MARIA — São Paulo (Day 98)
Maria learned the baby's sex.
A boy.
She sat in the ultrasound room, watching the screen, seeing his tiny heart beating like a drum. Fingers, toes, the profile of his face.
"Do you want to know a name?" the technician asked.
Maria hadn't thought about a name. It seemed too real, too permanent for a life that would be so brief.
But now, looking at his face on the screen, she knew.
"Gabriel," she whispered. "His name is Gabriel."
Angel. Messenger. Bearer of news.
Her mother cried when she heard. "Beautiful name."
Maria was now eighteen weeks along. Her belly had rounded noticeably. People stared at her on the street with expressions ranging from pity to admiration.
A pregnant woman was both rarity and miracle.
She'd stopped working at the hospital completely. The doctors insisted. "Take care of yourself. Take care of him."
Instead she spent her days preparing. Not for birth—for that brief life after.
She transformed her small apartment into a nest. Bought a crib. Tiny clothes. Toys he would hold for only months.
Isabela helped her. Her son, now two months old, was growing healthy and curious.
"Look," Isabela said, holding her son. "He tracks my face. He recognizes me."
Maria watched with longing. Three more months until she'd meet Gabriel.
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
"Every second. But also happy every second."
"How do you do it? The balance?"
Isabela thought. "I don't think it's balance. It's... simultaneity. I can hold him and feel pure joy. And in the same second know I'll lose him. Both things are true."
At that week's group meeting, a new woman came. Very pregnant, on the verge of birth.
"This is Catarina," the coordinator introduced. "She's due next week."
Catarina was quiet, shy. Sat to the side, listening to the other women.
After the meeting, Maria approached her.
"Hi. I'm Maria. When are you due?"
"Five days."
"Are you scared?"
Catarina nodded, tears filling her eyes. "I don't know if I can do this. Give birth to her, knowing..."
"I understand. But listen—once you hold her, everything changes. The fear doesn't disappear, but love becomes bigger than fear."
"How do you know? You haven't given birth yet."
"No. But I've seen other mothers. And I know my love for my son. I haven't met him yet, but I'd die for him."
Catarina smiled through tears. "Yes. That's exactly it."
They exchanged numbers. Maria promised to be there when Catarina gave birth.
Five days later, in the middle of the night, the phone rang.
"Maria? Contractions started."
Maria drove to the hospital. Catarina was alone—the baby's father had left months ago. Her family lived in another state.
"I'll be with you," Maria said. "If you want."
"Please."
Labor lasted fourteen hours. Maria held Catarina's hand, wiped her forehead, whispered encouragement.
When the baby finally emerged—a girl, healthy, crying—Maria wept as hard as Catarina.
"She's perfect," Catarina whispered, holding her daughter. "Absolutely perfect."
Maria watched, her hand on her own belly. In three months this would be her. Holding Gabriel. Looking into his eyes for the first time.
The thought filled her with such terror and joy she could barely breathe.
Catarina named her daughter Luna. "Because she's light in the darkness."
Maria returned home at dawn, exhausted but transformed.
She lay on the bed and whispered to her belly: "Gabriel, I met your friend today. Luna. You'll know each other for a few months. And in those months you'll have more love than some people get in a lifetime."
The baby kicked in response.
And Maria laughed and cried at the same time, as she did constantly now.
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 98)
David started volunteering at hospice.
It wasn't planned. He'd come to visit an old neighbor—Mr. Chen, who was dying of cancer—and ended up staying, helping the nurses.
"You're good at this," one nurse said. "Many people are afraid of the dying. But you... you're calm."
David didn't feel calm. But perhaps after months of living with knowledge of universal death, individual death seemed less frightening.
He started coming three days a week. Read to patients. Played chess with those who could. Simply sat with those who couldn't.
Mr. Chen died two weeks after David started. His last words were: "Thank you for the company."
David held his hand as he passed.
It was the first death he'd witnessed so closely. Not tragic, not violent. Just quiet. Natural. Almost peaceful.
