**PHOENIX: RISING FROM THE ASHES**
He trudges through the streets of a dying town, each step heavy as if fought against the weight of the world. The man is neither young nor truly old—his sharp, weary gaze drifts across abandoned buildings, searching for any trace of the life that once thrived here.
The wind howls like a mad thing, whistling through the bones of broken streetlamps and tossing litter into twisting eddies of dust. The lamp posts shudder but hold firm, stubborn—like the man himself.
He stops by a tattered poster column, as he does nearly every day. The faded playbills for shows long cancelled are achingly familiar. He doesn’t know why he looks—maybe hoping for something new, maybe just out of habit.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters into the silence.
Talking to himself is the only way to fill the quiet. A sudden clatter jolts him—a tin can rolling against a rusted bin. Something rustles inside. He tenses, stepping closer just as a lamppost crashes down behind him—right where he stood moments ago. The impact tears away layers of posters, revealing beneath them an advert for the musical *Cats*.
Stunned, he stares between the fallen post and the grinning feline faces before the noise from the bin snaps him back. He shoves aside the rubbish, peeling back grime and rags—then freezes. Amber eyes blink up at him from the mess, attached to a gaunt, bloodied, matted cat.
Without thinking, he shrugs off his coat, spreads it on the ground, and—without a second thought for the filth—scoops the creature up. Wrapped tight in the fabric, he hurries home, forgetting his usual sunset walk.
Behind him, a drone’s automated voice echoes:
*”Attention. Thirty days remain until the final evacuation shuttle departs.”*
Today, he doesn’t listen. His focus belongs to the cat. For days, he tends to it—feeding, cleaning, bandaging. Slowly, the creature brightens, its ginger fur fluffing out, its amber eyes sharpening like twin flames. One evening, as it purrs under his touch, he murmurs,
“Not fond of being alone either, eh?”
The cat rumbles agreement.
“Suppose I got used to it,” he admits.
Another night, stroking its fur, he frowns.
“What do I even call you?”
The cat blinks lazily up at him.
“Phoenix. Yeah—that fits. You’re a proper Phoenix.”
And so, it has a name.
Once Phoenix is strong again, they venture out. The town is just as dead, just as quiet—but not as empty anymore. Together, the place feels different. And that’s when the drone’s voice returns:
*”Three days remain until final evacuation.”*
Five years ago, Earth’s exodus began. The planet was dying—climate collapse, disasters, famine. Humanity gathered its remains and left for Kepler-22B. Only those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—go remained. He was one of them. No wife left, no children. Just memories. But now, there’s Phoenix. And with the cat came doubt.
On the last night, neither sleeps. Phoenix purrs incessantly, as if to drown out the man’s thoughts. At dawn, he makes his choice. A few belongings, the cat in a carrier—and they set off for the airfield.
The crowd is a patchwork of farewells: some leaving, some watching. Children, hauled aboard by government order. The last stragglers clinging to hope.
The shuttle’s hull bears a name in bold letters: *PHOENIX*. The man smirks—fate’s idea of a joke.
At security, an officer stops him.
“Open the carrier, sir.”
“That’s Phoenix. He’s a cat,” the man says.
The officer shakes his head. “Pets aren’t permitted. The genetic archive’s already been evacuated.”
“But he’s got no one. Neither do I.”
“Rules are rules,” comes the stiff reply. “The cat stays, or you do.”
The man hesitates. Inside the carrier, Phoenix presses against the mesh, sensing danger. Then—a decision.
“Alright, mate. Not meant to be.” He hoists the carrier. “Thanks anyway, officer.”
They watch the shuttle vanish into the sky. The man, hollow, feeds Phoenix scraps as dusk falls. He shoulders the carrier one last time. A final glance at the stars.
Then—a spark detaches from the satellite belt, streaking down. Minutes later, a sleek craft lands. Out steps the same officer.
“You! Good thing you’re still here. Get in—the *Phoenix* won’t wait!”
“But—the rules?” the man breathes.
“Captain’s orders. ‘The Phoenix belongs on the *Phoenix*.’ Good omen, that. And rules…” The officer grins. “Sometimes breaking ’em’s the only way to stay human.”
The craft soars upward, carrying the man and his fiery companion toward a new life—one where Phoenix rises, leading the man who once chose to stay on a dying Earth.
