madame Dupont brought French wine and cheese. "Because," she explained, "learning a language without culture is like kissing through glass."
They practiced conversations about simple things. Weather. Food. Dreams.
"Quel est votre rêve?" Madame Dupont asked. "What is your dream?"
A young woman answered first: "Mon rêve est de voir Paris."
"Mine too," Hiroshi said in hesitant French. "But I cannot go."
"Then we'll bring Paris to you," Madame Dupont declared.
The following week she organized a "Paris Evening." French music. French food. A projector showing photos of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Seine.
They ate croissants and drank wine. Spoke French with terrible accents. Laughed at their mistakes.
And for a moment, a brief, precious moment, Hiroshi was in Paris. With Yuki. Just as they'd always dreamed.
Walking home that night, he passed through the park. Cherry blossom petals carpeted the path. The moon was full.
Hiroshi stopped and looked up.
"Yuki," he whispered into the night. "I did it. I went to Paris with you. Not the way we planned, but..."
The wind caught the petals, swirled them around him in a pink vortex.
"Thank you," he said. He didn't know to whom. Yuki. The universe. Life itself.
Just thank you.
MARIA — São Paulo (Day 68)
Maria felt the baby's first movements.
She was sitting at a "Last Children of Earth" group meeting, listening to Isabela talk about childbirth—her son had been born a week ago—when it happened.
A flutter. Like a butterfly inside.
Maria gasped, her hand instantly going to her belly.
"What?" asked the woman beside her.
"He moved. The baby moved."
The room erupted in joy. Women surrounded her, placed their hands on her belly, waited for the next movement.
"There," Maria whispered. "Do you feel it?"
They felt it.
Twenty women, all at different stages of pregnancy or motherhood, all crying and laughing simultaneously.
Isabela held her week-old son. "Soon you'll be holding yours," she told Maria.
"Four more months."
"Time flies. And stands still. Both things at once."
Maria now worked at the hospital only three days a week. Her pregnancy was healthy, but the doctors wanted her to take it easy.
On her free days, she began a project.
A memory book for the baby.
She wrote letters. One after another. Letters her child would never grow up to read, but which needed to be written.
My dear child,
Today I felt you move for the first time. It was the most magical feeling of my life. You're real. You're here. You're mine.
I know you won't read this. I know that by the time you could read, the world will be gone. But I still need to write it.
Need you to know that you were wanted. That every day of your life, from this moment until the very end, you'll be the most loved thing in my life.
The world you're coming into is broken. But it's also full of wonders. I'll show you sunsets. Sing you lullabies. Tell you stories. Give you all the love a mother can give.
It's not enough. It will never be enough.
But it's all I have.
And I'll give you every drop.
With infinite love,Your mama
She wrote letters about everything. About her childhood. About her mother. About the world before the announcement. About her hopes, fears, dreams.
She wrote about the baby's father—a man with whom she'd had a brief affair, who disappeared when he learned about the pregnancy. She didn't judge him. Fear makes people run.
She wrote about Brazil, about São Paulo, about the favela where she grew up. About the beauty and brutality of poverty.
She wrote about what she hoped her son or daughter would be. Kind. Curious. Brave.
Her mother came every evening. They sat together, knitted tiny clothes the baby would wear only a few times.
"Do you regret it?" her mother asked one day.
"Regret what?"
"The decision to keep him. It would have been easier..."
"No," Maria interrupted firmly. "Nothing would have been easier. The pain would be the same. But without the joy. At least this way I'll have both."
Her mother nodded, tears in her eyes. "You're stronger than me."
"No. I'm just your daughter."
At the group meeting the following week, they shared news. Three more women had given birth. Five more had learned their babies' genders. One woman had lost her baby—a miscarriage at four months.
They held her, cried with her.
"At least he won't suffer," someone said, trying to comfort.
The woman who'd lost her baby looked up, her face wet with tears. "He was my baby. I wanted to know him. Even for a moment. Even for a day."
And everyone understood. Because they'd all made the impossible choice to love what they would have to lose.
