HIROSHI — Tokyo (Day 218)
Hiroshi began dying in August.
Not dramatically. Slowly. Each day a little weaker. Each day a little more pain.
The painkillers helped, but they made him drowsy. He hated wasting precious time on sleep.
"Papa, you must rest," Kenji insisted.
"I'll rest enough soon. Forever."
The family adapted. Slow walks instead of long trips. Quiet evenings instead of adventures. Time together, however it came.
Hiroshi began recording videos for his grandchildren.
"I won't be here in January," he explained. "The cancer will take me sooner. So I want to leave you something."
Each day he recorded. Stories about his life. Lessons he'd learned. Wisdom he wanted to pass on.
"Life is short," he told the camera. "I thought I had time. Always tomorrow. But tomorrow isn't guaranteed."
A pause, gathering strength.
"Don't make my mistake. Don't postpone life. Don't wait for the perfect moment. Live now. Love now. That's all you have."
Little Yuki watched him record one day.
"Grandpa, why are you talking to the camera?"
"Because when I'm gone, I want you to remember me. Remember what I said."
"But you won't be gone for a long time, right?"
Hiroshi smiled sadly. "Soon, little one. Sooner than the others."
"That's not fair."
"No. It's not fair. But life isn't always fair."
Yuki climbed into his lap, carefully, knowing he was fragile. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too. But you know what? Every moment we've had together has been a gift. And I'm grateful for each one."
In mid-August, Hiroshi insisted on one last family outing. Tokyo Bay at sunset.
They brought blankets, a picnic, sat on the beach watching the sun sink into the water.
The sky was painted pink, orange, purple. Colors so vivid they seemed unreal.
"It's beautiful," Yumiko whispered.
"Yes," Hiroshi agreed. "Every sunset is beautiful. It took me seventy years to notice."
Kenji sat beside his father. "Papa, I want to say something."
"Yes, son?"
"Thank you. For coming back. For being here. For becoming the father I always wanted."
Hiroshi wept. "I should have been that father from the beginning."
"But you're here now. That's what matters."
They watched the sunset together, a family finally whole, if only briefly.
That night the pain was worse than usual. Hiroshi took extra painkillers, but they barely helped.
He wrote in his journal, hand trembling:
Dear Yuki,
The pain is strong today. The cancer is spreading faster than the doctors thought. I may have weeks, not months.
But I'm not afraid. Strange, isn't it?
I'm ready. I've done what needed doing. Reunited with my children. Met my grandchildren. Lived truly, if only a little.
And soon I'll see you again. Wherever "there" is.
I'll tell you all about them. About little Yuki, named in your honor. About Kenji, who finally forgave. About Yumiko, who's as strong as you were.
Wait for me, my love.
I'm coming home.
Your Hiroshi
MARIA — São Paulo (Day 218)
Gabriel turned two months old in August.
Two months of life. Two months of growth. Two months of love.
He weighed three kilograms now. Still small, but strong. His eyes followed Maria's face. His hands reached for her. His smiles melted her heart every time.
"You're so big!" Maria cooed every day. "So strong!"
Gabriel gurgled in response, sounds approaching laughter.
The "Last Children of Earth" group met at Maria's house this month. Twenty mothers, twenty children, all at different stages.
Isabela with two-month-old Sofia and her seven-month-old son.
Catarina with four-month-old Luna.
Priya with seven-month-old Arjun, who was already trying to crawl.
And others. So many others. Each mother, each child—a story of love and courage.
They shared milestones.
"My daughter is holding her head up!"
"My son laughs now!"
"My baby sleeps through the night!"
Each milestone was celebrated, because each was a victory against time.
They also shared fears.
"What if I die first?" one mother asked. "My heart is weak. The doctors say I might not make it to January."
"Then someone else will hold your baby at the end," Isabela answered. "We all promise. No child will be alone."
The mothers joined hands, forming a circle of promise.
"We hold each other. We hold them. Until the very end."
After the meeting, Maria sat with Gabriel in the rocking chair, singing to him.
Dormi, dormi, o bel bambin...
An old Italian lullaby her grandmother had sung to her.
Gabriel watched her with wide eyes, mesmerized.
"Do you like Mama's singing?" she whispered. "I'll sing to you every day. Every day we have."
Her mother came in, brought tea.
"He's growing so fast."
"Too fast. I want time to slow down."
"I know, dear. But look at him. Look how he looks at you. He knows he's loved."
"Do you think he understands?"
