In June, sunlight streamed through the mottled glass windows of the orphanage's mess hall, casting skewed shadows on the chipped paint of the long tables. The air was thick with the mingled scent of cheap soy sauce and overcooked cabbage. A dozen children sat quietly at the tables, mechanically bringing food to their mouths.
Diya sat in the corner, using his chopsticks to pick up a piece of fatty pork. After a moment's hesitation, he popped it into his mouth. The oil melted on his tongue, a salty bitterness that didn't make him frown. Having lived at the Chunhui Orphanage for eighteen years, he had long since learned not to be picky about anything that could fill his stomach.
"Brother Diya, we have braised pork today!"
Afo, the little boy sitting opposite him, had eyes shining brightly, his mouth still smudged with sauce. Diya tugged at the corner of his mouth and reached out to wipe it clean for him. "Mm, eat more."
Afo was only seven this year and had been sent to the orphanage last year. His parents had died in a factory accident, and no relatives were willing to take in the burden. The first time Diya saw him, the child had been huddled in a corner like a frightened kitten, not speaking a word for three whole days.
Now, he could finally smile.
Diya transferred the meat from his own bowl into Afo's and picked up his enamel cup for a drink of water. The words "Heartfelt Donation" on the cup were so worn they were barely visible, much like most things in this old building, fading slowly under the erosion of time.
The television in the corner of the mess hall was on, broadcasting the midday news on the local channel. The anchor reported the routine content in that standard, emotionless voice – housing prices had risen again, a certain road was getting a subway line, a few thieves had been caught in a certain district.
"And now, a breaking news update," the anchor's voice suddenly changed, tinged with an imperceptible tension. "According to the National Astronomical Observatory, abnormal celestial phenomena were observed in multiple locations worldwide last night. Over forty countries, including Tibet, Xinjiang, and Qinghai in China, as well as the United States, Russia, Japan, and Australia, have reported unexplained multi-colored auroras appearing during the night."
The TV screen switched, displaying a video shot by a netizen in Tibet. In the pitch-black night sky, vast swathes of colorful light bands flowed, intertwined, and transformed like a spilled palette of paints across the firmament. These were not ordinary auroras – green and purple bands twisted together, interspersed with an indescribable golden pattern that pulsed like veins in the sky.
A few of the older children in the mess hall looked up, captivated by the image.
"Wow, it's so beautiful," whispered Xiaoyu, the girl sitting next to Diya. She was fifteen this year, the oldest child in the orphanage besides Diya.
"Is that an aurora? Can we see it in Shanghai?" someone asked.
"Don't auroras only appear at the North Pole?"
"They said multiple locations worldwide, understand? Multiple locations worldwide!"
The children chattered and discussed. On TV, the anchor continued, "The Chinese Academy of Sciences has urgently formed an expert group to research this phenomenon. Some scholars speculate it may be related to abnormal solar activity. However, other experts state that the cause of this celestial event cannot currently be explained, and its spectral characteristics do not match any known natural phenomena."
The screen then cut to a NASA press conference in the United States. A white-haired man with glasses spoke into a microphone, his words overlaid with simultaneous translation: "...This is a phenomenon we have never observed before. Spectral analysis indicates that the energy contained within these lights far exceeds that of conventional auroras... No, this is not caused by a solar storm... We need more time to study this..."
Diya put down his chopsticks, staring at the TV screen, his brow furrowed slightly.
He couldn't explain why, but the flowing bands of light in the sky stirred a strange sensation within him. It was as if—as if he had seen it somewhere before. The thought came without reason but stubbornly lodged itself in his mind.
"Brother Diya, aren't you eating anymore?" Afo tugged at his sleeve.
"Mm, I'm full," Diya withdrew his gaze and ruffled Afo's hair. "You eat slowly, don't rush."
He took his tray to the collection area. As he passed through the corridor, he glanced at the TV in the mess hall again. The screen had switched back to the studio, where the anchor was interviewing a meteorologist. The expert spoke a lot of technical jargon – magnetosphere disturbance, ionospheric reflection, solar wind particles – but ultimately concluded with one sentence: "The cause is currently unknown."
There was a mirror on the corridor wall. Diya caught a glimpse of himself as he walked past.
