Outside the villa, the world cracked and crumbled under the sun's relentless weight. Pavement blistered. Power lines drooped like melted wax. In the city center, metal signage curled inward, buildings shimmered like mirages, and the scent of scorched rubber and plastic clung to the wind. Toronto was no longer a city, it was a sunburnt skeleton, bleached and brittle.
And still, Julyah endured.
She no longer flinched at the sight of destruction. Her heart, once soft and easily shaken, had learned a new rhythm, measured, steady, unyielding. She was emotionally tougher now. The fear was still there, buried deep like roots under cracked soil, but it no longer dictated her movements.
She had become a quiet force.
Kind, still. Soft-spoken, always. But no longer fragile.
The greenhouse behind the villa had become her sanctuary.
The structure, reinforced with layers of UV-reflective mesh and temperature-controlling wards, stood like a miracle in the barren backyard. While the earth outside sizzled and died, within those glass walls, rows of hardy vegetables pushed through soil with stubborn green will: squash, peppers, amaranth, drought-resistant tomatoes.
Julyah moved between the rows in silence, misting the leaves with precious filtered water and adjusting the shade netting with precise care. She hummed softly as she worked, not for herself, but for the plants. They deserved gentleness too.
She knew exactly which ones were growing well, which had pests, which had struggled through the worst of the sun. They were hers, her responsibility, her hope. She whispered to them sometimes, sharing encouragement like little secrets:
"Three more inches, and you'll make it into dinner."
"You held on today. That's brave."
Even her harvest was stored with intention.
Nothing wasted. Every misshapen tomato and twisted root was cleaned, dried, or sealed in her enchanted bloom tattoo, its faint, petal-like glow pulsing warmly whenever she added something new.
Inside the villa, she studied survival manuals like scripture.
They were old, printed books scavenged during her early months of searching. She'd stored them in waterproof sleeves and stacked them high in the reading corner, next to a solar-charged lamp and her father's blanket.
Titles like Desert Survival for Urban Dwellers, Off-Grid Preservation Techniques, and Herbal Remedies in Heatstroke Conditions lined her personal curriculum. She annotated them heavily, pages curled from both use and sweat.
Each night, she'd cross-reference notes and update her magical storage.
The bloom had become more than just a tool, it was her lifeline, her sanctuary. She organized it obsessively now, sorting everything by type and emergency level.
Section 1: Ready-to-eat meals and protein packs Section 2: Water purification, filter kits, electrolyte powders Section 3: Cooling and protective gear, spare gloves Section 4: Field tools—shovels, knives, stun-guns, duct tape Section 5: Books, old photographs, one tiny music player with three songs stored inside
But despite her careful routine, there were moments that forced her out, moments when the villa's protective wards couldn't bring back a downed solar panel, or when a forgotten signal flare had to be recovered from the emergency shed by the fence line.
Today was one of those days.
Wrapped in a heat-reflective cloak and armed with her pulse knife, Julyah stepped outside the cool interior of the villa. Instantly, her skin prickled. The sun wasn't just hot, it was hostile. The air shimmered like oil over flame.
Her boots crunched on what used to be grass. Now, it was brittle ash.
The few trees that still stood were skeletal, stripped of bark and leaves. A squirrel carcass lay crumpled beside the fence, fur singed. She didn't look away. She simply muttered, "I'm sorry," and walked on.
The shed wasn't far, but every step was an effort. The filtered mask over her face grew damp with sweat in seconds. Even with her cooling gear, her limbs felt heavy, her breathing slow.
When she finally reached the shed, the metal door was warped from the sun's intensity. She used her pulse knife to pry it open, retrieved the flare, and double-checked the emergency ration box inside. Still intact.
She took one last look over the perimeter, the landscape like a painting melted in an oven.
Nothing stirred. Not even birds.
A silence that wasn't peaceful—but posthumous.
As she turned to go, she whispered to herself:
"Six months. We've survived worse."