HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 128)
Hiroshi's children flew home in the first week of May.
Kenji from America with his wife and two children. Yumiko from Australia with her husband. They hadn't been to Japan in years. Work, distance, strained relationships—there had always been reasons not to come.
Now the reasons didn't matter.
Hiroshi waited for them at the airport, nervous as a young groom. He held a bouquet of flowers—roses for Yumiko, her favorites. Nothing for Kenji, because men don't carry flowers, but he'd brought a small gift—a book of Japanese poetry translated into English.
When they appeared through the arrival gates, time stopped.
Kenji, his son, now forty-two. Nearly the same age Hiroshi had been when he'd last truly looked at him. But in Kenji's face, Hiroshi saw the boy he'd been. Ten years old, playing baseball. Fifteen, rebelling against everything. Twenty, leaving for America, getting away from the father who'd never been there.
Yumiko, thirty-nine, looked so much like Yuki that Hiroshi's breath caught.
They stood, looking at each other. The awkwardness of strained years hung between them.
Then the grandchildren—whom Hiroshi had only seen in photographs—ran to him.
"Grandpa!" the girl cried out, eight years old. "Is it true you live where the cherry blossoms bloom?"
The awkwardness shattered.
Hiroshi dropped to his knees, embraced grandchildren he'd never known. "Yes. And they've just finished blooming. But I saved some petals for you."
Behind the children came the adults. Yumiko first, then Kenji. The hugs were careful but genuine.
"Welcome home," Hiroshi whispered. "Thank you for coming."
"Where else would we go?" said Kenji, voice trembling. "This is our last time together."
The house transformed with their arrival. Suddenly Hiroshi's quiet apartment filled with the noise of children's voices, laughter, life.
He showed them Tokyo. Not the tourist places—the ones that mattered. The temple where he'd married Yuki. The park where they'd walked every Sunday. The house where the children were born.
"I remember this park," Yumiko said quietly. "Mama used to bring me to feed the ducks."
"Every Sunday," Hiroshi nodded. "I should have come with you."
"Why didn't you?"
"Work. Always work." He looked at her. "The worst decision of my life."
They visited Yuki's grave together. Hiroshi hadn't been there since April—it hurt too much to come alone now that he'd begun letting go.
But with the children it was different.
Kenji placed flowers on the grave. "Hello, Mama. We're home."
Yumiko cried softly. "I miss you every day."
The grandchildren, too young to remember a grandmother they'd never met, stood respectfully quiet.
"Tell us about Grandma," the older boy asked.
And Hiroshi told them. Stories he'd kept inside for years. How Yuki laughed. How she sang while cooking dinner. How she loved the rain. How she was patient with the children, even when they were unbearable.
"She sounds amazing," the granddaughter said.
"She was."
That night, after the grandchildren were asleep, Hiroshi sat with Kenji and Yumiko at the table. They drank sake he'd saved for a special occasion.
"I want to apologize," Hiroshi began. "Truly apologize. Not just say the words. I was a terrible father."
"Papa..." Yumiko began.
"No, let me finish. I worked every day. Missed your school plays, Yumiko. Missed your baseball games, Kenji. I thought providing for the family meant earning money. But providing for the family means being there."
Kenji was quiet for a long time. "You know what I remember most?"
"What?"
"One time, when I was nine, you took a day off. Just one day. We went to a baseball game together. Just the two of us. You bought me a hot dog and cheered so loud when our team scored. I'd never seen you so... alive."
"I remember that day," Hiroshi whispered.
"It's the only memory where you look happy. All the other times you looked... tired. Like you were carrying something heavy."
"I was. The weight of expectations. Society. Work. But it was my choice. And I chose wrong."
Yumiko took his hand. "But you're here now. That's what matters."
"We have seven months left. That's all."
"Then let's make them count," Kenji said. "Let's be the family we should have been."
The following weeks were a revelation for Hiroshi. He taught the grandchildren origami. Cooked traditional Japanese dishes with Yumiko. Played go with Kenji every evening.
They talked. Really talked. About the past, regrets, what might have been.
