MARIA — São Paulo (Day 188)
Gabriel came home in the first week of July.
Six weeks in the hospital. Six weeks of fighting, growing, strengthening. Now he weighed two kilograms—still tiny, but strong enough to breathe on his own.
Maria cried when the nurse placed him in the car seat. It was too big for him. His body was lost in the safety straps.
"Is he ready?" Maria asked for the hundredth time.
"He's ready," the nurse assured her. "And you're ready. You've been doing this for six weeks."
The drive home was the most terrifying journey of Maria's life. Every bump. Every turn. She looked at Gabriel every few seconds, making sure he was breathing.
At home, her mother had prepared everything. The nursery was perfect. Clean. Safe. Ready.
"Welcome home, little warrior," grandmother whispered, kissing the tiny forehead.
The first night was sleepless. Maria couldn't stop watching him. Every breath was a miracle. Every movement—proof of life.
He woke every two hours for feeding. His tiny mouth latched onto her breast, drank a few milliliters, fell asleep from the effort.
"So good," Maria whispered. "You're growing so strong."
Days turned into a blur of feedings, diaper changes, tiny victories.
Gabriel opened his eyes and looked at her. Really looked, focused, recognized.
Gabriel wrapped his tiny hand around her finger and held on.
Gabriel made a sound—not crying, almost cooing—that filled Maria's heart to overflowing.
The women from the "Last Children of Earth" group visited constantly. They brought food, helped with laundry, simply sat with Maria while she held her son.
"How is it?" Catarina asked, whose daughter Luna was now three months old.
"Terrible. Beautiful. I haven't slept in three days, but I've never been happier."
Isabela came in the second week. She had given birth to her daughter, Sofia, two weeks ago. Now she had two—a five-month-old son and a newborn daughter.
"You're insane," Maria said with admiration.
"Completely. But look at them." Isabela held both children. "They're siblings. They'll have three months together. That's all I wanted."
Maria understood. Every decision in this new world was madness. But it was also love.
In the third week, Gabriel smiled.
A real smile. Not gas. His eyes lit up, his tiny mouth curved upward, he looked straight at Maria and smiled.
Maria screamed. "Mom! Mom, he smiled!"
Her mother came running. "Smile again, little one. For grandmother."
And he did. A tiny, precious smile that made every sleepless night worth it.
Maria took photos, recorded videos, documented the moment in his journal.
Dear Gabriel,
Today you smiled at me. Your first real smile.
I know you won't understand this when you grow up, because you won't grow up.
But I want you to know: in that moment when you smiled at me, I was the happiest person who ever lived.
Everything—every tear, every fear, every sleepless night—was worth this one smile.
You are my world, little one. My absolute world.
Your mama
HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 188)
The July heat in Tokyo was intense.
But Hiroshi's family didn't let that stop them. Every day was an adventure.
They visited Disneyland. The grandchildren squealed with joy on the rides. Kenji bought Mickey Mouse ears. Even Hiroshi put them on, laughing at his own silliness.
"Grandpa, you look funny!" little Yuki shouted.
"Good. Funny is good."
They ate too many sweets, rode attractions until they felt sick, took thousands of photos.
"This was the best day!" Yuki declared at the end.
Hiroshi agreed. It was.
They visited the aquarium. Watched jellyfish swim in neon light. Touched stingrays in the touch pool. Watched the dolphin show and applauded like children.
They went to Mount Fuji. Didn't climb it—Hiroshi was too old, the grandchildren too young—but stood at the base and looked up at the sacred peak.
"It's beautiful," Yumiko whispered.
"Your mother always wanted to climb it," Hiroshi said. "We planned to when we retired."
"I'm sorry you didn't."
"Yes. But I'm here now. With you. This is a different kind of ascent."
Every evening the family gathered for dinner. Sometimes at home, sometimes in restaurants. They tried different foods—ramen, sushi, okonomiyaki, takoyaki.
"What's your favorite Japanese food, Grandpa?" a grandson asked.
"Anything eaten with family."
The children rolled their eyes at the sentimentality, but smiled.
Hiroshi continued his French lessons. Kenji joined him.
"Why are you studying French, Dad?" his son asked.
"For your mother. She wanted to go to Paris."
"But we can't go now."
"No. But I can learn the language. I can read the poetry she loved. It's a way of being with her."
Kenji was quiet. Then: "Teach me. I want to study too."
They sat together, father and son, awkwardly pronouncing French words, laughing at their mistakes.
It was a connection they'd never had. Better late than never.