He was about 1.78 meters tall, rather thin, wearing a faded school uniform. His black hair was a bit long, falling to cover half his forehead. His features weren't particularly handsome, but his profile was clear, especially his eyes – their color was very deep, like two bottomless pools.
Sometimes the volunteer aunties at the orphanage would say he looked like a certain celebrity. He would just smile and not respond.
Turning left at the end of the corridor led to the third floor, his room. It was more of a converted storage room, about six square meters, just enough space for a single bed, a folding desk, and a small bookshelf. The books on the shelf were all ones he'd found at old book stalls – physics, mathematics, philosophy, novels, all sorts, crammed together haphazardly.
Diya sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out a copy of "A Brief History of Time" from under his pillow, flipping to where he had stopped reading.
Hawking said the universe exploded from a singularity.
That singularity contained all of time and space, all matter and energy. Then, with a "bang," it exploded, creating galaxies, stars, planets, Earth, and life, and him, sitting in a small room in a Shanghai orphanage, reading a book.
Diya sometimes wondered, what was the universe like before the singularity exploded? What existed in that place without time or space?
Every time he thought about this question, his temples would throb faintly, as if something were knocking inside.
He put down the book and rubbed his temples.
The sky outside was darkening, the clouds thick, obscuring the sun. Distant thunder rumbled, and the air became humid and heavy. It was going to rain.
His phone vibrated, a message from the class group chat.
"Classmates, please note that physics class tomorrow has been moved to the afternoon. The teacher needs to attend an emergency meeting."
"What meeting?"
"Don't know, seems related to the recent celestial phenomena."
"Holy crap, is it the end of the world, hahaha."
"Shut up."
Diya tossed his phone onto the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling.
There was a crack in the ceiling, there since last year, growing longer and longer, like a winding river. Sometimes he would stare at the crack, imagining water flowing down it, forming a river in his room, and then he could drift away on the water, far, far away.
Where would he drift to?
He didn't know.
He only knew he didn't want to spend his whole life in this old building. Not out of dislike, but simply... it was too small. The walls were too small, the windows too small, and the sky too small. He wanted to see a bigger world, wanted to know where he came from, wanted to figure out those questions that kept him tossing and turning at night.
Like, why was he abandoned at the orphanage doorstep.
The director had told him that on a winter day eighteen years ago, someone had found a basket at the door, with him swaddled inside. There was no note, nothing to identify him. Just him, sleeping peacefully, neither crying nor fussing.
Eighteen years. No one had come looking for him.
Diya closed his eyes, pushing away the jumbled thoughts. The thunder outside grew closer, and raindrops began to patter against the glass.
He suddenly remembered the colorful light bands flowing in the night sky from the TV earlier.
Why did those lights make him feel like he'd seen them before?
His phone vibrated again. He picked it up to check. It was a message from Xiaoyu in the next room.
"Brother Diya, did you see the news? It's so strange, I just feel like those lights are not right."
"How are they not right?"
"I can't explain it... It's just, when I look at those lights, my heart beats so fast, like something is calling me."
Diya stared at the screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Something was calling her.
He felt it too. That tremor wasn't an illusion; it was real. It was as if—as if something inside his body was responding to those lights.
"Don't think too much about it," he typed in reply. "Get to sleep early."
"Okay, goodnight Brother Diya."
"Goodnight."
He placed his phone by his pillow and turned to look out the window.
The rain had intensified, blurring everything outside the glass. The distant neon lights became fuzzy halos in the rain, red, green, purple.
The sound of the rain gradually merged into a single, ancient, low chant.
Diya closed his eyes, his consciousness slowly fading. In the last moment before falling asleep, he felt something stir deep within his body – very light, very faint, like a seed turning over in frozen soil.
Then, he knew nothing more.
Outside the window, behind the thick clouds, those multi-colored light bands were flowing, spreading, and weaving in ways incomprehensible to humans. They pierced the atmosphere, the ionosphere, the magnetosphere, all the way down, seeping into the earth, into the oceans, into every inch of air.
Seeping into every sleeping, awake, living organism.
June 15, 2030. Humanity's civilization entered its final day of countdown.
No one knew.