What in the hell is happening?! The meteors came at us one after another, smashing into homes, igniting forests, and driving people into a panicked frenzy. Screams echoed over the sound of destruction as chaos unfolded around us. I sat strapped into the backseat, gripping the seatbelt like it was my last lifeline, while mt friend Adam's Mom drove frantically toward the outskirts of the city. Beside her, my Dad stared out the passenger window, his eyes fixed on the woods like he was searching for something—something he knew was there but hadn't yet found.
The sky was a surreal blend of red, black, and orange, churning like an inferno. Thick smoke hung in the air, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Day and night blurred together until they were meaningless. All I knew was that Dad's urgency was growing. Whatever he was looking for, it was getting harder to ignore the desperation etched across his face.
We finally reached a clearing, lit up by headlights from dozens of cars and dominated by the colossal silhouette of a craft. It looked similar to the ones the elders used for council meetings but was much larger, towering over the frantic crowd. At least a thousand people surged toward its entrance, but most were stopped by two imposing, nearly translucent beings who stood guard, their presence both mesmerizing and terrifying.
"Daddy!" I cried out, fighting against the invisible force pulling me back. My arms stretched toward him, but it felt like someone had wrapped invisible hands around my waist, yanking me away. I twisted and clawed at the air, desperate to stay close to him. Then, in an instant, I was no longer in the chaos of the clearing. I found myself inside the ship, standing frozen in its entranceway.
The moment I stepped onto the craft, its vastness struck me. It was enormous—almost incomprehensible in its scale. A soft, bluish-green glow bathed everything around me, radiating a warmth that felt oddly inviting. The ramp beneath my feet was smooth and cool, and as I moved, it felt like I was gliding rather than walking. It was as though the ship itself was embracing us, a stark contrast to the destruction we had just escaped. The low, steady hum that filled the air was strangely calming, almost hypnotic, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the screams and the fire outside.
I barely registered the murmur of others nearby, people who had also been brought onboard. Their voices were distant, muffled—just background noise compared to the overwhelming sensation of the ship's presence. It wasn't just a machine. It felt alive.
Once we were all safely aboard, the travelers gestured silently toward a row of plush chairs, their meaning clear without a single word. We hesitated for only a moment before easing ourselves into the seats. They moved with a deliberate gentleness, taking the small animals we had somehow saved—though I couldn't quite remember how—from our arms. The creatures were placed carefully into spacious steel enclosures lined with straw, and equipped with bowls of water and food. The travelers worked swiftly, their efficiency leaving little room for questions. Then, as if on cue, they disappeared into another section of the ship, leaving us to ourselves.
The vessel stirred beneath us, a subtle vibration signaling our imminent departure. A hush fell over the group. We settled into the comforting embrace of the chairs, a curious calm settling over each of us. It was as if the ship itself urged us to let go of the chaos we'd just endured. For a fleeting moment, I almost did.
Then it hit me: Dad wasn't here. Neither was Adam's mom. My heart dropped into a hollow pit. I scanned the faces around me, hoping, praying, to see them. All I found were people—strangers, really—mostly my age, give or take a few years. Maybe twenty adults stood out among the group, but their faces bore the same bewildered expressions as the rest of us.
And the animals—how had we even gotten them here? My memory was a blank slate, no matter how hard I tried to piece it together. The haze of confusion only deepened as I stared at their tiny forms, so calm in their steel enclosures, as if none of this was strange at all.
The interior of the ship was unsettlingly seamless—no windows, no way to glimpse the outside world. Instead, medium-sized screens lined one wall, a soft glow emanating from their dormant surfaces. Then, one by one, they flickered to life. We gasped as the screens displayed images of our solar system, focusing on Nepanas. The familiar sight of our planet slowly diminished, shrinking to a speck in the vastness of space. For a moment, everything was still. The beauty, the fragility of it all, brought an ache to my chest. It was the last time we would see our home this way.
And then, as if the universe conspired to remind us of its indifference, a burst of light erupted from the sun. The screens displayed the moment with unforgiving clarity. In an instant, our planet—the places we loved, the memories we clung to—was obliterated. Gone.
A stunned silence filled the ship, each of us struggling to comprehend the magnitude of what we'd just witnessed. Our entire world, everything that had defined our existence, had vanished. And all we could do was sit there, trapped in this surreal and unbearable reality.
One by one, the six planets faced the same unimaginable fate—they vanished. Entire worlds reduced to nothing, as if they had never existed. I caught glimpses on the ship's screens of massive vessels leaving the other planets, just like ours, though the sight brought little comfort.