That night Maria held her belly and whispered: "Stay. Please stay. I want to meet you. Want to know you."
The baby answered with a kick.
And Maria laughed and cried at the same time.
AMINA — Cairo (Day 68)
Amina's family book was growing.
Karim wrote every day. He'd started with family history, but then expanded the project. He began interviewing neighbors, friends, students who came to his mother's classes.
"Tell me a story," he would ask. "Any story. From your life."
People shared. About first love. About loss. About moments of joy and sorrow. Ordinary stories of ordinary people.
Karim recorded everything.
"Why are you doing this?" Yasmin asked.
"Because these stories will die if I don't write them down," he answered simply. "And that seems... wrong. That all these lives, all these moments would just disappear as if they'd never existed."
Amina listened to this conversation from the kitchen, her heart swelling with pride.
Her son, who had been so lost and angry, had found purpose.
Her school had grown too. Forty children came now. They'd expanded into the backyard, neighbors lending their homes for the overflow.
Amina stopped teaching traditional history. Instead she taught life skills for Earth's last year.
How to find joy in small things. How to forgive. How to love fully. How to accept death.
"But we're children," one boy protested. "We shouldn't have to think about death."
"You shouldn't have had to," Amina agreed. "But the world changed. And I can either pretend everything's normal, or help you prepare for what's coming."
"What is coming?"
Amina sat among them on the floor. "I don't know. Nobody knows. But I know that fear of death steals life. If we spend every day afraid of the end, we're already dead."
"But isn't it scary?"
"Of course it's scary. I'm afraid every day. Afraid of losing all of you. Afraid of losing my children. Afraid of death itself."
"Then how do you cope?"
Amina thought carefully. "I choose to love harder than I fear. Every morning I wake up and make a choice: will I live today in fear or in love?"
"And what do you choose?"
"Some days fear. Some days love. But I try to choose love more."
Little Layla, her daughter, raised her hand. "Mama, when we die, will we be together?"
Amina's voice caught in her throat. "Yes, my baby. We'll be together."
"Then it's not so scary."
And from the mouth of a nine-year-old girl came wisdom that adults had been seeking for months.
Death is scary. But not dying alone.
That night Amina and Ahmed lay in bed, holding hands.
"Do you think we're doing the right thing?" he asked. "With the children? Telling them the truth?"
"I don't know what's right. But I know lying would be worse."
"Layla asked me today if it would hurt."
"What did you tell her?"
"That scientists say no. That it will be quick. Instant."
"Do you believe that?"
Ahmed was quiet for a long time. "I have to. Otherwise I couldn't continue."
Amina turned to him, cradled his face in her hands. "We will continue. We must. For them."
They made love that night with desperation and tenderness. Clung to each other as if they could stop time through sheer closeness.
After, lying in the darkness, Amina whispered: "If there's a next life, I'll find you again."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 68)
David taught Emma to ride a bike.
A small red bicycle with training wheels they'd removed last week. Emma was scared, but David held the seat, ran alongside, encouraged her.
"I'm going to fall!" she yelled.
"I won't let you go!"
But of course, he did let go. For one second. Two. Three.
Emma rode ten meters before she realized she was riding alone. When she did, she screamed with joy.
"I did it! Uncle David, did you see?"
"I saw! You were amazing!"
Emma fell a second later, but she was laughing. Jumped up and demanded to try again.
David watched her circle the driveway, his heart so full it could burst.
Three months ago he'd been in a penthouse, counting millions, thinking that was success.
Now he stood on a suburban driveway, watching his niece learn to ride a bike, and this was the most successful moment of his life.
That evening, after the kids were asleep, he and Rachel sat on the porch with wine.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For letting me come back. I didn't deserve..."
"Shut up," she interrupted, but she was smiling. "You're my brother. Of course you deserved it."
"I wasted so many years..."
"I know. But you're here now. That's what matters."
They sat in silence, listening to crickets.
"Rachel, I want to ask you something."
"Yes?"
"When... when it happens. In January. Are you scared?"
She didn't answer for a long time. "Every second. But also... I'm grateful."
"Grateful? For the end of the world?"