"Children always know love. Even if they can't name it."
Maria held her son closer, breathed in his scent—milk, baby powder, something uniquely Gabriel.
"We have four months," she whispered. "Maybe less, if he was born premature. Maybe he won't make it to January."
"Then love him every second you have."
"I do. More than I thought possible."
At the end of August, Gabriel got sick. A cold, nothing serious for a normal baby. But for a preemie, with fragile lungs, it was dangerous.
Maria didn't sleep for three nights straight. Held him upright so he could breathe. Used the nasal aspirator every half hour. Prayed every second.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't take him. Not yet. Give me more time."
On the fourth day, the fever broke. Breathing eased. Gabriel smiled at her, weakly but real.
Maria sobbed with relief.
"You scared Mama," she told him. "Don't do that again, okay?"
He gurgled, as if agreeing.
She updated his journal:
Dear Gabriel,
You were sick this week. I thought I was losing you.
Three days I didn't sleep. Three days I held you, prayed, begged the Universe to give us more time.
And you recovered. You're a fighter, like they all say.
Every day with you is a miracle. Every smile. Every sound. Every breath.
I don't know how much time we have. Maybe until January. Maybe less.
But I know this: every second is worth the pain. Every moment of terror is worth the moments of joy.
You're my everything, little one.
Your mama, who loves you more than life
SERGEI — Irkutsk (Day 218)
Dasha came to every meeting in August.
Every Tuesday. No misses. No excuses.
She was still reserved. Still cautious. But she was there.
"Why do you keep coming?" Sergei asked once.
Dasha thought. "Because we have three months. Because you're my father, despite everything. Because... because I don't want to regret not trying."
"You don't have to forgive me."
"I know. And I'm not sure I do forgive you. But I'm trying to understand. That's something."
At one meeting, Dasha brought a letter.
"I wrote this. Everything I want to say. Everything I feel. I can't say it out loud, so I wrote it."
Sergei took the letter with trembling hands. "Can I read it now?"
"No. Later. When I'm gone."
After the meeting, at home, Sergei opened the letter:
Papa,
I don't know if I can call you that. The word feels strange after fifteen years.
But you're my father. Biologically. Legally. And maybe, a little emotionally too. I'm not sure yet.
I hated you for so long. Hated you for the drinking. For the violence. For destroying our family. For creating a childhood full of fear.
But then the world announced the end, and I realized something: hatred is heavy. I've carried it for fifteen years, and it's made me tired.
I don't forgive you. Not yet. Maybe never completely.
But I see you're trying. See that you've changed. See that you're sorry.
And that's something.
We have three months. Maybe less. I don't want to spend them on hatred.
So I'll come. I'll sit with you. I'll listen to your stories.
And maybe, by January, I can say: I forgive you.
Maybe.
Dasha
Sergei wept reading it. Wept so hard he could barely breathe.
This wasn't forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was hope.
He showed the letter to Father Nikolai the next day.
"This is a gift," the priest said.
"She still hates me."
"No. She loves you. Otherwise there would be no pain. Hatred is just love, wounded deeply."
"Do you think I have time to earn her forgiveness?"
"You have three months to show her who you are now. Forgiveness can't be earned. Only given. But you can make yourself worthy of the gift."
Sergei doubled his work at the soup kitchen. Every day. Every meal. Serving with kindness, humility, love.
Dmitri was there too, sober again. Thirty days after his relapse.
"I'm proud of you," Sergei said.
"Don't be. I relapsed."
"But you came back. That's what matters."
They worked side by side, two men carrying guilt, seeking redemption.
"Do you think we'll ever forgive ourselves?" Dmitri asked.
"I don't know. But I think we can try to be better. Maybe that's enough."
At the end of August, Natasha, Sergei's ex-wife, invited him to dinner.
The whole family. The children, his ex-wife, even her late husband's mother.
"Are you sure?" Sergei asked.
"No. But we have three months. Let's try being a family again. Even if it's awkward."
Dinner was awkward. But also touching.
They shared memories of good times. Before the drinking. Before the violence. When they were happy.
"Remember when we went to the beach?" Natasha said. "Anna was a baby. You built her a huge sandcastle."
"I remember," Sergei whispered. "I was so happy that day."
"We all were."
Maxim added: "I remember when you taught me to ride a bike. You ran alongside, holding the seat, shouting encouragement."
"You fell so many times. But you kept trying."
"Like you, Papa. You keep trying."