A gasp escaped my lips, and before I could stop them, hot tears streamed down my cheeks. My mind conjured vivid, terrible images of my friends and family—of their faces frozen in terror, of the screams that must have echoed in their final moments. My chest tightened with a grief so sharp it was almost physical.
Lilith, an elder seated beside me, seemed to sense the storm within me. She leaned over and wrapped me in an embrace that felt as ancient as it was comforting. Her presence, calm and composed, was like a fragile bridge over a sea of chaos. "It's going to be all right," she whispered, her voice steady and low, the kind that you couldn't help but believe. She assured both Adam and me that the inhabitants of Nepanas had felt no pain. The end, as unfathomable as it was, had been swift—merciful.
"We were chosen," she said, her words soft but firm, a strange mix of consolation and resolve. "We were saved for a reason. We must focus on that. This is an opportunity—a chance to begin again, to create something better." Her words clung to me, though they could not erase the unbearable weight of what we had lost.
The air on the ship was heavy with sorrow, a quiet grief that lingered in every breath. Yet beneath it all was the faintest flicker of something unexpected—hope. We were now pioneers, torn from the ashes of our former world and cast into the unknown. The ship became our sanctuary, shielding us from the cold vastness of space, a cocoon wrapping us tightly as it carried us toward a future we couldn't yet imagine.
We had no choice but to trust the travelers—those strange, enigmatic beings who had orchestrated our salvation. They held all the answers, though they spoke none. And so we sat, bound together by loss and uncertainty, hurtling toward a destination that would define the rest of our lives.
As we embarked on this odyssey through the cosmos, questions swirled in our minds like the distant stars outside. What lay ahead in this vast, uncharted realm? What challenges would we face? What triumphs might we discover on this blank canvas, waiting to be painted with the colors of a new life? Our hearts clung fiercely to the memories of Nepanas—the laughter, the camaraderie, the vibrant tapestry of life that had been torn apart in an instant. Yet, even in the shadow of such immense loss, hope endured. It whispered to us, urging us to embrace the boundless possibilities of what lay ahead.
With each moment, the ship carried us farther from the remnants of our past. It hurtled through the endless void, propelling us toward a future unknown. We were nothing more than specks in the infinite vastness of the cosmos. And yet, we were united by something far greater: the indomitable spirit of humanity. Together, we would forge a path forward, navigating through uncharted territories and weaving a new tapestry of life from the ashes of our old one. The ship, our sanctuary, cradled within its walls the fragile seeds of a new beginning—a symphony of dreams, fears, and aspirations waiting to take root in this unexplored frontier.
Anticipation simmered in the air. One by one, we rose from our seats as the travelers motioned us toward a door. Their movements were unhurried yet deliberate, as though they knew exactly what awaited us on the other side. The atmosphere felt electric, a palpable energy humming around us. We couldn't help but feel as if we were on the brink of something extraordinary.
The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a vast and illuminated space beyond. For a moment, the air caught in my throat as my eyes widened in awe. The room before us was larger than anything I had ever seen, its scale both overwhelming and mesmerizing. Whatever awaited us here felt like the beginning of a story yet to be written—our story.
Before us stretched a spacious room, its design both practical and inviting. Long tables and rows of chairs filled the space, while a fully equipped kitchen gleamed in one corner—an unexpected sanctuary in the midst of our extraordinary journey. The sight of it, so ordinary yet so surreal given our circumstances, made me feel both comforted and disoriented.
The taller of the two travelers, Odin, approached a glowing screen mounted on the far wall. With a few deliberate movements, he brought it to life. Words appeared, forming subtitles, while a voice resonated throughout the room, enveloping us in a rich, surround sound experience.
The voice introduced itself as Adonai, the benevolent protector of humanity, alongside his brother, Odin. The revelation left us speechless. These beings, standing before us so silently and enigmatically until now, revealed their ancient role: they had safeguarded our species for billions of years. The very ship we now stood in had served as their eternal sanctuary, a vessel of salvation for countless generations.
Adonai's voice softened, acknowledging the fear and uncertainty that gripped us. He reassured us that every effort would be made to ensure our voyage was not only safe but as comfortable as possible. His tone carried a strange, calming weight, like a hand resting gently on a shoulder.
As the words settled, the full weight of the tragedy bore down on us. Adonai confirmed what we had already begun to suspect—five other planets had met the same fate as ours. Their destruction had been swift and total. Yet, amidst the devastation, his words carried a flicker of hope. Their fellow travelers had acted quickly, rescuing one hundred humans and a number of animals from each doomed world. Among them were the lion cubs we had somehow carried with us—a memory I still couldn't fully grasp.