"Grateful for clarity. Most people live their whole lives not knowing what matters. We know. It's this." She gestured at the house, at the sleeping children inside. "This is the only thing that ever mattered."
David nodded, tears in his eyes.
"I regret so many things," he whispered.
"Then stop regretting and start living."
The next day David drove to New York. First time in two months.
The city had changed. Some buildings were abandoned. Others repurposed. His former office was now a community center.
He went to Wall Street. The stock exchange still operated, but the trading floors were nearly empty. What was the point of stocks without a future?
He met with former colleagues. Most had stayed in the city. Some still worked, more from habit than necessity.
One of them, Tom, invited him to lunch.
"You look good," Tom said. "Better than when you worked here."
"I'm happier."
"Why? You lost everything."
David laughed. "No. I lost things. I gained life."
Tom shook his head. "I don't understand. How can you be happy when the world's ending?"
"Because the world was always ending, Tom. For all of us. The difference is now I know it. And knowing frees me to live."
"That sounds like self-help nonsense."
"Maybe. But it's true."
They ate in silence.
Before leaving, Tom asked: "Do you have regrets?"
"Thousands. But I also have nine months to create better memories."
"You think that's enough?"
David thought about Emma on the bike. About Jacob's laughter. About Rachel taking him back.
"Yes," he said. "I think it's enough."
ADWOA — Accra (Day 68)
Adwoa finished her first book.
She called it "The Last Student." It was autobiography, memoir, philosophical essay—all at once.
About a girl who dreamed of becoming a doctor. About how that dream died. About how a new dream was born.
Professor Amankwa read it and wept.
"This is beautiful," he said. "This must be published."
"Who will publish a book nine months before the end of the world?"
"I know a publisher. He's publishing everything well-written. Says if the world's ending, at least it will end with good books."
The book was published two weeks later. A small edition, only one hundred copies.
But those hundred copies spread across Ghana, then Africa, then the world.
People read it and wrote to Adwoa. Letters from around the world, from other students who'd lost their future but found their present.
"Your book helped me understand that learning can be for joy," one wrote.
"You gave words to feelings I couldn't express," another wrote.
Adwoa answered every letter. It became her new work, her calling.
The Last University had transformed too. A hundred students came now. They met in the park, under trees, when weather was good.
Professors taught not for grades or degrees. They taught because knowledge was beautiful. Because understanding made life richer.
Adwoa began teaching her own class: creative writing.
"Why write?" one student asked. "Who will read it?"
"Maybe no one," Adwoa admitted. "But that doesn't matter. We write because we have stories. Because we were alive. Because our stories deserve to be told, even if no one hears them."
Students wrote. Poems, stories, memoirs. They shared their work in circles, read aloud, cried and laughed together.
Adwoa's mother came to every class too. She couldn't write well—education had been limited—but she told stories orally.
About her life. About working as a cleaner. About loving her daughter. About dreams she'd sacrificed.
Students listened in reverent silence.
After one class, a young man approached Adwoa's mother.
"Your story is the most important I've heard," he said.
"Why? I didn't do anything special."
"That's exactly why. You showed us that an ordinary life can be heroic. That a mother's love is the greatest thing."
Adwoa's mother cried. "All my life I thought I meant nothing. Just a cleaner."
"No," the young man said firmly. "You're a hero."
That night Adwoa and her mother sat together, drinking tea.
"I'm afraid," her mother confessed.
"Me too."
"But I'm also happy. These last months... I've come to know you in a new way. Come to know myself."
"Me too, Mama."
They held hands in silence.
"If I had a choice," her mother said slowly. "To live eighty years in ignorance or one year in understanding... I'd choose understanding."
Adwoa nodded. "Me too."
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 68)
Sergei met with Dmitry, the youngest son of the man he'd killed.
Tatiana had arranged the meeting. "He agreed," she said. "But he's angry. Very angry. Be prepared."
They met in the church dining hall. Father Nikolai was there for support.
Dmitry was twenty-three years old, but looked older. Heavy drinking and anger had aged him.
He stared at Sergei with hatred.