Even Dasha spoke, though little. "I remember when you sang. You had a good voice."
"I haven't sung in years."
"Maybe you should again."
This wasn't a happy family. Not yet. Maybe never again.
But it was a family trying. And in the last months of the world, that was enough.
DAVID — Connecticut (Day 218)
David started a project: "Last Wishes."
For dying children in the hospice. Each child made one wish, and David did everything to fulfill it.
A girl wanted to see the ocean. David took her to the beach, held her while waves licked their feet.
A boy wanted to meet a firefighter. David arranged a visit from an entire fire station.
Another girl wanted a wedding. David organized a ceremony—she married her teddy bear in a full wedding dress. Everyone clapped and cried.
"Why do you do this?" a nurse asked.
"Because every child deserves a dream. Even when time is short."
In mid-August, one boy, eight years old, made a wish that broke David's heart.
"I want my mom to smile again."
His mother was there, worn down by months of care, her face a mask of grief.
"She used to smile," the boy explained. "Before I got sick. Now she's only sad. I want to see her happy again, before I go."
David spoke with the mother. "Your son wants to see you smile."
"How can I smile? He's dying."
"I know. But he doesn't want his last days filled with your grief. He wants to see you happy."
The mother wept. "I don't know how."
"Then pretend. For him. Can you?"
The next day, the mother came with a smile. Forced at first, but becoming more real as the day went on.
They played games. Told jokes. Laughed together.
The boy beamed. "Thank you, Mom. This is the best day."
He died a week later, smiling, holding his mother's hand.
David cried at the funeral. Couldn't help it.
Rachel held him. "You gave him his wish. That's a gift."
"But he's dead."
"Yes. But he died happy. Not everyone gets that."
At home, Emma and Jacob were quieter than usual.
"What's wrong?" David asked.
"We've been thinking about January," Emma said. "About what it will be like."
"Will it hurt?"
David took a deep breath. He'd promised to always be honest.
"I don't know, sweetheart. Scientists say no. Say it will be quick."
"Will you be with us?"
"Every second. I'll hold you. And your mom. And Jacob. We'll be together."
"Then I'm not afraid," Emma said. "As long as we're together."
Jacob nodded. "Family."
David hugged them both, his heart full and breaking at once.
He thought of the years he'd spent chasing money. Years he could have spent with family.
What a waste.
But he also thought of the last eight months. Every day with Rachel and the children. Every laugh, every hug, every "I love you."
It didn't erase the wasted years.
But it made the last months precious beyond measure.
AMINA — Cairo (Day 218)
August heat was unbearable in Cairo.
But the Circle of Life adapted. Meetings at dawn. Meetings at sunset. Avoiding the midday sun.
Amina continued teaching. Not just concepts now, but practices.
Meditation. Yoga. Breathing exercises. Ways to calm body and mind in the face of fear.
"Our bodies are tense with fear," she explained. "We carry stress in our shoulders, jaws, stomachs. Let's learn to release it."
Hundreds of people lay on mats, following her voice.
"Breathe in deeply. Hold. Exhale slowly. Release fear with each breath."
It helped. Not completely. Fear was always there, lurking.
But these practices made it manageable.
The Library of Last Stories reached one thousand books in August.
A thousand family histories. A thousand lives, documented.
Karim was overwhelmed. "Mama, we can't take more. There's no space."
"Then we'll find more space."
They expanded into a neighboring building. Another abandoned structure, cleaned and transformed.
Now the Library of Last Stories occupied an entire block.
People came from around the world to see it. An archive of humanity in its final months.
Journalists wanted to document it.
"No," Amina said firmly. "This isn't for spectators. This is for families."
But she allowed one writer to visit. A woman from France, writing a book about the last year.
"This is remarkable," the writer said, walking through the aisles. "A thousand stories. A thousand lives."
"And each one matters," Amina said.
"Why did you do this?"
"Because we forget. As an archaeologist, I know this. Civilizations disappear. Stories are lost. People are forgotten."
"But these stories will disappear too. When the world ends."
"Maybe. But they existed. They were recorded. That matters."
At the end of August, Leila asked Amina: "Mama, do you think God is angry with us?"
"Why do you ask, habibi?"
"Because He's ending the world. Maybe we were bad."
Amina sat with her daughter, holding her small hands.
"Listen to me, Leila. I don't know why the world is ending. Nobody knows. Maybe it's not about good or bad. Maybe it just is."
"But it's not fair."
"No. It's not fair. Life isn't always fair."