In mid-July, Hiroshi received a diagnosis.
Cancer. Pancreatic. Stage four.
The doctor was apologetic. "We can start treatment, but..."
"But the world has five months," Hiroshi finished. "And I have?"
"With treatment, maybe four months. Without it, maybe three."
Hiroshi laughed. Not bitterly. Genuinely. "So I'll win the race with death. Interesting."
"You don't want treatment?"
"Treatment will make me sick. Weak. I want to spend these last months with my family, feeling as good as I can. Not in a hospital."
The doctor nodded. "I understand. We can provide pain medication when needed."
Hiroshi didn't tell the family immediately. Didn't want to worry them.
But the pain grew. By the end of the month, he couldn't hide it.
Kenji noticed first. "Dad, are you okay? You look pale."
"I need to tell you something."
The family gathered. Hiroshi explained. Cancer. Three months, maybe four.
"But it doesn't matter," he said quickly. "Because the world has five months. We'll all die together anyway."
Yumiko cried. "Dad, no..."
"It's okay. Really. I'm seventy years old. I've lived a good life. Now I get bonus time with you. Don't be sad."
But they were sad. Of course they were.
Kenji hugged his father for the first time in decades. "We're not leaving. We'll stay until the end."
"I know. Thank you."
That night, Hiroshi wrote in his journal:
Dear Yuki,
I'll be joining you soon. Sooner than I planned.
Cancer. Poetic, isn't it? I spent a lifetime avoiding life, and now death refuses to wait for the end of the world.
But I'm not afraid. Strangely, I'm at peace.
Because I did what needed to be done. Reunited with the children. Met the grandchildren. Truly lived, at least for a few months.
When I come to wherever "there" is, I'll tell you all about them. About little Yuki, who's so much like you. About Kenji, who finally forgave me. About Yumiko, who's so strong.
They'll be okay without me. They have each other.
See you soon, my love.
Very soon.
Hiroshi
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 188)
Dmitry relapsed in July.
Sergei found him behind the church, drunk, crying, broken.
"I couldn't," Dmitry sobbed. "Couldn't anymore. The pain's too strong."
Sergei sat down beside him. Didn't judge. Didn't lecture. Just sat.
"I know," he said quietly. "I know."
"One hundred and ten days. I had one hundred and ten days. And I destroyed it."
"You didn't destroy anything. You're human. Humans fall."
"My mother will be so disappointed."
"Your mother loves you. She'll understand."
They sat in silence. Dmitry drank from the bottle, his hands shaking.
"Why is it so hard?" he asked. "Why can't I just stop?"
"Because the pain is real. The loss is real. Alcohol makes it bearable for a moment."
"But only for a moment."
"Yes. Only for a moment."
Dmitry looked at Sergei. "How did you stop?"
"Prison helped. There was no choice. But also... I also decided that pain without alcohol is better than numbness with it. Because at least with pain, I feel something."
"I don't want to feel. Everything hurts."
"I know. But pain means you're alive. Numbness means you're already dead."
Dmitry cried. Deep, convulsive sobs.
Sergei held him. Let him cry. Didn't try to fix it. Just was there.
"Start again tomorrow," Sergei said finally. "Day one. Again."
"How many times can I start again?"
"As many days as you have left."
They met the next day. And the next. And the next.
Dmitry started over. Day one. Day two. Day three.
It was harder this time. The cravings were more intense. The pain sharper.
But he kept going. One day at a time.
Sergei's meetings with the children continued.
Maxim and Anna came every week. Dasha came twice in July—progress, slow but real.
They didn't talk about deep things. Just everyday life. Work. Friends. Weather.
But connection was building. Trust was growing.
At the last meeting of the month, Anna brought a photo album.
"I found this at Mom's house. Our childhood."
They looked through it together. Photos from before prison. Before drinking. Before everything collapsed.
Sergei young, smiling, holding baby Anna.
Maxim on a bicycle, Sergei running alongside.
The whole family at the beach, happy, whole.
"I don't remember this," Anna whispered. "Don't remember you like this."
"I was. Once. Long ago."
"Can you tell me? About the person you were?"
Sergei told stories. Stories he'd kept inside for fifteen years.
How he loved fixing things. How he sang to Anna every night. How he taught Maxim to ride a bike. How he loved Natasha with all his heart.
"What happened?" Maxim asked. "How did you become... different?"
Sergei sighed. "Fear. I was afraid I wasn't good enough. Not a good enough husband. Not a good enough father. Not a good enough provider."
"So you drank."