"This is how it will be for all of us," he told the nurse afterward. "In January."
"Perhaps. If we're lucky."
The hospice had one particular patient—a young woman named Sarah, thirty-one, dying of leukemia.
"It's ironic," she told David one day. "I fought cancer for two years. Finally accepted I'd die. Then the world gets nine months. Everyone learns what I've been feeling all this time."
"Does it help? Knowing you're not alone?"
Sarah thought. "Yes and no. Yes, because people finally understand. No, because... I wanted to live. Even these nine months. But I won't make it. I'll die in a week, maybe two."
Her voice held no bitterness. Just weariness.
"Do you have family?" David asked.
"Parents. They're coming tomorrow. Final goodbye."
"Can I do anything for you?"
Sarah smiled. "Tell me about the world outside. I've been here a month. What's happening? Are people still working? Still falling in love?"
David told her. About his niece and nephew. About teaching Emma to ride a bike. About pregnant women giving birth to the last children. About farmers still growing food. About musicians playing in the streets.
"People are living," he finished. "Not just waiting. Living."
Sarah listened, tears streaming down her cheeks. "That's beautiful. Thank you."
She died three days later, surrounded by her parents, who held her hands and sang her favorite songs.
David wasn't there at the end. But he came the next day, helped the nurses prepare the room for the next patient.
"Are you okay?" the nurse asked.
"I'm thinking about how brave she was. Lived two years knowing she was dying. And still found joy."
"Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's action despite fear."
David nodded. "We're all courageous now. Whether we want to be or not."
That evening he returned home to Rachel. The kids were doing homework at the kitchen table—yes, schools still gave homework, because children needed structure.
"Uncle David!" Emma jumped up. "Help me with math!"
David sat beside her, looked at the problem. Simple algebra.
"Why do I need to learn this if the world's ending?" Emma asked.
David thought about Sarah. About her question: were people still living?
"Because learning makes you alive," he said. "Not learning for the future. Learning for now. For the joy of understanding."
Emma frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"Someday it will."
They worked on the math together, and David felt something strange: peace. Not happiness, not quite. But a deep sense of rightness about where he was, what he was doing, who he was.
Thirty-five years he'd chased success. Money, power, status.
Now he sat at a kitchen table, helping with homework, and it was everything he'd ever wanted.
Strange how it takes the end of the world to understand what matters.
ADWOA — Accra (Day 98)
Adwoa received a letter from a publisher in London.
They wanted to translate her book into twenty languages. Distribute it worldwide.
"But why?" she asked over the phone. "The world has eight months left."
"That's exactly why," the publisher answered. "People need your story. Your hope."
The book was translated and published digitally worldwide. Physical copies too, though in smaller numbers.
Adwoa began receiving letters from around the world. Thousands of letters.
From Brazil: "Your book helped me decide to have a baby."
From Japan: "You taught me that learning can be for joy."
From the US: "I lost everything, but your book showed me I still have myself."
She couldn't answer them all. But she tried.
The Last University had grown too. Now it was a movement. In dozens of cities across Africa, people were creating their own "last universities."
Places where learning was the goal, not the means.
Adwoa was invited to speak at many of them. She traveled through Ghana, then to Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa.
Everywhere the same: people hungry for knowledge. Not for careers. For understanding. For beauty.
In Nairobi she met a young man teaching himself astrophysics.
"Why?" she asked. "We'll never reach the stars."
He looked at the sky. "No. But I can understand them. Can know how they're born, live, die. And in that knowledge there's beauty."
In Cape Town she met an old woman, eighty-two, studying art for the first time.
"All my life I wanted to paint," the woman said. "But always thought it was too late. Now it doesn't matter. It's too late for everyone."
She showed Adwoa her paintings. Simple, naive, but full of life.
"They're beautiful," Adwoa said sincerely.
"Thank you. They're the first thing I've created that's truly mine."
Adwoa returned to Accra transformed. She'd seen a world hungry for meaning. And finding it in the most unexpected places.
