A young man in his twenties is closing a grocery store after a five-hour shift. He changes his clothes and gets ready to leave. As he heads out, he glances at the clock.
11:42 PM.
He checks his phone and reads a text message:
"Luther, hurry up and get home, I have something to give you."
It's from his sister, Aria. He replies:
"Ok, I'll be home in around 10 minutes max."
Sent.
He puts his phone away and starts walking. Luther's work isn't far from his house—just a 10-minute walk. He already knows why Aria wants to give him something. Tomorrow is his birthday.
But Aria can't give it to him tomorrow—she has to leave in about two hours to study abroad.
As Luther walks home, he passes an old store filled with items from the '40s and '50s. He pauses, peeks through the window, and notices an antique clock inside.
11:45 PM.
He keeps moving, thinking about what he might do for his birthday.
Maybe I should ask some friends to hang out. Or maybe I'll visit the other side of the family.
Suddenly, sirens begin to wail in the distance. Instinctively, Luther pulls out his phone and texts Aria:
"Get to the nearest bomb shelter now."
Sent.
He checks the time again.
11:47 PM.
Luther starts running toward the nearest bomb shelter, anxiety clawing at his chest. He tries to make sense of what's happening.
Three months ago, his country declared war. The conflict has since been brutal—tens of thousands dead, cities reduced to rubble. Many people Luther knew had been drafted. He'd only heard from a few of them since.
Both countries are developed and armed with missiles powerful enough to level cities. The sirens mean only one thing: a missile is on its way.
He thinks about Aria as he runs.
I hope Aria's already made it to the shelter.
Their parents died in a car accident three years ago. Aria is all he has left. He's been taking care of her ever since. Now in her third year of high school, she's about to spend the summer overseas at an exchange program—a plan Luther pushed for, hoping to get her away from the war.
He glances at a bus stop as he sprints by and sees the time.
11:50 PM.
He looks up at a street sign: 350 West 3rd Street.
The shelter's at 750 West 3rd Street. If I run, I can make it in five minutes.
Five minutes later…
As he turns the corner, he sees the bomb shelter. He starts to run even faster, his fatigue gone. Just 100 feet away, a sudden flash erupts—a light so bright it rivals the sun.
He shuts his eyes to shield them.
He never opens them again.
The once-lively city, home to 25,000 people, is vaporized in seconds.
The bomb shelter—once a symbol of hope—collapses inward, killing everyone inside.
A city where kids played, dogs barked, birds sang, and families thrived… gone.
All of it erased by a single bomb.
The Atomic Bomb.
In a quiet house, three people are gathered. A woman lies on the bed, a man stands beside her, and another woman sits at the end.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Fox—it's a boy!"says the midwife with a warm smile.
"I told you it would be a boy,"says the mother proudly.
"You must have a thing for predicting the future, huh?"the father says with a laugh.
"…Weird, the baby's not crying,"the mother says, looking down as she holds the newborn.
As I start to open my eyes, I see a woman and a man. I wonder what they're doing… and why they're so big. I try to ask them.
"Wahhhh!"
What???
Why did I just cry? Why can't I speak?
I look down at my body—tiny hands, small legs.
Have I… been reincarnated?