"So I drank. And drinking made me exactly what I was afraid of being. It's ironic, right?"
Even Dasha listened, her arms less crossed, her face less hard.
"Are you still that person?" she asked. "From the photos?"
"I don't know. I want to be. I'm trying to be."
"Good." A pause. "Keep trying."
It was the kindest thing Dasha had said to him.
After the meeting, Sergei walked home feeling something like hope.
Dasha was softening. Slowly. But definitely.
Maybe, just maybe, he'd receive forgiveness before the end.
Not from everyone. Dasha might never forgive fully.
But from Maxim. From Anna. From Natasha.
And maybe, if they could forgive him, he could begin to forgive himself.
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 188)
David organized a camp for children from hospice.
A week in the mountains. Twenty children, all terminally ill, all with months left.
"Why?" someone asked. "These children have so little time. Why waste it at camp?"
"That's exactly why," David replied. "Because every child deserves the camp experience. Campfires. Marshmallows. Stories. Adventure."
He assembled a team of volunteers. Nurses. Doctors. Regular people who wanted to help.
Rachel joined. Emma and Jacob too. They wanted to be part of it.
The camp was magical.
Children bedridden for months were outside. Breathing fresh air. Feeling the sun.
They made crafts. Bad, crooked, beautiful crafts.
They sang songs. Off-key, loud, joyful.
They told stories around the campfire. Scary stories that weren't as scary as their own lives.
One boy, nine years old, dying of leukemia, caught a fish. His first ever.
He held it with pure wonder. "I did it! I really did it!"
They released the fish back. The boy watched it swim away.
"Goodbye, fish," he whispered. "I hope you live a long time."
Emma and Jacob played with the other children. Not as volunteers. As friends.
"Are these children different?" Emma asked David one evening.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, they're dying. We're all dying. So they're not really different, are they?"
David hugged his niece. "No, sweetheart. They're not different at all."
On the last night, they did fireworks. Illegal, probably unsafe, but who cared?
The children watched colors explode across the sky, their faces glowing with wonder.
"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," whispered a girl, six years old, going blind from a brain tumor.
David cried. Rachel cried. All the adults cried.
But the children laughed. Pointed. Squealed with joy.
Because for them, it was just camp. Just a week of fun.
They didn't see tragedy. They saw only beauty.
When camp ended, parents picked up their children with tears of gratitude.
"Thank you," they said again and again. "This was a gift."
One mother hugged David. "My son says this was the best week of his life. You gave him that. How can I ever repay you?"
"You can't. You don't need to. Just... just love him. That's all."
After camp, David was exhausted. Emotionally depleted. But also filled.
"We did a good thing," Rachel said.
"We gave them one good week. That's something."
"It's not something. It's everything."
At home, Emma was quiet. Usually chatty, now thoughtful.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" David asked.
"Those children. At camp. They were so happy."
"Yes, they were."
"But they're dying. All of them."
"Yes."
"And we're dying too."
"Yes."
Emma thought. "So we're all the same. They were happy, even knowing. So maybe we can be happy too."
David hugged her tight. "You're the wisest eight-year-old I know."
"I know," she said seriously. Then grinned.
AMINA — Cairo (Day 188)
The July heat in Cairo was brutal.
But the Circle of Life continued. They met early in the morning, before the worst heat, or in the evening when the sun set.
Amina taught everything she could. Not academic subjects—those seemed less important now. Instead, she taught life skills.
How to be kind.
How to forgive.
How to find joy in the small things.
How to meet death with dignity.
"We have five months," she said one morning. "That's not much time. But enough to become the best versions of ourselves."
The children listened. The adults listened.
She taught meditation. Simple breathing exercises to calm fear.
She taught gratitude. Each person shared one thing they were grateful for every day.
She taught presence. How to be here, now, fully.
"Death is not the opposite of life," she explained. "Death is part of life. Every moment we're dying and being born. Cells die. New ones grow. Thoughts come and go."
"January will just be the final transition. No more frightening than any other."
Some found comfort in this. Others weren't convinced.
Both reactions were normal.
The Library of Last Stories reached seven hundred books in July.
Seven hundred families who had told their stories.
Karim was overwhelmed. "Mom, this is too much. I can't catalog them all."
"Then ask for help. Create a team."
Karim recruited twenty volunteers. Together they organized, cataloged, preserved every story.
The library became a place of pilgrimage. People came from all over Egypt, some from other countries, to add stories or read others'.
"This is a miracle," one visitor said. "To see so many lives documented."
"Not a miracle," Amina replied. "Just humanity. We've always told stories. That's who we are."
