PHOENIX: RISING FROM THE ASHES
He wandered the streets of the lifeless town, his steps slow, as if each movement required great effort. The man was no longer young, yet not quite old either. His gaze—sharp and weary—drifted over the abandoned buildings, as though searching for scraps of a life long lost.
The wind raced madly through the alleys, catching in the skeletons of broken lampposts, sending rubbish spiralling in dusty whirls. The lamps trembled and groaned, but stood firm—stubborn, much like the man himself.
He paused at the poster stand, as he did nearly every day. The faded playbills for shows long cancelled were painfully familiar. He didn’t even know why he looked—perhaps hoping for something new, or simply out of habit.
“Ah,” he sighed into the emptiness.
He only spoke to himself now. The sound of his own voice was the only thing that broke the silence. Then—a clatter. A tin can had struck an old bin, and from within came a faint, living rustle. The man stiffened and approached. At that moment, a lamppost crashed down behind him—right where he’d stood seconds before. The falling post grazed the stand, tearing away a layer of posters to reveal an advert beneath: *Cats,* the musical.
Dazed, he looked between the fallen post and the poster before the sound from the bin returned. He shoved aside debris and rags—then froze. Beneath the rubbish, two amber eyes stared back. They belonged to a mangy, bloodied tomcat, thin and ragged.
Without a thought, he shrugged off his coat, spread it on the ground, and scooped the wretched creature up, ignoring the filth. He wrapped the cat close and hurried home, forgetting his usual evening stroll.
Behind him, the drone’s voice echoed through the air:
“Attention. The last evacuation flight departs in thirty days…”
But today, he wasn’t listening. His focus was on the cat. For days, he tended to it—feeding, bathing, bandaging. Slowly, the animal grew stronger, its fur fluffier, its amber eyes brighter. It was like a small, fiery sun. One evening, he mused aloud:
“Don’t much like being alone, do you?”
The cat purred softly, as if in agreement.
“I’m used to it,” the man admitted with a shrug.
Another night, as he absently stroked the dozing creature, he asked, “What should I call you?”
The cat blinked lazily at him.
“Phoenix. Yes—that’s it. You’re a proper Phoenix.”
And so, the name stuck.
Once Phoenix had fully recovered, they ventured out again. The town was just empty as before—quiet, lifeless—but now, somehow, less desolate. Together, it felt different. It was on one of these walks that the drone’s voice returned:
“Final evacuation ship departs in three days.”
Five years ago, the exodus from Earth had begun. The planet was dying—climate, disasters, famine. Humanity had united, fleeing to Kepler-22B. Only those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—leave remained. He was among them. No wife, no children. Only memories. But now, there was Phoenix. And with him, doubt.
On the eve of the departure, he lay awake. So did the cat, purring through the night as if to drown out his thoughts. At dawn, resolve hardened, he packed—a few belongings, the cat in a carrier—and set off for the airfield.
The crowd was a mix: some seeing others off, some boarding. Children, forcibly evacuated by the state. Stragglers clinging to hope.
The ship that roared onto the landing pad bore a name in bold letters: *PHOENIX*. The man smiled. A sign.
At the security checkpoint, an officer stopped him.
“Open the carrier, please.”
“This is Phoenix. He’s a cat,” the man said.
The officer frowned. “Pets aren’t permitted. The genetic stockpile’s already evacuated.”
“But he… has no one. Neither do I.”
“Sorry,” came the stern reply. “It’s the cat or you.”
The man said nothing. Inside the carrier, Phoenix tensed, sensing danger. Then—the decision.
“Right then, Phoenix. Not meant to be. Let’s go home. Thank you, officer.”
They watched as the ship vanished into the sky. Hollow, the man fed the cat scraps. Dusk settled, and he slung the carrier over his shoulder. One last glance at the stars.
Then—a spark. A craft broke from the satellite belt, descending swiftly. Moments later, it landed. Out stepped the same officer.
“You! Good—you’re still here! Quickly, get aboard! *Phoenix* is waiting!”
“But… the rules?” the man breathed, stunned.
“The captain said it himself. Phoenix belongs on *Phoenix*. Good omen, that. And rules… Well—sometimes, to stay human, you’ve got to break ’em.”
The craft soared, carrying the man and his fiery companion toward a new life. A life where Phoenix had risen—and led the way for the one who’d once chosen to stay behind.
