We are looking out through the ship’s hatch, staring silently at the nothingness that surrounds us. Even though the stars are shining somewhere outside, we can’t perceive them yet.
“It’s not the End of the World,” my husband says in a low voice beside me, trying to comfort me with empty and strangely ironic words while he holds my hand.
I look again through the hatch, feeling how my gaze turns misty by the tears forming in my eyes. Space dust reflecting the sun is all I can see that’s left from our home: it finally gave up over centuries of abuse by our own kind. We didn’t pay attention to the Planet’s warnings, and by the time we saw what was happening the damage was irreversible.
We are now on board one of the roughly eight hundred ships drifting through the oceans of stars; we are the last humans left, the ones that were able to flee the Third Planet on the last weeks before the End of Times.
A low humming breaks the spell, letting us know that the observed minute of silence has passed and the ship’s engines have resumed their function. My husband squeezes my hand gently; we are leaving the past behind as we start our voyage towards the unknown.
©2009 Santiago Casares