"I was angry at you for so many years," Kenji admitted one day. "Angry that you chose work over us."
"You had every right."
"But now... now I understand. You were a product of your time. Society told you a good father was one who provided. You did what you thought was right."
"That's not an excuse."
"No. But it's an explanation. And I'm ready to accept it."
Hiroshi wept. "Thank you, son. Thank you."
In mid-May they organized a family ceremony at Yuki's grave. Everyone together—children, grandchildren, sons-in-law.
Each person placed something on the grave. A letter. A photograph. A memory.
"Mama," Yumiko said, "we're finally all together. Papa has changed. He's learned to be present. It's a shame it took the end of the world, but... better late than never."
Hiroshi placed the final letter.
Dear Yuki,
The children are home. The grandchildren are here. We're a family again.
I've learned what you tried to teach me all your life: presence is a gift. Not a gift we give. A gift we receive.
I'm present now. Every second.
It's a shame it took seven decades to understand.
But I'm here now.
We're all here.
You would be proud.
Your Hiroshi
MARIA — São Paulo (Day 128)
Maria was twenty-two weeks pregnant. Her belly large, Gabriel's movements strong and frequent.
She felt him all the time now. Hiccups. Kicks. Turns. Each movement was a miracle and a reminder.
He was growing. He was real. And he would die in January, maybe sooner if he was born in July, as the doctors predicted.
At the ultrasound this week the doctor said: "Everything looks perfect. Healthy boy. Excellent heart rate."
Maria watched the screen, her son somersaulting and sucking his thumb.
"He's going to be beautiful," the doctor said.
"He'll have two months," Maria whispered. "Maybe three, if we're lucky."
The doctor—a young woman, herself five months pregnant—put a hand on Maria's shoulder.
"My daughter will have four months. We've both made an impossible choice. But look at him." She pointed to the screen. "He's alive. He's real. He's yours."
Maria nodded, tears flowing.
At the "Last Children of Earth" group meeting that evening there was an announcement.
Isabela, whose son was now four months old, stood up.
"I have news. I'm pregnant again."
The room erupted in shock.
"How? Why?" someone asked.
Isabela smiled and cried simultaneously. "I know it's crazy. I'll give birth in December. The baby will have weeks, maybe days. But..."
"But you want every second," Maria finished.
"Yes. Exactly."
Some women thought it was too much. Too cruel for the child. Too painful for the mother.
Others understood.
"My son will have a brother or sister," Isabela said. "Only for a few weeks. But they'll know each other. That matters to me."
Maria approached her afterward. "You're the bravest woman I know."
"Or the most foolish."
"No. The bravest."
Isabela looked at Maria's belly. "How's Gabriel?"
"Strong. He kicks all the time."
"Good sign. A fighter."
"I'll need him to be a fighter. For... after."
Isabela hugged her. "Listen to me. I know what you're thinking. About how hard it will be when he's born, knowing you'll lose him. But here's what no one tells you: once you hold him, the fear disappears. Not completely. But it becomes smaller than the love."
"Really?"
"Really. I wake up every morning in panic, thinking 'today could be the last day.' But then he smiles at me, and the panic melts. All that matters is now. This moment. This smile."
Maria nodded, absorbing the wisdom.
Maria's mother insisted they organize a baby shower. "I know the world is ending," she said. "But we celebrate life anyway."
The shower was beautiful. Simple, but full of love. Women from the group came. Colleagues from the hospital. Neighbors.
They brought gifts—tiny clothes, toys, hand-knitted blankets. Things Gabriel would use for only months, but that were made with love.
"For Gabriel," one woman said, giving a soft stuffed rabbit. "So he knows the world is full of softness."
"For you," another said, giving a journal. "Record every moment. Every smile. Every sound. Even if there's no future to remember them, writing them down makes them real."
Maria cried through the entire shower. Happy tears, sad tears, all at once.
Her mother made a speech. "My daughter is doing the bravest thing a woman can do. She's bringing life into a dying world. She's choosing love over fear. She's choosing hope over despair. I've never been more proud."