She started a new project: an anthology. Stories of Earth's last year, written by ordinary people.
"Send me your stories," she announced online. "Any length. Any language. I'll collect them."
Stories flooded in. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
About first love in the last year. About reconciling with parents. About forgiving enemies. About finding joy in simplicity.
Adwoa read every one. Cried over many. Laughed at some.
Her mother helped her sort. "All these people," her mother whispered with wonder. "All these stories."
"Every life is a story," Adwoa said. "And every story deserves to be told."
"But who will read them? When we're gone..."
"It doesn't matter. The telling is what's important. Not the listening."
One story particularly touched Adwoa. From a woman in India:
My name is Zara. I'm a doctor in Mumbai. These past months I've been helping pregnant women give birth to children who will live only months. It's the hardest and most beautiful work I've ever done.
I've seen more love in these few months than in twenty years of medical practice. Seen mothers adoring children they'll lose. Fathers crying from joy and grief simultaneously.
And I've understood: love isn't measured by time. It's measured by intensity. These children, living months, are more loved than many who live decades.
If that's not a miracle, I don't know what is.
Adwoa wrote to Zara. They began corresponding. Two strangers on different continents, connected by common understanding.
Life is precious not because of length. Because of depth.
HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 98)
Hiroshi started a project: visit every place in Tokyo where he had a significant memory with Yuki.
The park where they first met. The restaurant of their first date. The shrine where they married. The house where their children were born.
Each place held a story. Each story was precious.
He took photographs. Wrote in his journal. Sometimes just sat, remembering.
In the park where they'd met, he sat on the same bench. Fifty years ago. Yuki had been feeding pigeons. He'd asked if he could join her.
"Of course," she'd said. "The pigeons don't mind company."
He'd fallen in love with her in that moment. Her kindness to birds. Her smile when she looked at him.
Now, fifty years later, he fed the pigeons again. For her. For memory. For the moment that started everything.
At the restaurant of their first date—still open, amazingly—he ordered the same dish they'd shared. Sushi and sake.
The waiter, an elderly man, recognized him.
"Tanaka-san! You haven't been here in years."
"Fifty years since my first visit."
"With your wife?"
"Yes. She died three years ago."
The waiter bowed his head. "I'm sorry. But you honor her memory by returning."
Hiroshi ate slowly, remembering. How nervous he'd been that night. How Yuki had laughed at his clumsy attempts to use chopsticks. How she'd touched his hand across the table, and he'd felt electricity.
The shrine where they'd married was quiet. Hiroshi prayed. Not to God, not exactly. Just to the universe. Gratitude for the life he'd lived. For the love he'd known.
"Yuki," he whispered. "I'm trying. To live the way we should have. Better late than never, right?"
The wind rustled in the leaves. He chose to interpret it as an answer.
At the house where their children were born—now owned by another family—he simply stood outside, remembering.
The cries at birth. The sleepless nights. First steps. First words.
He'd been a bad father then. Always working. Always absent.
His children had grown up, moved away. One in America. One in Australia. They called sometimes. But the relationships were strained.
Hiroshi took out his phone. Called his son in America.
"Father? Is everything okay?"
"Yes. I just... I wanted to tell you something."
"What?"
"I'm sorry. For not being there. When you were growing up. I was selfish, focused on work. I missed your life."
Silence on the line. Then: "Father, I..."
"You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve it. But I wanted you to know I see it now. See what I lost."
His son was crying. Hiroshi could hear it.
"I forgive you," his son whispered. "I forgave you long ago. Just waited for you to say it."
They talked for an hour. The first real conversation in years.
Then Hiroshi called his daughter in Australia. The same conversation. The same forgiveness.
"Come home," he told them both. "Please. While there's time."
They promised. They'd come in June. Spend the last months together.
That night Hiroshi wrote in his journal:
Dear Yuki,
Today I returned to our memories. Each place was blessing and pain.
Blessing, because we had those moments. Pain, because I didn't appreciate them then.