In mid-July, Yasmin announced she wanted to become a teacher.
"But there are no schools," Ahmed said. "And no time to learn."
"I don't need a certificate," Yasmin replied. "Mom showed me. Teaching isn't about qualifications. It's about loving knowledge. About wanting to share."
She started her own small circle. For younger children. She taught them to read, write, think.
Amina watched with pride. Her daughter had found her path.
Karim continued documenting. Not just family stories now, but everything. Daily life in Cairo during the last months.
He filmed videos on the streets. Interviewed strangers. Photographed ordinary moments.
"Why?" Leila asked.
"Because it matters. Because we were here. We lived. This should be recorded."
Even little Leila found her role. She told stories to younger children. Fairy tales. Parables. Stories about bravery and love.
Children gathered around her, enchanted, even though she was only nine.
"She's a born storyteller," Amina told Ahmed.
"Like her mother."
The family was stronger than ever. Every minute together was precious. Every laugh—a gift.
They knew the end was near. But they also knew they had now.
And now was all that mattered.
ADWOA — Accra (Day 188)
Adwoa started a second anthology.
"Letters to the Future," she called it.
The idea was simple: people wrote letters to those who would never be born. Children, grandchildren, the future that wouldn't exist.
"Why write letters no one will read?" someone asked.
"Because the act of writing matters. Not the reading."
Letters came by the thousands.
Dear grandchild I'll never meet...
Dear great-granddaughter who won't exist...
Dear humanity of the future that won't come...
Each letter was full of love, regret, hope, wisdom.
Adwoa read each one. Cried over many.
One letter particularly moved her. From an eighty-year-old woman:
Dear my great-grandchild,
I'm sorry you won't be born. I'm sorry you won't see the world we created—not good enough, but we tried.
But know this: you were loved before your existence. I dreamed of you. Imagined your face. Hoped for your future.
That you won't be born doesn't make this love less real.
Love exists even when its object doesn't.
This, I think, is love's power. It transcends time, space, even existence.
I love you, my little one, though you'll never be.
Grandmother
Adwoa couldn't stop crying reading this.
The Last University continued to grow. Now campuses in seventy cities across Africa. Ten thousand students.
Professor Asare organized a conference in Accra. "Teaching at the End: A Symposium."
Hundreds of educators and students came. They shared ideas, methods, philosophy.
"Why do we teach when there's no future?" one professor asked.
Adwoa replied: "We teach because teaching makes us human. We are creatures who seek understanding. That doesn't require a future."
Another professor added: "Teaching isn't preparation for the future. It's enrichment of the present."
Applause filled the hall.
At the symposium, Adwoa met Marcus, a young man from Kenya who had created a Last University in Nairobi.
"Your work inspired us," he said. "We started with five students. Now three hundred."
"That's amazing."
"Can I ask something personal?"
"Of course."
"Do you still want to be a doctor? Do you regret not becoming one?"
Adwoa thought. "Sometimes. But then I remember: I wanted to be a doctor to help people. And that's what I'm doing. Just in a different way."
"Through stories."
"Through stories."
Marcus smiled. "Stories heal too. Maybe deeper than medicine."
After the symposium, Adwoa's mother was sick. Nothing serious—just the flu—but at her age, everything was risky.
Adwoa cared for her. Brought soup, tea, blankets. Sat by her bedside, as her mother had done for her so many times.
"You're good to an old woman," her mother whispered.
"You're not old. And you're my mother."
"I'm afraid, Adwoa."
"Of dying?"
"No. Of leaving you. Even for a few months."
Adwoa took her mother's hand. "Mom, listen to me. If you go now or in January, it doesn't matter. Every moment we've had together was a gift."
"But I want more moments."
"Me too. But let's not waste the moments we have worrying about the ones we don't."
Her mother smiled. "When did you become so wise?"
"I learned from the best. You."
Her mother recovered within a week. Weaker, but alive. Still here.
They celebrated simply. Tea and biscuits. Conversation and laughter.
"You know what I realized?" her mother said.
"What?"
"These last seven months have been the best of my life."
Adwoa was surprised. "Really? But the world is ending."
"Yes. But I've also lived more in these seven months than in fifty-two years before them. I've learned. Written. Created. I found myself."
"I'm happy, Mom."
"Me too, daughter. Me too."
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 188)
July was the hottest month.
And the deadliest.
Fifteen children from the "Last Children of Earth" program died in July. Heat, infections, complications.
Each death broke Zara's heart.
But she continued. What else could she do?