After the shower, Maria sat in the nursery she'd prepared. The crib. The changing table. The shelf of books she would read to him.
She placed her hand on her belly and whispered: "Gabriel, so many people are waiting for you. So many people already love you. You'll be so wanted."
He kicked in response, as if saying: "I know, Mama. I know."
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 128)
Sergei's children agreed to meet him.
Natasha arranged it. Neutral territory—a café in the city center. Just the children—no spouses, no grandchildren. Just the four of them.
Sergei arrived an hour early. Sat at the table, hands trembling. He hadn't seen them in fifteen years. They'd been children then. Now they were adults.
Anna, twenty-three, came first. She'd been a toddler when he was imprisoned. Barely remembered him.
She sat across from him, eyes cautious. "Hello."
"Hello, Anna. You're... you're so grown up. Beautiful, like your mother."
"Thank you."
Awkward silence.
Then Maxim, twenty-one. He remembered more. Remembered the drunk father. Remembered the screaming. Remembered the day of the arrest.
"Papa." The word sounded strange, rusty from disuse.
"Maxim. I..."
"Don't. Not yet. Let's wait for Dasha."
Dasha, eighteen, came last. The angriest of them all. She looked at Sergei with open hatred.
"Let's get this over with," she said, sitting down. "What do you want?"
Sergei took a deep breath. "I want to apologize. Truly apologize. Not just say the words. I was a terrible father. A drunk. Cruel. I destroyed our family."
"Yes. You were," Dasha agreed coldly.
"I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I wanted you to know I've changed. Fifteen years in prison gave me time to think. To see what a monster I was."
"Great story," Dasha said sarcastically. "Did you find God in prison? Become a new man?"
"No. Not God. Just... responsibility. I realized what I did can't be undone. But I can try to be better."
Anna spoke quietly. "Mama said you're helping at the church soup kitchen. That you're sober."
"Four years. Since the day of my release."
Maxim leaned forward. "Why now? Why not fifteen years ago, when we needed a father?"
"Because I was a coward. Afraid to face what I'd done. Afraid to admit I'd destroyed the lives of the people I loved most."
"Loved?" Dasha laughed bitterly. "You don't know what love is."
"You're right. I didn't then. But I do now. Love isn't words. It's actions. It's sacrifice. It's being there."
"Well, you weren't there," Dasha spat. "Never."
Tears ran down Sergei's face. "I know. And I'm sorrier than I can express. If I had a chance again..."
"But you don't," Dasha interrupted. "We have seven months. That's all. You can't make up for fifteen years in seven months."
"No. I can't. But I can try."
They sat in silence. The waiter brought coffee no one drank.
Finally, Anna spoke. "I don't remember much about you. Just fragments. But Mama talked about you sometimes. Before you... before prison. She said you were kind once. Funny. That you loved to sing."
"I did. I sang you lullabies."
"I don't remember."
"You were too young."
Anna looked at her older brother and sister. "I think... I think I want to know that person. The person you were before the alcohol."
Dasha stood abruptly. "I can't do this. Sorry, Anna, but I can't." She looked at Sergei. "Maybe you've changed. I don't know, it's not for me to judge. But I'm not ready to forgive. Maybe I never will be."
She left.
Maxim watched her go, then back at Sergei. "She's hurt. More than any of us. She remembers the most."
"I understand."
"But I... I'm willing to try. Not for you. For myself. I have seven months left. I don't want to spend them on anger."
Sergei nodded, unable to speak.
They agreed to meet weekly. Just coffee. Just conversation. No promises, no expectations.
"One thing," Maxim said before leaving. "Tell us about who you were. Before the drinking. Mama mentions memories sometimes, but... I want to hear it from you."
Sergei smiled through tears. "I was a mechanic. I loved fixing things. You, Maxim, wanted to be just like me. You'd come to the garage after school, watch me work."
"I remember," Maxim whispered. "You gave me a toy tool set."
"For your sixth birthday. You were so happy."
"I still have it. Somewhere."
They hugged before parting. Awkwardly, carefully, but genuinely.