But I appreciate them now. Every second.
I talked to our children. Really talked. They forgave me. I don't know if I deserved it, but I'm grateful.
They're coming home. We'll be a family again, for the last months.
I think that's what you always wanted. Family together.
You were wiser than me, Yuki. Always were.
I love you. Miss you. But I'm not living in the past anymore.
I'm living now. For you. For us.
See you soon.
Your Hiroshi
He closed the journal and looked at Yuki's photograph on the bedside table.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 98)
Dmitry had stayed sober for thirty days.
Sergei marked it with a small ceremony at the dining hall. A cake Father Nikolai had baked. Applause from the regulars.
"Thirty days," Father Nikolai said. "That's an achievement."
Dmitry smiled shyly. "I still want to drink. Every day."
"But you don't," Sergei said. "That's what matters."
After the ceremony, Dmitry asked Sergei to walk.
They walked along the Angara, the river flowing through Irkutsk. The ice had melted. Spring had come.
"I want to say something," Dmitry began. "Something difficult."
"Say it."
"I don't think I completely forgive you. For killing my father. Don't know if I ever can."
Sergei nodded. "I understand."
"But... I'm grateful to you. For helping. For showing me a way out of anger."
"You're doing the work yourself."
"With your help."
They walked in silence.
"My mother wants us to have dinner together," Dmitry said. "You, me, her, my brothers. Family."
Sergei stopped. "Are you sure?"
"No. But she wants it. And I think... I think my father would want it too."
The dinner was awkward. Dmitry's brothers were cold, suspicious. Tatiana tried to create normalcy, but the tension was palpable.
Midway through dinner, the eldest brother, Alexei, exploded.
"Why is he here? He killed our father!"
Tatiana quietly placed her hand on his. "Alexei, please..."
"No! This is wrong! He should suffer, not sit at our table!"
Sergei stood. "You're right. This is wrong. I'll leave."
"Wait," Dmitry said. He stood too. "Alyosha, listen to me. I was as angry as you. Drank myself toward death. Hated the whole world."
"And?"
"And Sergei helped me. Not by forgiving himself. But by showing me another path was possible."
"He doesn't deserve forgiveness."
"Maybe not," Dmitry agreed. "But I deserve peace. I deserve to live the last months without anger consuming me."
Alexei sat slowly, tears in his eyes.
"I just miss him," he whispered. "Every day."
"Me too," Dmitry said. "But Papa wouldn't want us to spend the last months on hate."
The rest of dinner was quiet but less strained. Alexei didn't forgive Sergei. But he stopped looking at him with hatred.
It was progress.
After dinner, Tatiana walked Sergei to the door.
"Thank you," she said. "For coming. I know it was hard."
"They have a right to their anger."
"Yes. But they also have a right to peace. You're helping them find it."
Sergei walked home through the city. Irkutsk had changed these past months. Fewer cars. More people walking, talking, simply existing.
The economy had stabilized on a strange system. Money still existed, but much was free. Grocery stores operated on honesty—take what you need, pay if you can.
Surprisingly, most people were honest.
Sergei passed his old house. The house where he'd lived with his wife and children, before everything collapsed.
His ex-wife, Natasha, still lived there. She'd remarried years ago, but her husband had died last year.
Sergei had never contacted her after getting out of prison. Too afraid. Too ashamed.
But now, standing in front of the house, he thought: we have eight months left. If not now, when?
He knocked on the door.
Natasha answered. She'd aged, as he had. But still beautiful.
"Sergei." Her voice was neutral.
"Hello, Natasha. I... may I come in?"
She thought. Then stepped back, letting him pass.
They sat in the living room. The same living room where they'd once been a family.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"To apologize. I destroyed our family. Destroyed your life. I was drunk, cruel, selfish."
Natasha was quiet for a long time. "Yes. You were."
"I don't expect forgiveness. Just wanted you to know I see it now. 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."
Natasha nodded slowly. "The children asked about you."
