The first omen had been silence.
Not the comforting kind—but the oppressive kind. The kind that presses on your chest and leaves your skin clammy. The cicadas had stopped singing. The birds had disappeared. Even the wind farms in the distance had ground to a near-halt, as if they, too, were afraid to move.
Then there was the heat.
At first, it had been gradual. Deceptive. Pleasantly warm, like the start of a Southern spring. But over the course of a week, it became inescapable: the mornings turned to noon, and by midday, the whole world was a kiln.
The second disaster had arrived.
She had known this moment would come.
Not in life, but in a dream that had changed everything.
Julyah had lived this before. Awhile ago, in her sleep. In a terrifyingly lucid vision she'd never been able to fully articulate. At first she'd thought it madness. A fever dream. But then, it started to come true. Every last piece of it. Every little detail. Every tragedy.
Including the heat.
But still, she hadn't known it would feel this cruel.
"Extreme Heat Disaster — Estimated Duration: Six Months."
The words had been written in her leather-bound journal, the cramped script of her own hand illuminated by a bedside lamp's sickly yellow light. She'd jotted them down as soon as she'd woken, shaking and uncertain, but something inside her had known: this was not a dream.
He had saved her in that dream.
Back then, she had been weak. Scared. Unprepared. But he had sheltered her. Guided her. Seen her through years of deterioration, starvation, and collapse.
And now, it was her turn.
She moved slowly through her villa, her skin shrouded in light, airy white cloth. Curtains were drawn at all hours of the day and night, and in every window, the dull sheen of reflective foil glinted like a sad, hopeful mirror, a desperate shield against the merciless sun. Doors were opened for a fraction of a second before she stepped through, like crossing enemy lines.
Even the shadows felt sharp.
But her actions were deliberate. Careful.
She wasn't losing her nerve.
She was ready.
And as the second wave of disaster unfurled in painstaking accordance with the prophetic dream, Julyah's belief in that night had hardened.
The sun burned the world like an admonition. Trees withered to dust. Metal expanded and blistered if left in the open for too long. Even the wind seemed to be heat-laden, like breath from a dying furnace. Animals disappeared. Rivers dried to a trickle. The sky turned pale, angry haze.
But she was prepared.
Because she had seen this too.
Long before the mercury had begun to rise, Julyah had stockpiled everything she would need to survive six months indoors.
Every morning, she cooked in the cool early hours, rice, grains, root vegetables, anything dense and nutritious. No time for luxury. Not when every drop of water and every calorie counted.
But unlike others, she did not need a root cellar or a buried bunker in her yard.
She had her mark.
The enchanted tattoo that wrapped across her wrist like an unfurling wildflower, faintly luminescent, diaphanous and impossible to remove. A gift from her parents. A curse, perhaps. But also a gift.
With a focused breath and the sweep of her fingers, she could store anything inside its petals: jars of food, purified water, cloth, batteries, weapons. She called it her Pocket Bloom.
And it had never failed her.
"Eat to survive, not for pleasure," she whispered, wiping sweat from her brow with a damp cloth as she sealed another pot of rice.
Still, she flavored it.
Being practical did not mean being inhumane to herself.
The villa's central hallway had become a makeshift cool zone.Thick wool blankets and multiple layers of rugs insulated the walls, and her solar panels, angled with uncompromising care, were only charging essential batteries: fans, one emergency lamp, and her backup radio (as yet, unresponsive).
A hydration pack had become part of her uniform. She refilled it every evening, using filtered rainwater, and drinking only what she needed.
Every last item in her survival kit had been double-, triple-checked, revised, and reorganized. Her checklist was fastidious:
*Stored Meals: 180 days' worth, vacuum-sealed
*Water: Purified, portioned, excess backup stored in bloom
*Heat-Protection Gear: Silver-lined cloak, ventilated mask, insulated boots
*Solar Fans: Strategically positioned for maximum charge
*Hydration Packs: Frozen overnight, thawed by noon
*Weapons: Rifle, knife, two energy stunners
*Emergency Shelter: Reflective tarp tent, bloom-accessible
And she trained.
Every. Single. Day.
Even as the sweat soaked through her clothes. Even as the concrete floor burned against her feet. She trained with improvised weights, took aim with her rifle, sharpened her reflexes, and stretched until her muscles trembled.
Her body needed to survive.
Her mind needed to stay strong.
Because the next time he came to her, it would not be her who stumbled.
She would be the one to protect him.
At night, she lay sprawled out on the cool tiles of the villa's inner room, whispering the same promise to the ceiling.
"Adrian… when we meet again. I'll be strong enough. I won't just survive this time. I'll save you."
The flower at her wrist glowed in the dark, soft and steady, alive, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The world was burning, yes.
But Julyah?
She was in bloom.