Anna hugged him too. "Until next week, Papa."
Papa. A word he hadn't heard in fifteen years.
Sergei walked home in a fog of tears and gratitude.
Dasha hadn't forgiven him. Maybe never would. But Maxim and Anna had given him a chance.
Seven months to be a father.
Not enough. Would never be enough.
But something.
Better than nothing.
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 128)
David organized a family reunion.
Not just his immediate family—Rachel, the nephews. But the entire extended family. Cousins he hadn't spoken to in decades. Aunts and uncles who'd judged his life choices. Old friends he'd left behind in his pursuit of success.
He rented a park outside the city. Arranged food, games, music.
"Why?" Rachel asked. "Some of these people were terrible to you."
"I know. But we have seven months. Old grudges seem... pointless."
Fifty people came. More than half of David's family he hadn't seen or barely knew.
His cousin Michael, who'd always competed with him, came with his wife and four children.
"David. Long time."
"Too long."
"I heard you lost everything. I'm sorry."
David laughed. "I didn't lose everything. I lost money. That's all they were."
Michael looked surprised. "You seem... different."
"I am different. Better, I think."
"I envied you for years," Michael admitted. "Your success, money, life in New York. Now I look at you, and..."
"And what?"
"And you look free."
They talked for a long time. About childhood, about the years between, about regrets and joys. The competition that had defined their relationship melted away.
Aunt Margaret, who hadn't spoken to David after he'd missed his uncle's funeral for a business meeting, approached him cautiously.
"David. Thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for coming, Aunt Margaret. I know we..."
"The past is the past," she interrupted. "We don't have time for old grudges."
"I'm sorry about Uncle John's funeral. I should have been there."
"Yes. You should have. But you're here now. And that's what he would have wanted—family together."
The day was filled with laughter, tears, reconnection. Children played together. Adults shared memories.
David organized a ceremony in the middle of the day. Each person stood and shared one family memory. One story.
The stories flowed. About holidays past. About jokes only the family understood. About hardships overcome together. About love that had always been there, even when buried under years of distance.
When David's turn came, he stood, looking at all those faces—some resembling his own, all connected by blood and history.
"I want to apologize," he began. "To everyone. For years I put work above you. Missed birthdays, weddings, funerals, holidays. Thought money mattered more than connection. That success mattered more than family."
His voice trembled.
"I was an idiot. It took the end of the world for me to see what mattered all along. And it was you. It was always you."
Rachel cried. Many cried.
"We have seven months," David continued. "I want to spend them here. With you. With family. Where I always should have been."
Cousin Michael started applauding. Others joined. Soon everyone was standing, applauding, crying, hugging each other.
That evening, as guests departed, little Emma tugged David's hand.
"Uncle David, that was the best."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I met so many cousins! And everyone was happy."
David picked her up. "You know what it means to be family?"
"What?"
"It means that even when we're not together, we're connected. By invisible threads of love that never break."
"Even when the world ends?"
"Even then."
Emma thought about this. "Then we'll be family forever."
"Yes, sweetheart. Forever."
That night David sat on the porch with Rachel, drinking wine, watching the stars.
"You did a beautiful thing today," she said.
"I'm doing what I should have done thirty years ago."
"Better late than never."
David thought about Sarah in hospice. About Mr. Chen. About all the people he'd seen dying these past months.
"You know what I've realized?" he said. "Death isn't the tragedy. Death is inevitable. The tragedy is spending your life not living."
"You're living now."
"Yes. Finally."
AMINA — Cairo (Day 128)
Amina's school had transformed into something more than just a place of learning. It had become a community.
Over a hundred children came now. But also their parents. Grandparents. Neighbors. Everyone seeking a place of belonging in these final months.
Amina stopped calling it a school. Now it was the "Circle of Life."
Every morning they gathered. Not in classrooms—outdoors, under trees, in the shade of Cairo's ancient walls.
She taught not just children. She taught everyone—how to live fully. How to accept the inevitable. How to find joy in the simple.
"Today we'll talk about gratitude," she announced one morning.