Sergei's heart stopped. "They want to see me?"
"I don't know. But they asked."
"Can I... can I meet them?"
"I'll ask. I promise nothing."
"Thank you. That's more than I deserve."
He stood to leave. At the door, Natasha called him.
"Sergei?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you changed. 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 every 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'd missed.
One chance to be a father, even for a moment, before the end.
AMINA — Cairo (Day 98)
The family book was complete.
Three hundred pages. Stories of four generations. The great-grandfather who survived the war. The grandmother who was a poet. The parents. The children.
Karim printed ten copies. One for each family member, a few spares.
They gathered for a reading ceremony. The whole family, plus a few close friends.
Karim read aloud. Stories of joy and sorrow. Love and loss. The ordinary extraordinariness of life.
Ahmed cried listening to the story of how he met Amina. "I forgot so much of this," he whispered. "Forgot how nervous I was. How you laughed."
Yasmin listened to stories about her birth, her childhood, with wonder. "I didn't know you were so scared when I was sick."
"Every parent is scared," Amina said. "But love is bigger than fear."
Little Layla asked for her story to be repeated three times. "I really said that? At three years old?"
"Every word is true."
When the reading ended, Amina held the book, this physical proof of their existence.
"This is our legacy," she said. "Not pyramids or tombs. Just stories. Stories of how we loved."
Ahmed took her hand. "The best legacy."
Amina's school had transformed too. Now she taught not just history, but philosophy of death.
"People fear death because it's the unknown," she explained. "But what if we change perspective?"
"How?" one student asked.
"Death isn't the opposite of life. It's part of life. Every moment we die and are born anew. Cells die, new ones grow. Thoughts come and go. We're constantly in the process of becoming."
"But in January we'll really die."
"Yes. But really dying isn't different. It's just the final becoming. Transition to the next state."
"What state?"
Amina smiled. "I don't know. Nobody knows. But not knowing shouldn't mean fear. It can mean wonder."
Students thought about this. Some were comforted. Others still afraid. Both were normal.
After one class, a student's mother approached Amina.
"Thank you," the woman said. "My son comes home with a calm he hasn't had in months."
"I'm glad."
"You know... I thought about suicide. After the announcement. Thought, why wait? Why go through the pain?"
"What stopped you?"
"My son. He said, 'Mama, if we're going, let's go together. Don't leave me alone.' And I realized—he's right. We need to live this together."
Amina hugged the woman. "You're doing the right thing. Staying. Living. While you can."
That night Amina and Ahmed lay in bed, holding hands.
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
"Every day. But less than before."
"Why?"
Ahmed thought. "Because I see how the children are coping. Karim found purpose in history. Yasmin helps at school. Even Layla... she's so brave."
"Children are always braver than us."
"Or maybe we're finally brave enough to match them."
Amina turned to him. "If there's a next life..."
"I'll find you," he interrupted. "I promise. I'll find you, and we'll get it right from the start."
They made love tenderly, knowing each time could be the last. Or second-to-last. Or one of two hundred remaining.
It didn't matter. Each time was a gift.
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 98)
Zara lost the first child from the program.
A boy, born in January. One of the very first "last children." He'd lived three months, then suddenly fell ill. An infection that in normal times would have been easily treated.
But his immune system was weak. Antibiotics didn't work. He died in his mother's arms.
Zara was there. Held the mother's hand. Could do nothing except bear witness.
"It's not fair," the mother sobbed. "He was supposed to have nine months. He only had three."
"I know," Zara whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Why? Why him?"
Zara had no answer. There was no answer.
Death was random. Cruel. Unfair.
Always had been. World ending or not.
The funeral was tiny, heartbreaking. A tiny coffin. A handful of mourners. A mother who couldn't stop crying.
"At least he won't suffer in January," someone said, trying to comfort.
The mother looked at them with fury. "He was my son. I wanted every second with him. Every one."
Zara understood. There was no comfort in premature death, even if death was guaranteed eventually.