Our destination was Earth, a viable planet within the Milky Way galaxy. It was to be our new home, a place to rebuild. The weight of the revelation hung heavy in the air, an uneasy mix of trepidation and hope. Could we really start over, after everything we had lost?
Adonai explained that the journey to Earth spanned five light-years—a distance that seemed incomprehensible. To preserve resources and ensure our well-being, we would be placed in cryogenic sleep for two years. While in this frozen state, we would receive subliminal messaging, knowledge imparted to us even as we slept. Upon awakening, Adonai promised that we would be guided, educated, and prepared for the new life awaiting us on Earth—a blank canvas ready to be painted with the dreams and determination of our fractured yet resilient group.
The room was quiet as we absorbed the enormity of what had just been shared. The travelers spoke no further, leaving us to wrestle with a thousand questions that had no immediate answers. This was our reality now, an odyssey that none of us had chosen but that we had no choice but to embrace.
Adonai, sensing the enormity of what we were experiencing, assured us that the process of entering cryogenic sleep would not begin immediately. We had a few days to adjust—to absorb the gravity of what was happening and to make peace, if we could, with the reality of leaving everything we had ever known behind. In the meantime, they invited us to partake in the nourishment and refreshments laid out before us, a gesture of kindness that felt strangely human amidst the uncertainty surrounding us.
With calm precision, Adonai and Odin informed us of their next steps. They would attend to the chambers, ensuring every detail was prepared for our journey. Then, as quietly as they had appeared, they departed, leaving us alone with our thoughts. The room, so vast and well-lit, now felt smaller somehow—a cocoon sheltering us as we prepared for the extraordinary odyssey ahead.
We approached the tables, and the comforting aroma of food beckoned us, a quiet anchor in an otherwise overwhelming reality. Each bite and sip were a moment to pause, a fleeting connection to something familiar in the midst of the unknown. But even as we tried to focus on the meal before us, our thoughts inevitably returned to the fate of Nepanas. My mind reeled with images of the world we had lost, the faces left behind, and the unimaginable void that now existed where our home once had been.
The room thrummed with a quiet symphony of emotions—apprehension, excitement, sorrow, and fragile hope. These feelings blended into something almost tangible, a shared understanding between us, though no words were exchanged.
I couldn't help but feel grateful for this ship—this sanctuary—that carried us through the void. It was both a symbol of salvation and a harbinger of the unknown. It reminded us, in every moment, that while our past was gone, a new story waited to be written. And with every passing moment, we edged closer to it.
In just a few days, our bodies would surrender to a temporary slumber, our consciousness slipping into the vast expanse of space as we made our way toward our new haven—Earth. Until then, we were given the gift of time—time to savor these fleeting moments of camaraderie, to find comfort in the company of fellow travelers, and to brace ourselves for the immense responsibility ahead. Together, we would shape the destiny of a nascent world.
As I settled into our newfound space aboard the ship, a surprising sense of relief began to take root. Amidst all the unknowns, one discovery filled me with unexpected gratitude: communication with our new companions was entirely possible, thanks to the seamless integration of electronics and sound. This revelation eased one of my quiet fears—the worry that language barriers might leave us feeling isolated. Instead, it was a blessing, a small but significant bridge connecting us.
This discovery came at just the right moment, as another pressing concern suddenly overwhelmed me—I needed to find a bathroom. Badly. Sensing my discomfort, Adonai, ever attuned to our needs, stepped forward and motioned for me to follow. He guided me to a room that left me stunned in its familiarity. It was a cozy bedroom, complete with a bathroom that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one I'd had back on Nepanas. Every detail—every curve of the sink, every tile of the floor—felt like a whisper from home.
Grateful for the comfort, I hastily made my way inside, my immediate needs pushing all other thoughts aside. The moment of relief was overwhelming, but as soon as the urgency faded, another wave crashed over me—homesickness. Tears spilled down my cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. The weight of everything we had left behind bore down on me with a force I wasn't prepared for. My family, my friends, even the small, seemingly insignificant routines of daily life—I missed it all so deeply it ached.
I wiped my tears, trying to pull myself together. I was grateful—grateful for our new friends, for this extraordinary opportunity to start anew. But no matter how much hope flickered in the distance, the longing for what was lost remained, an undeniable part of me. It was a reminder that while we were hurtling toward the future, pieces of the past would always linger within us.
The bittersweet realization that I had bid them farewell forever clung to me, tugging relentlessly at my heartstrings. The faces of those I loved, now lost to a world that no longer existed, haunted the edges of my thoughts. Yet, in the midst of my grief, I found a small solace in the knowledge that soon, sleep would take me. For the next two years, I would drift through the depths of space, free from the weight of my emotions—at least for a time. I could only hope that the slumber would bring true rest and not be haunted by fragments of dreams from the life I had left behind.
