PHOENIX: RISING FROM THE ASHES
He wandered through the streets of the dead city, slowly, as if each step took immense effort. The man was no longer young, but not yet old. His gaze—sharp, alive, but weary—drifted over the hollow buildings, as if searching for traces of the life that had vanished.
The wind howled madly through the alleys, rattling the skeletons of broken lampposts, lifting litter from the ground and spinning it in dusty spirals. The lampposts trembled, creaked, but stood firm—stubborn, just like the man himself.
He paused by a faded poster column, as he did nearly every day. The peeling advertisements for long-canceled plays were achingly familiar. He didn’t even know why he looked—maybe hoping to see something new, maybe just out of habit.
“Blimey,” he muttered into the emptiness.
These days, he only spoke to himself. A living voice, however faint, was the only thing that stirred the silence. Suddenly, a loud clatter—a tin can struck an old bin, and from within came a strange, skittering sound. The man tensed and stepped closer. At that moment, a lamppost collapsed—right where he’d been standing seconds before. The falling post scraped against the column, peeling away a layer of posters to reveal an advertisement for the musical *Cats*.
Stunned, he glanced between the fallen post and the image of the felines until the noise from the bin returned. He shoved aside debris, plastic, rags—and froze. Beneath it all, a pair of amber eyes stared back. A scrawny, bloodied, mangled cat lay there.
Without thinking, he stripped off his coat, spread it on the ground, and hauled the wretched creature free, bundling it close as he hurried home, forgetting his usual twilight stroll.
Behind him, the drone’s voice crackled through the air:
*”Attention. Thirty days remain until the final evacuation transport departs…”*
But today, he wasn’t listening. His focus was on the cat. For days, he nursed it—feeding, washing, bandaging. With each sunrise, the animal grew more vibrant, its fur fluffier, its amber eyes brighter. A ginger blaze, like a tiny sun. Once, the man mused aloud:
“Don’t much care for being alone either, eh?”
The cat purred softly in reply.
“I’ve grown used to it,” the man shrugged.
One evening, as he absentmindedly stroked the cat, he murmured,
“What should I call you?”
The cat blinked lazily up at him.
“Phoenix. Aye, that’s it—you’re a proper Phoenix.”
So the name stuck.
When Phoenix had fully recovered, they ventured out again. The city was still dead, still silent—but no longer empty. Together, it felt different. And that was when the drone’s voice echoed once more:
*”Three days remain until the final evacuation ship departs.”*
Five years ago, Earth’s exodus had begun. The planet was dying—storms, famine, collapse. Humanity had united and fled to Kepler-22b. Only those who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave remained. He was among them. No wife left, no children. Just memories. But now there was Phoenix. And with the cat came doubt.
The night before the departure, neither slept. Phoenix purred ceaselessly, as if trying to drown out the man’s thoughts. At dawn, resolved, he packed what little he had, tucked the cat into a carrier, and set off for the airfield.
The crowd was a motley mix—those leaving, those left behind. Children, evacuated by force. Those clinging to hope.
The ship that roared onto the tarmac bore bold lettering along its hull: *PHOENIX*. The man smiled. A sign.
At the checkpoint, an officer stopped him.
“Open the carrier, please.”
“It’s Phoenix. He’s a cat,” the man said.
The officer frowned.
“Pets aren’t permitted. Genetic reserves were already relocated.”
“But he’s got… no one. Neither do I.”
“Sorry,” came the stern reply. “The cat stays, or you do.”
The man was silent. Inside the carrier, Phoenix bristled, eyes darting, sensing danger. Then—a decision.
“Alright, then, Phoenix. Not meant to be. Let’s go home. Cheers, officer.”
They watched as the ship vanished into the sky. The man, hollow, fed the cat. Dusk settled over the land. He stood, slung the carrier over his shoulder. One last look at the stars.
Then—a spark. A streak breaking free from the satellite belt, descending fast. Minutes later, a smooth landing. Out stepped… the same officer.
“You! Thank God you’re still here! Get in the shuttle! *Phoenix* is waiting!”
“But… the rules?” the man breathed, stunned.
“The captain said: Phoenix belongs on *Phoenix*. It’s a good omen. And rules… Sometimes, to stay human, you’ve got to break them.”
The shuttle soared upward, carrying the man and his fiery companion toward a new life. A life where Phoenix had risen—and led the one who’d once chosen to stay on a dying Earth into the unknown.
