I felt the last echo of Sera's warmth fade as I returned to my room. Only then did I spare a thought for the details of my return.
2:49 PM, 22/12/25.
Trusting the fragments of my fractured memory, I had less than ten days left. The New Year of 2026 was meant to be the globe's happiest day, a reason for naive celebration. For me, it was the final, hard stop. My deadline.
I stared at the calendar on the wall. The dates were neat little squares, cold and meaningless, except for one: 01/01/26. That was the only reality I could afford.
At the desk, the pen felt heavier than the simple task of writing demanded, as if every stroke carried the full weight of my shattered past. I flipped the notebook open and, on the first page, in uneven letters, inscribed the foundation of the coming days:
"The Ten-Day Protocol."
I began the list, blending memory with mandate:
Reclaim Memory: The past remains vivid, yet critical details blur at the edges. I can't afford to rely on guesswork; I must sort the facts that kill from the fiction that betrays.
Sharpen the Blade: Training. Not just in body and awareness, but in building my mental cage. If I let complacency dull my senses, the cost will be catastrophic, just as it was before.
Protect Sera: Her smile is fragile glass; one crack, and everything shatters again. She doesn't need to know the terror approaching—the less she worries, the safer the sanctuary I build for her remains.
Expect Deviation: Even if my memories guide me, the future has ways of shifting when a consciousness like mine observes it. I must prepare for the unexpected consequence.
Acquire Resources: Hunger took hundreds of thousands of lives later in the apocalypse. I refuse to suffer that fate again. Food, medicine, tools. Survival must be ensured at the cellular level.
The list felt impossibly large. Each line deserved ten days of preparation on its own, yet I had fewer than that for the whole.
I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, pushing the raw, unfamiliar pain of my returned youth down. Outside, faint traces of Christmas carolers echoed down the street, their cheer carried on the cold wind. They sang of peace. I shook the thought away.
I didn't have time for the world's ignorance.
I opened the notebook and drew a second column beside the tasks, detailing what must be acquired before the end of day ten: a survival knife (vital), geography of the immediate region (crucial), transport, and durable clothing. Each necessity was etched onto the page before the ink had even dried. My hand didn't tremble. It couldn't. Not when hesitation was just another form of failure.
I turned on the television. The End, as it was later named, was approaching on such a scale that its precursors were impossible to hide.
The news anchor was talking over a blurry live feed. Reports of mass bird deaths were flooding coastal cities in Japan, and a scientist was attempting to explain the phenomenon as "seasonal avian influenza," while ignoring the increasingly erratic weather patterns. Other global headlines scrolled rapidly below: Unexplained electrical storms over the Siberian tundra. Rivers running strangely crimson in isolated parts of the world. Global experts remain baffled.
They can afford to think in terms of weeks and months, finding comfort in their scientific lies. The rest of the world dreams of tomorrow.
For me, tomorrow is the first day of the end.