Wiping my tears away, I made my way back to the kitchen area. There, I saw Lilith seated at one of the long tables, engrossed in a salad piled high with colorful greens and vegetables. The sight struck me as peculiar—choosing such a healthy meal on the eve of a two-year sleep. Curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't resist asking her why she had opted for such a choice when indulgence seemed far more tempting.
Her response caught me off guard. She laughed, the sound light and full of life, and admitted that she wasn't sure why herself. "But everything on this ship," she said, pausing to savor a bite, "tastes a thousand times better than anything I've ever eaten. It's like the food belongs to a whole different world." The sparkle in her eyes as she spoke was undeniable—a testament to the wonders of this strange, new existence we had been thrust into.
Nearby, Adam was making no effort to deny himself. He sat at a table with a massive slice of chocolate cake in one hand and a can of soda in the other, wolfing it down like it might disappear at any second. I teased him for his indulgence, but his only reply was a muffled laugh, his mouth too full to form words. His carefree demeanor, even in the midst of such overwhelming change, was strangely comforting. For a moment, I envied his ability to embrace the moment with such ease.
Drawn by the need for a familiar comfort, I opened the refrigerator and was delighted to find exactly what I needed—a cheeseburger and fries, perfectly prepared and ready to eat. It was as though the ship had anticipated my craving, offering me a piece of home when I needed it most. I placed the plate on the table and cracked open a can of soda, settling into my seat as if I could somehow find solace in this simple act.
Each bite carried a complex mix of emotions—nostalgia for what I'd lost, gratitude for what I still had, and a faint glimmer of excitement for what lay ahead. Around me, the quiet hum of conversation filled the air as the others ate, their voices blending into a gentle rhythm that eased the tension in the room. For the first time since this odyssey began, I felt a sense of camaraderie blossoming between us. It wasn't just the food or the safety of the ship—it was the shared understanding that bound us as fellow travelers, navigating this uncharted realm together.
As I took a bite of the cold cheeseburger, I couldn't ignore Lilith's lingering look of disapproval. Her expression of mild disgust was almost comical, yet it stung enough to make me feel a flicker of self-consciousness. Her questioning gaze nudged me to explain, even if I wasn't entirely sure I needed to.
"Well, I actually prefer my food cold if it's already prepared like this," I admitted with a sheepish shrug. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was easier than confessing my real reason—I had no idea how to use the advanced appliances on the ship. The glowing panels, smooth surfaces, and complete lack of buttons made them look more like works of art than something you'd cook with. I didn't want to risk fumbling around in front of my new companions and looking foolish.
The truth was, cooking had never been part of my life. Both of my parents had worked long, demanding hours for years, tirelessly committed to their careers. It wasn't their fault—they loved me dearly, but with no one around to guide me, I'd never learned my way around a kitchen. Dinner on most nights was food delivered to our doorstep, thoughtfully ordered by whichever parent managed to find time between meetings. Even in their absence, their love for me shone brightly through these small yet meaningful acts.
I smiled faintly as a specific memory surfaced—a moment that perfectly captured their affection. One evening, both of my parents had ended up working late, each unaware that the other wouldn't make it home in time. I was sitting alone when the doorbell rang, and I opened the door to find a delivery driver holding a bag with my favorite meal: a cheeseburger, fries, soda, and an apple pie. I thanked him, set the food on the kitchen table, and barely had time to take a bite before the doorbell rang again. A second driver stood there, holding an identical bag.
I couldn't help but laugh at their unintentional synchronicity. It was such a simple thing, but it spoke volumes about how much they cared, even when life pulled them in opposite directions. That memory brought a swell of warmth, mixed with a deep ache of longing for their familiar presence. I missed them—their voices, their reassurances, their unique way of making me feel safe.
As I sat there, finishing the cold cheeseburger that now felt like a quiet homage to the past, a wave of emotion washed over me. The ship's surroundings—the alien technology, the muted hum of its systems, and the strange, awe-inspiring world I'd been thrust into—both fascinated and unsettled me. The companionship of my new friends provided comfort, but it wasn't enough to fully dull the ache for the life I'd left behind.
Each bite was laced with nostalgia, a bittersweet reminder of what I had lost. The warmth of home—the laughter, the shared moments, even the small, unspoken gestures—was now nothing more than a cherished memory. Yet, even in the midst of my longing, a glimmer of gratitude remained. I knew I'd carry these memories with me, holding onto them as an anchor in the uncharted journey ahead.