"What is there to be grateful for?" an elderly man asked. "The world is ending."
"Exactly why," Amina replied. "Because we're still here. Still alive. Still able to see the sun, feel the wind, embrace those we love."
She asked each person to share one thing they were grateful for.
Little Leila stood first. "I'm grateful for Mama and Papa. And for my sister, who's sometimes annoying, but I love her anyway."
Laughter rippled through the circle.
An elderly woman stood. "I'm grateful I lived to eighty-two. Saw so much. Loved so deeply. Not many have that."
A young man stood, voice trembling. "I'm grateful for a second chance. I was going to end my life after the announcement. But then I came here, and you all... you showed me life is still worth it."
Amina hugged him. "We're grateful you stayed."
One by one they shared. Gratitude for morning coffee. For children's laughter. For old friendships. For new ones. For memories. For this present moment.
By the end of the circle everyone was crying and smiling simultaneously.
"See?" Amina said. "Even here, even now, there's so much to be grateful for."
Ahmed began helping at the Circle of Life. He taught children carpentry—his hobby he'd never had time for until now.
"Why teach them to make tables?" someone asked. "There'll be no future to use them."
"Because creating is human," Ahmed replied. "We don't create for the future. We create because it's who we are."
The children made simple projects. Birdhouses. Small boxes. Shelves.
Each completed project was celebrated as if it were a masterpiece.
Karim continued his work documenting. His book of family stories had inspired others. Now dozens of families were writing their own histories.
"Mama, I want to create a library," he said one day.
"A library?"
"Of all the stories. All the families in our neighborhood. So they're together. Even if..."
"Even if no one reads them."
"Yes."
Amina helped him. They cleared out an old abandoned building. Asked neighbors to help repair it.
People came. Hundreds. Worked together to create something beautiful.
Three weeks later, the Library of Last Stories opened.
Shelves filled with handwritten books. Stories of ordinary people, ordinary lives that were extraordinary precisely in their ordinariness.
"This is legacy," Amina said at the opening ceremony. "Not pyramids built for pharaohs. Stories written for love."
Little Leila asked one evening: "Mama, will it hurt? When the world ends?"
Amina took her onto her lap. "Scientists say no. They say it will be quick. Instant."
"But do you believe them?"
Amina thought. "I want to believe them. But even if it hurts, it will only last a second. And we'll be together. That's what matters most."
"Will we hold hands?"
"Yes, habibti. We'll all hold hands."
Leila snuggled into her mother. "Then I'm not afraid."
That night Amina and Ahmed lay in bed, listening to the children's breathing in the next rooms.
"Do you think we're doing the right thing?" Amina whispered. "Telling them the truth? Not pretending everything will be okay?"
"I think children are stronger than we think. And I think truth with love is better than lies with compassion."
"Karim asked me today what I think happens after."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I don't know. No one knows. But I believe love doesn't die. That the connections we make exist somehow, somewhere."
Ahmed turned to her. "Do you believe that? Really?"
"I want to believe it. And in these final months, maybe choosing to believe is enough."
They lay in silence, holding hands, listening to the night.
"Amina?"
"Yes?"
"If I had a choice to live eighty years with someone else, or these twenty-five years with you, I'd choose you. Every time."
Amina cried. "Me too. Every time."
ADWOA — Accra (Day 128)
Adwoa's anthology was complete.
Five thousand stories. From around the world. In a hundred languages. Each story a window into how someone experienced the final year.
She organized them thematically. Love. Loss. Forgiveness. Joy. Fear. Hope.
The publisher wanted to publish it. "This is important work. A chronicle of humanity's last year."
"But who will read it?" Adwoa asked. "We have seven months."
"People will read. They want to know they're not alone. That their feelings are universal."
The book was published digitally worldwide. Free. Anyone could download it.
One million downloads in the first week.
Ten million in the first month.
People read stories of strangers and saw themselves. Saw their pain reflected. Their joy shared. Their humanity affirmed.
Adwoa received a letter from Zara in India:
Dear Adwoa,
I read your anthology. Cried over every page. The stories of mothers in your book mirror the stories of mothers here. We're all experiencing the same thing, though on different continents.