New children were born every day. Forty-seven in July. Life insisted, even as death took.
Priya with Arjun, now six months old, was thriving. Her son was strong. Healthy. He rolled over, sat up, made sounds approaching words.
"He'll make it to January," Priya said with certainty. "I know it."
Zara hoped she was right.
Isabela with two children was exhausted but radiant.
"They're so different," she said. "My son is serious, quiet. My daughter... she's fiery. Cries loud, demands everything at once."
"How do you manage?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I just keep going. One moment at a time."
Zara admired her strength.
In mid-July, Zara received an unexpected call. An international medical conference. They wanted her to speak.
"About the 'Last Children of Earth' program. Your work is remarkable. The world needs to know."
Zara agreed, though she was frightened.
Her talk was broadcast globally. Thousands of doctors, nurses, ethicists watched.
She spoke about the decision to support pregnancy knowing the end. About mothers who chose love over fear. About children who lived for months but were loved absolutely.
"Some said it was cruel," she said. "To bring children into a dying world. But I've seen these families. Seen this love. And I tell you: this isn't cruelty. This is the most human thing we can do."
"We love, even knowing we'll lose. That defines us."
The applause was deafening.
After the talk, she was flooded with messages. Doctors from around the world starting similar programs.
In Brazil. In Japan. In Russia. In the US. In Egypt. In Ghana.
Everywhere, women were giving birth to Earth's last children. Everywhere, doctors were supporting them.
A global movement, started from one program in Mumbai.
Zara felt the weight of it. The joy and responsibility.
Her parents came to visit again at the end of July.
"We're proud of you," her father said. "More than we can express."
"I was just doing my work."
"No," her mother said. "You did more. You gave hope to millions."
They spent a week together. Simple days. Cooking. Talking. Laughing. Family.
"When January comes," her mother said, "we want to be here. With you."
"I want that too."
"Together. As a family."
"Yes. Together."
That night, Zara updated her gratitude journal.
People were still sharing what they were grateful for. Every day. Hundreds of entries.
I'm grateful for rain after the heat.
I'm grateful for my daughter's smile.
I'm grateful for one more day of breathing.
I'm grateful for my husband's love.
I'm grateful for this moment. Right now.
Zara read each entry and cried.
Even here. Even now. With four months left until the end.
People found gratitude.
This, she thought, is the true power of the human spirit.
Not denial of death. But acceptance of life.
Epilogue of Chapter Eight
July ended with heat and life.
The hottest month of the year. The deadliest for the last children. But also the month of most births. Life and death danced together, inseparable.
The world continued transforming. Deeper. Quieter. More present.
People hurried less now. Why rush when time is short?
Conversations were deeper. Connections stronger. Love more intense.
Every sunset was watched. Every meal savored. Every hug held just a little longer.
Because each could be the last.
Or second to last.
Or one of one hundred twenty remaining.
The global economy fully transformed. Money meant almost nothing. People bartered. Shared. Gave freely.
What was the point of hoarding when you couldn't take it with you?
Art reached new heights. Every city, every village had its festival, exhibition, performance. People created with desperate joy.
Religions continued converging. Boundaries between faiths nearly dissolved. Everyone prayed. Everyone meditated. Everyone sought peace.
Families stayed together. Rarely did anyone travel now, except to reunite with loved ones. People wanted to be with family when the end came.
Seven people closed July with profound transformation.
Maria brought Gabriel home from the hospital, learned motherhood with her tiny son, saw his first smile.
Hiroshi was diagnosed with cancer (3-4 months), told his family, they promised to stay, he accepted imminent death with peace.
Sergei helped Dmitry after relapse, continued meetings with children, Dasha visited more often, forgiveness approaching.
David organized camp for dying children, gave them a week of joy, Emma understood everyone's the same.
Amina taught presence and acceptance, the Library reached 700 books, Yasmin became a teacher, Leila a storyteller.
Adwoa started "Letters to the Future," the Last University reached 10,000 students, her mother fell ill and recovered.
Zara survived 15 deaths and 47 births, spoke at a global conference, the program spread worldwide.
Four months remained.
One hundred twenty days.
A third of a year. One third of the time between now and the end.
Time was accelerating. Days blurred. Weeks flew.
But every moment was precious.
Every breath—a gift.
Every "I love you"—a prayer.
The world was living. Truly living.
Not surviving. Not waiting for the end.
Living fully, deeply, absolutely.
Until the very end.
August approached with summer's final days. The world kept spinning. Children kept being born. People kept loving.
One hundred twenty days.