"So what do we do?"
"We live. As well as we can. As lovingly as we can. Until the very end."
Leila thought about this. "Okay. I can do that."
"I know you can. You're braver than I am."
That night, Amina wrote in her journal:
My children teach me every day. Leila about courage. Karim about purpose. Yasmin about service.
They've adapted to this new world better than I could have imagined.
In three months, they'll be gone. All of them. My entire family.
The thought is unbearable.
So I don't think about it. I think about today. About now. About the moments we have.
That's all I can do.
That's all anyone can do.
ADWOA — Accra (Day 218)
"Letters to the Future" was completed in August.
Ten thousand letters. From people around the world. Each letter addressed to someone who would never be born.
Adwoa compiled them into a digital book. Free to download. Anyone could read.
In the first week, one million downloads.
In the first month, twenty million.
People read letters from strangers and wept. Saw the universality of love, loss, hope.
One letter went viral. From a man in India:
Dear future humanity,
We failed you.
We knew about climate change, but didn't act fast enough.
We knew about wars, but didn't stop them.
We knew about inequality, but didn't fix it.
And now there is no future. No you.
I'm sorry. On behalf of my generation, I'm sorry.
But know this: we tried. At the end, we tried to be better.
We loved deeply. Forgave freely. Lived fully.
If there's a next world, a next Universe, where humanity gets another chance—let's do better.
Let's remember: time is precious. Love matters. Presence is everything.
With love and regret,
A man who wanted better for you
Adwoa read it again and again, crying every time.
The Last University reached fifteen thousand students in August.
Campuses now in twenty countries. A movement spreading beyond Africa.
In India. Brazil. Mexico. Philippines. Everywhere, people creating spaces for learning for joy's sake.
Professor Asare wrote to Adwoa:
Dear Adwoa,
What we started has transformed into something beautiful. Fifteen thousand students. Twenty countries. A world learning in the face of ending.
This is your legacy. Not the books, though they matter. But the idea: learning doesn't need a future. It only needs curiosity.
Thank you for showing us this.
With gratitude and admiration,
Professor Asare
Adwoa wept reading it. She'd never thought about legacy. Only about now.
But the professor was right. This was her contribution. Her way of serving.
Adwoa's mother became one of the most popular teachers at Accra's Last University.
She didn't teach academic subjects. She taught life lessons.
"I cleaned houses for fifty years," she told them. "And you know what I learned? That every job is worthy. Every effort matters. Pride isn't in the title. Pride is in work well done."
Students—young and old—listened in reverent silence.
"The world told me I was nothing. Just a cleaner. But I was more. I was a mother who sacrificed. I was a woman with dreams. I was a person with dignity."
"Don't let the world define your worth. You're valuable because you're here. Because you're alive. That's all that's needed."
The applause was deafening.
Afterward, Adwoa hugged her mother. "You were amazing."
"I just spoke the truth."
"That's what makes you amazing."
At the end of August, Adwoa received a letter from Zara in India.
Dear Adwoa,
I've been thinking of you. Of us. Two strangers on different continents, connected through our work.
You collect stories. I help create new lives.
Both acts are testimonies of hope.
I want to meet you. Before the end. Is it possible?
Maybe November? I have a break then. I can come to Ghana, or you can come to India.
Tell me. I feel we should meet. Face to face. Before time runs out.
With love,
Zara
Adwoa replied immediately: Yes. Come to Ghana. November. I'll be waiting.
ZARA — Mumbai (Day 218)
August was a month of births and deaths.
Fifty children were born in the "Last Children of Earth" program.
Twenty-two died.
Each birth was a miracle. Each death was a tragedy.
Zara felt them all. Every joy. Every loss.
Priya with Arjun was celebrating seven months. Her son was strong, healthy, almost crawling.
"He'll make it," Priya said with confidence. "Until January. I know it."
Zara hoped she was right.
Isabela with two children was exhausted but determined. Her three-month-old daughter Sofia was growing well. Her eight-month-old son was beginning to make sounds approaching words.
"Sometimes I think I'm crazy," Isabela admitted. "Two children, both will die in January. What kind of mother does this?"
"A mother who loves more than she fears," Zara answered.
But not all stories were hopeful.
A mother with a four-month-old son lost him to sudden infant death syndrome. Healthy one evening. Dead the next morning.
Zara was there when the mother found him. The screams were primal, soul-rending.
"No! No! He was supposed to have until January! We were supposed to have more time!"