There's one story that especially touched me. About a mother in Brazil who named her son Gabriel. She wrote about choosing to love, even knowing she'll lose. That's exactly what I see every day.
Thank you for creating this. For showing us we're connected, even at the end.
With love and gratitude,Zara
Adwoa replied immediately. They began corresponding regularly. Two strangers becoming friends through shared understanding.
The Last University also evolved. Now it was not just a place of learning, but of creation.
Students wrote. Painted. Composed music. Created not for an audience—for the process.
Professor Amankwa organized a "Last Poetry Evening"—an event where anyone could come and read a poem. Original or favorite. Didn't matter.
Hundreds came. Young and old. Educated and not.
They stood under the stars and read words about love, life, death, beauty.
Adwoa's mother read a poem she'd written herself. Her first ever.
I cleaned floors all my lifeThought that's all I wasBut now, at the end,I'm learningI'm creatingI'm livingAnd I understand:I was always more than my workI was always enough
The audience applauded so loudly Adwoa thought her heart would burst with pride.
Afterward her mother cried. "I never thought I could write a poem."
"Mama, you were always a poet. You just didn't have time to know it."
One day Adwoa received an invitation to speak at a global conference via video. Writers, artists, thinkers from around the world gathering online to discuss: what is the role of art at the end of the world?
Adwoa agreed. Her speech was simple.
"Art has no role," she began. "Art simply is. We don't create because it serves a purpose. We create because it's who we are. Humans are creatures who make things. It defines us."
A pause.
"Someone asked me: why write a book no one will read in seven months? And my answer: I didn't write it for the future. I wrote it for now. For the process. For the joy of creating."
Another pause.
"We're all going to die. This isn't news. Every artist who ever lived knew this. And still they created. Because creating isn't about immortality. It's about being alive in this moment."
Applause through thousands of screens around the world.
After the conference Adwoa sat with her mother, drinking tea.
"I'm proud of you," her mother said. "More than I can express."
"I haven't done anything special."
"You showed the world that an ordinary life can be extraordinary. That a girl from Ghana can touch millions. That's not nothing."
Adwoa hugged her mother. "Everything I am, I got from you."
"No. You were always yourself. I just helped you survive long enough to bloom."
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 128)
The "Last Children of Earth" program celebrated its hundredth birth in May.
The hundredth child. A hundred families who'd chosen life over fear.
Zara organized a ceremony at the hospital. All the mothers came with their children—those who could travel. From newborns to five-month-olds.
It was chaos of the most beautiful kind. Children crying, laughing, reaching for each other with tiny hands.
Mothers shared stories. First smiles. First words. First steps for the older ones.
Every milestone celebrated, because each could be the last.
Priya with Arjun, now four months old, stood to speak.
"Four months ago I gave birth to my son. I was terrified. Thought I wouldn't survive the pain of losing him."
Her voice trembled.
"But you know what? Every day with him has been a gift. Every smile. Every tear. Every sleepless night. I can't imagine my life without these four months."
She lifted Arjun. "This boy has taught me more about love in four months than I learned in thirty-one years before him."
Another mother stood. The one who'd lost her child in April.
"I lost my son," she said quietly. "He lived only three months. And every day I wake up with an ache in my heart."
Tears flowed freely.
"But I don't regret giving birth to him. Not for a second. Because those three months... they were real. He was real. Our love was real. And nothing can take that away."
The room was silent except for the crying of children and mothers.
Zara stood. "We're gathered here because we chose the impossible. We chose to love, knowing we'll lose. We chose life, knowing death."
She looked at all those mothers, those children.
"People will ask: was it worth it? Was it cruel to bring children into a world that's ending? And my answer—look around. Look at this love. Look at this connection. This isn't cruelty. This is the most human thing we can do."
Applause filled the room.
After the ceremony Zara sat in her office, feeling the weight of the moment.
A hundred children. A hundred families. A hundred stories of love and loss.
And this was just in Mumbai. Around the world thousands of women were making the same choice.