"You killed my father."
"Yes."
"You destroyed my life."
"Yes."
"And now you think you can apologize and everything will be fine?"
"No," Sergei said quietly. "I know apologies don't change anything. I can't bring back your father. Can't fix the pain."
"Then why are you here?"
Sergei took a deep breath. "Because your mother thinks I can help you. That seeing what the path of anger leads to, you might choose differently."
Dmitry laughed bitterly. "You want to save me? You, a murderer?"
"I don't want to save you. I want to tell you my story. What you do with it is your choice."
Sergei told it. About the night he killed Viktor Morozov. About the drinking, the anger, the violence that led to it. About fifteen years in prison. About the guilt that ate at him every day.
"I thought I was the only one suffering," he said. "But then I met your mother. Heard about you, about your brothers. Realized I didn't just kill one person. I killed part of a whole family."
Dmitry listened, his jaw clenched.
"Your mother forgave me," Sergei continued. "I don't know if I deserve forgiveness. But she began. And that gave me something I hadn't had in fifteen years."
"What?"
"Hope. That I could be more than the worst moment of my life."
Dmitry stared at the table. "I drink every day. Can't stop."
"I know. I was like that."
"I'm angry all the time. At everyone. At the world. At God."
"I know."
"I've thought about suicide. Many times."
Sergei leaned forward. "Dmitry, listen to me. You have nine months. That's all. You can spend them on anger. Can spend them on drinking. Can even end it early if you want."
A pause.
"Or you can spend them learning who you could be. Who your father would have wanted you to be."
"My father is dead because of you."
"Yes. And I'll carry that until my death, nine months from now. But your father was a teacher, right? He taught children mathematics. Helped them grow."
Dmitry nodded, tears filling his eyes.
"Do you think he'd want his death to destroy his son? Or would he want you to live? To be the kind, strong man he could be proud of?"
Dmitry broke down. Deep, convulsive sobs he'd been holding in for fifteen years.
Sergei didn't touch him. Just sat, a witness to the pain he'd caused.
Father Nikolai placed a hand on Dmitry's shoulder.
When the sobs subsided, Dmitry looked at Sergei. "You can't fix what you did."
"No."
"But... maybe you can help me not repeat your mistakes."
"I'll try."
Dmitry began coming to the dining hall. At first just sat, watched Sergei work. Then started helping. Serving food. Clearing tables. Talking to people.
The work was simple, but something about serving others began to change him.
Two weeks later he came sober. First time in years.
"I haven't drunk in three days," he announced.
Sergei hugged him. "I'm proud of you."
"Don't. You don't have the right..."
"You're right. But I'm proud anyway."
One evening, cleaning up after dinner, Dmitry asked: "How do you live with the guilt?"
Sergei paused. "I don't live with it. It lives with me. Every day. Every minute. But I decided the guilt wouldn't be the only thing in my life. I decided to also do good when I can."
"Is it enough? The good you do?"
"No. It will never be enough. But it's something. It's better than nothing."
Dmitry nodded slowly. "Maybe that's enough for me too."
That night Sergei wrote a letter. Not to Tatiana or Dmitry. To Viktor Morozov. The man he'd killed fifteen years ago.
Dear Viktor,
I don't know if you can hear me, wherever you are. But I need to write this.
I killed you. Took your life, your future, your time with your family. There are no words for how sorry I am. No atonement that can fix this.
But I've met your family. Your wife forgave me. Your son is learning to live without anger. They're amazing people. You must have been an amazing person to raise them.
I have nine months before I join you in death. I don't know what comes after. But if there's judgment, I'm ready for it. I deserve it.
Until then I'll care for your family as I can. Will help Dmitry find his way. It's not redemption. But it's all I have to offer.
Forgive me, if you can.
Sergei Volkov
He sealed the letter in an envelope. Would never send it. But writing it was an act he needed to make.
The first step toward forgiving himself.
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 68)
In March, forty-three babies were born in the "Last Children of Earth" program.
Zara attended twenty births. She wasn't a midwife, but mothers asked her to be there. Her presence calmed them.