Zara held her as she sobbed. Couldn't say anything. There were no words.
Later, when the mother calmed, she whispered: "At least he won't know about the end of the world. At least he went peacefully."
Zara didn't know if that was comfort or despair. Maybe both.
The global network of "Last Children of Earth" programs continued growing.
Now in fifty countries. Thousands of children, born knowing the truth. Thousands of families choosing love.
Zara coordinated with program leaders around the world. Shared best practices. Support. Resources.
One call particularly touched her. From Maria in Brazil.
"Dr. Patel, Gabriel was sick this week. I thought I was losing him. But he recovered."
"I'm glad. He's a fighter."
"How do you do it? How do you see so many deaths and continue?"
Zara thought. "Because for every death there are ten lives. For every loss there are a hundred moments of joy. I focus on the life, not the death."
"But it hurts."
"Yes. It hurts terribly. But pain means I'm alive. Means I care. I wouldn't trade it for numbness."
After the call, Zara updated her gratitude journal.
People still shared. Every day. Thousands of entries.
I'm grateful for rain cooling the heat.
I'm grateful for my daughter's laughter.
I'm grateful for my wife's hand in mine.
I'm grateful for this moment of breath.
I'm grateful for another sunset.
Zara read each entry and marveled at humanity's capacity to find gratitude even here, even now.
Zara's parents came for the last week of August.
"We want to spend the last months with you," her mother said.
"Are you sure? It will be intense. The hospital, the children, the deaths..."
"We're sure. You're our daughter. We want to be with you."
They moved into her apartment. The small space became even smaller, but also warmer.
Her mother helped at the hospital. Held babies. Comforted mothers.
Her father, usually quiet, began photographing. Documenting the program's children. Creating albums for families.
"Why are you doing this?" Zara asked.
"Because every life deserves to be remembered. Even if short."
They worked together, a family united by purpose.
That night, over dinner, her mother asked: "Zara, do you have regrets?"
"About what?"
"About not getting married. Not having your own children."
Zara thought. "Sometimes. But then I look at these families. All these children. And I realize—they're my children too. Every one of them."
"You're a good mother," her mother said gently.
"To the world," her father added.
Zara cried. "Thank you. For understanding. For being here."
"Where else would we go? You're our daughter. Our heart."
Epilogue of Chapter Nine
August ended with the last days of summer.
The heat began to ease. Nights grew cooler. Autumn approached.
And with it, the realization: only three months remained.
Ninety days.
A quarter of a year between now and the end.
The world continued living. But differently. Slower. Quieter. More intentionally.
People knew: each day was more precious than the last. Each sunset might be one of the last ninety. Each "I love you" might be one of the last few thousand.
Calendars became simultaneously meaningless and vital. Dates didn't matter—there were no future appointments, plans, obligations. But they also mattered completely—only ninety squares between now and emptiness.
The seven people closed August transformed beyond recognition.
Hiroshi dying faster than cancer—recording videos for grandchildren, accepting near death, family made last outing to watch sunset.
Maria celebrated Gabriel's two-month birthday, survived his illness, group of mothers promised no one would be alone at the end.
Sergei received letter from Dasha (not forgiveness, but hope), dinner with reunited family, continued helping Dmitri stay sober.
David fulfilled last wishes of dying children, boy wanted to see mother smile, Emma and Jacob asked about January, family moments deepened.
Amina reached 1,000 books in the Library, Leila asked if God was angry, Karim expanded library to entire block, French writer visited.
Adwoa completed "Letters to the Future" (10,000 letters), Last University reached 15,000 students, mother became popular teacher, Zara invited her to India in November.
Zara experienced 22 deaths and 50 births in August, SIDS broke one mother, parents moved in with her, global network in 50 countries.
Three months remained.
Ninety days.
Autumn approached. A time of cooling. Preparation. Acceptance.
Leaves would begin falling in September. The world would begin preparing for its last winter.
People would begin speaking more plainly. Loving more boldly. Forgiving more easily.
Because there was no more time for unfinished business. For unspoken words. For love not fully expressed.
Every person on the planet felt it: the acceleration of time. The compression of days. The inevitability approaching.
Some feared more. Some found greater peace.
But all—all—felt the preciousness of every moment.
Every breath.
Every heartbeat.
Every second of aliveness.
Because ahead lay only ninety days.
And then...
Then silence.
September approached with autumn's coolness and the realization of finality. The world continued spinning. Children continued being born. People continued loving.
Ninety days.