After the funeral, Zara returned to the hospital, feeling the weight.
How many more children would they lose before January? How many mothers would sob over tiny coffins?
She almost decided to close the program. Too painful. Too cruel.
But then she walked into the maternity ward and saw Priya with Arjun, now three months old. Healthy, laughing, amazing.
"Dr. Patel!" Priya waved. "Look, he's rolling over!"
Zara watched as the baby struggled, the effort enormous, and finally rolled from back to belly.
Priya applauded. "You did it! Such a smart boy!"
Arjun looked at his mother, eyes shining with pride.
And Zara understood: not all children would die early. Some would live the full nine months. Would see their first birthdays in December. Would die with the world, surrounded by love.
The risk of loss didn't negate the value of life.
She'd continue the program. For Priya. For Arjun. For all the mothers and children who deserved every second together.
At that week's group meeting, they honored the memory of the boy who died. Lit a candle. A moment of silence.
Then the mother stood and said something remarkable.
"I don't regret having him. Even knowing how it ended. Three months with him were the best three months of my life."
The room was quiet.
"If I had a choice," she continued, voice trembling, "to live a whole life without him or three months with him... I'd choose three months. Every time."
The women cried. Held each other. Understood.
Love was worth the pain. Always worth it.
Zara started a new initiative: death preparation for families.
Not morbid. Practical.
"You want to be with your children at the end," she explained. "Together. As family. Let's plan how that will be."
Families shared dreams. Some wanted to be at the beach. Others at home. Some in temples.
"I want my daughter to be in a garden," one mother said. "Surrounded by flowers and butterflies. Beauty."
"I want my son to hear music," another said. "His favorite lullabies."
Zara wrote everything down. Helped families plan. Not to avoid death, but to meet it with dignity.
She also began preparing for her own death.
Called her parents, whom she hadn't seen in years. "I love you. Come in December. Let's be together."
Wrote letters to friends. Thanked them for years of friendship.
Organized her affairs. Not much property—she'd lived simply. But medical records, personal effects, a few precious things.
And the gratitude journal she'd kept. Hundreds of pages. Everything people had been grateful for in the last year.
She placed it in a waterproof container. Sealed it.
"Why?" a colleague asked.
"I don't know," Zara admitted. "Just seems important to preserve this. Even if no one ever finds it."
Testament that even at the end, people found gratitude.
Proof of the human spirit.
Epilogue to Chapter Five
April ended with warmth and connections.
The world continued adapting. A global government formed—not quite a government, more a coordination committee. Ensured resource distribution, prevented conflicts, helped people.
Borders became meaningless. People traveled freely. What was the point of visas when the world was ending?
Families reunited. Enemies reconciled. Old wounds began to heal.
Not everywhere. Not for everyone. There was still violence. Still cruelty. Fear and despair made some people into monsters.
But most people chose love.
Because what was the point of choosing otherwise?
Birth rates stabilized. Thousands of children born in April. Would be born in May, June, July.
The last generations of humanity, living months, not decades.
But living fully. Intensely. Loved absolutely.
Seven people closed April, connected more deeply than ever.
Maria helped Catarina give birth and met Luna, Gabriel's friend.
David worked in hospice, learned to be with the dying, understood this was preparation for January.
Adwoa collected stories from around the world, connected with Zara, realized her book had touched lives.
Hiroshi visited every memory with Yuki, reconciled with his children, prepared for the last months as family.
Sergei met his ex-wife, began the path to meeting his children, continued helping Dmitry heal.
Amina completed the family book, taught children to accept death, loved with an intensity she'd never known.
Zara lost the first child but continued, because love was worth the pain, began helping families plan dignified death.
They had seven months left.
Two hundred fifty-five days.
Time flew and crawled simultaneously.
Each day was treasure and burden.
But they continued.
Because what else could they do?
Love. Live. Connect.
Until the very end.
May approached with promise of new life and deepening awareness. The world kept turning. Children kept being born. People kept finding meaning.
Two hundred fifty-five days.