Each birth was miracle and tragedy simultaneously.
Miracle, because life continued to insist on existing, even in the face of the end.
Tragedy, because each baby was born with a clock counting down to death.
Priya, the woman who'd given birth in February, brought her son to every group meeting. Little Arjun, now a month old, was healthy, curious, amazing.
"He recognizes my voice," Priya said with wonder. "When I sing, he calms down."
Other mothers surrounded her, gazed at the baby with longing and joy. Some hadn't given birth yet. Some would give birth next week.
All knew: their children would live months, not years.
"Is it worth it?" one woman asked, eight months along. "All this pain, just for months?"
Priya looked at her son. "Every second."
Zara started a new program: "Life Circles."
Like Gratitude Circles, but specifically for families with children. Parents gathered every week, shared stories, supported each other.
"My son smiled today," one mother shared. "A real smile. Not gas. A smile."
"My daughter held her head up," another shared. "Three seconds. But she did it."
Every milestone was celebrated. Every small achievement. Because these were the only milestones these children would ever have.
No first day of school. No graduation. No weddings or grandchildren.
Only these tiny, precious moments.
Zara documented everything. Photos, videos, recordings. She created an archive of Earth's last children.
"Why?" someone asked. "No one will see this."
"It doesn't matter," Zara answered. "These children existed. They were real. They were loved. That should be recorded."
One of the fathers—a young man named Rajiv—approached Zara after a meeting.
"Dr. Patel, may I ask something personal?"
"Of course."
"Do you have children?"
Zara shook her head. "No. I was always too busy with my career. Always thought there'd be time later."
"Do you regret it?"
She'd thought about this a lot these past months. "Yes and no. I regret never experiencing what you're experiencing. But I'm also glad I can help you. Perhaps this is my motherhood. All these children, all these families."
Rajiv smiled. "You're a mother to all of us."
Zara felt tears rise. "Thank you. That... that means more than you know."
The hospital had transformed too. The oncology ward still operated, but many patients chose to stop treatment.
"Why go through chemotherapy if the world's ending in nine months?" one patient reasoned. "I'd rather spend the time feeling good."
Zara didn't argue. It was their choice.
Instead the hospital became a community center. Yoga classes in the halls. Meditation in the chapel. Music in the wards.
One patient, dying of heart disease, asked to spend his last days in the hospital garden.
Zara arranged it. They set up a bed under the trees. The patient's family came every day. They read to him, sang, just sat.
He died a week later, surrounded by greenery, sunlight, and love.
"That was a good death," his daughter said.
Zara nodded. "Yes. It was."
And she understood: this was all she could offer now. Not cure. Not salvation.
Just dignity. Comfort. Love.
In a world that was dying, that was what mattered most.
Epilogue to Chapter Four
March ended with cherry blossoms blooming and babies being born.
The world adapted to a new normal. The economy stabilized on an unusual 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 experienced 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 diminished. 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 makes some people cruel.
But overall, humanity was kinder than it had ever been.
Because time was short. Couldn't waste it on hate.
Seven people—an archaeologist in Egypt, a retiree in Japan, a nurse in Brazil, a former trader in the US, a writer in Ghana, a former prisoner in Russia, and a doctor in India—moved through March, transformed even more deeply.
Amina taught children to accept death through love of life.
Hiroshi found Paris in Tokyo and peace in memory.
Maria felt her baby's first movements and began a book of memory.
David taught his niece to ride a bike and discovered that was the highest achievement.
Adwoa wrote a book that touched thousands and taught others to write their stories.
Sergei began helping the son of the man he'd killed, turning guilt into service.
Zara attended the births of forty-three of Earth's last children and created an archive of their lives.
They had nine months left.
Two hundred eighty-five days.
The cherry blossoms had faded, petals carpeting the ground in pink.
But life continued to bloom.
Against all odds.
Despite all logic.
Life insisted.
And in that insistence was something beautiful.
Something sacred.
Something that made it all make sense.
April came with warmth and hope. The world kept turning. Children kept being born. People kept loving.
Two hundred eighty-five days.