The last children of Earth were being born every day. Every hour.
Life was insisting.
Her phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
"Dr. Patel? This is Maria from Brazil. Adwoa gave me your number."
Zara smiled. "Maria. I read about you in Adwoa's anthology. Your son, Gabriel."
"Yes. I... I wanted to thank you. Your program inspired ours here. We created our own version of 'Last Children of Earth' in São Paulo."
"That's wonderful."
"I'm giving birth in two months. And I'm scared. But also... also happy. And I wanted to talk to someone who understands."
They talked for an hour. About fear. About joy. About the impossible choice to love.
"You know the funniest thing?" Maria said. "I always wanted to be a mother. My whole life. But thought there'd never be the right time. Now there's no right time. But I'm doing it anyway."
"Because motherhood isn't about timing. It's about love."
"Exactly."
After the call Zara sat in silence, thinking about the global network of mothers connected by invisible threads of choice and love.
Adwoa in Ghana, collecting stories. Maria in Brazil, preparing for motherhood. Herself in India, helping families.
And thousands of others around the world.
All choosing life. Choosing love. Choosing hope.
In the last days of the world, this was the most revolutionary act.
Zara began writing a letter. Not to anyone specific. To everyone.
To the Last Children of Earth,
You won't read this. You're too young. And by the time you could read, there'll be no world.
But I need to write it anyway.
You were loved. Each of you. More than any children in history. Because your mothers chose you, knowing the truth. Chose to love you, knowing they'd lose you.
This is no small thing. This is everything.
You've taught us more about love in months than most people learn in lifetimes. You've shown us that life is precious not because of its length, but because of its depth.
Your lives will be short. But they will matter. Every second.
And when the end comes—for you, for us, for the world—you won't be alone.
You'll be in the arms of people who loved you more than life itself.
That, I think, is all we can hope for.
Thank you for being. For reminding us what it means to be human.
With infinite love,Dr. Zara Patel
She placed the letter in her journal. Next to other entries. Next to the stories of all the families, all the children.
An archive of love in the final year.
Epilogue of Chapter Six
May ended with reunions and realizations.
Families came together. Children returned home. Old grudges were buried. The past was forgiven.
Because what was the point of holding onto anger when time was limited?
The global birth continued. Thousands of children being born every day. The last generations of humanity, living for weeks or months, but loved absolutely.
Art continued to flourish. Music, painting, poetry, dance. People created not for future audiences, but for the joy of the present.
The economy stabilized at a new normal. Money still existed, but its meaning had changed. People worked not for salary, but for purpose. For contribution. For feeling useful.
Governments became less important. Communities took charge. People decided locally how to live, how to share, how to care for each other.
Surprisingly, most places worked better than before.
The seven individuals closed May transformed even more deeply.
Hiroshi reunited with his children and grandchildren, finally became the father and grandfather he should have been.
Maria prepared for Gabriel's birth, supported by a global network of mothers who'd made the same choice.
Sergei met with two of his three children, began the slow path to redemption, knowing he'd never finish but trying anyway.
David reunited his family, buried old grudges, discovered that forgiveness was easy when time was short.
Amina created the Circle of Life and the Library of Last Stories, places where humanity could be celebrated and preserved.
Adwoa completed the world's anthology, created a global network of storytellers, connected humanity through shared stories.
Zara celebrated the hundredth birth, connected with Maria and others, realized her work wasn't about preventing death, but celebrating life.
They had six months remaining.
One hundred eighty-five days.
Half a year. Half the time between the announcement and the end.
Time flew faster now. Each day seemed shorter than the last.
But also each day seemed fuller. Richer. More saturated with meaning.
People weren't just existing. They were living intentionally. Fully. Absolutely.
Because they knew: each day could be the last time they saw a sunset. The last time they laughed with loved ones. The last time they felt the sun's warmth.
And this knowledge, paradoxically, made life not more frightening, but more beautiful.
June approached with the promise of summer and the deepening of connections. The world continued spinning. Children continued being born. People continued loving.
One hundred eighty-five days.