PHOENIX: RISING FROM THE ASHES
I wandered through the streets of the lifeless city, each step heavy, as if movement itself had become a burden. I was no longer young, but old age still felt distant. My gaze—sharp yet weary—drifted over the hollow buildings, searching for traces of the life that once thrived here.
The wind howled like a madman, rattling the skeletons of broken streetlamps, whipping up rubbish into swirling dust devils. The lamps creaked and trembled, but they stood firm—stubborn, just like me.
I stopped at the old billboard, as I did nearly every day. The faded posters for long-cancelled theatre shows were painfully familiar. I didn’t even know why I looked—maybe hoping for something new, maybe just out of habit.
“Ah,” I sighed into the emptiness.
These days, my only conversations were with myself. A voice—any voice—helped break the silence. Then, a clatter—a tin can clanging against a rusted bin. A strange, skittering noise came from inside. I tensed and moved closer. At that moment, a lamppost crashed down—right where I’d stood seconds before. The impact tore away layers of posters, revealing an old advert for *Cats* the musical.
Dazed, I stared at the fallen post, then at the poster, until the sound from the bin drew me back. I shoved aside debris, wrappers, and rags—and froze. Amber eyes stared up at me from beneath the rubbish. They belonged to a scrawny, battered, blood-streaked cat.
Without thinking, I shrugged off my coat, spread it on the ground, and lifted the pitiful creature free, cradling it against my chest. I hurried home, forgetting my usual evening walk.
Behind me, the drone’s voice crackled on the air:
“Attention. Thirty days remain until the final evacuation flight…”
But today, I wasn’t listening. My focus was on the cat. I nursed it for days—feeding, washing, bandaging its wounds. It grew stronger, its fur fluffier, its amber eyes brighter, until it looked like a little sun. One evening, I muttered aloud:
“Not fond of solitude, eh?”
The cat purred, as if agreeing.
“I was used to it,” I admitted with a shrug.
Another night, as I idly stroked its fur, I asked:
“Got a name?”
The cat blinked lazily.
“Phoenix. That’s it—you’re a proper Phoenix.”
And so, it had a name.
When Phoenix fully recovered, we walked together. The city was the same—lifeless, silent—but no longer empty. With two of us, it felt different. Then, the drone’s voice returned:
“Three days remain until the final evacuation shuttle departs.”
Five years ago, Earth’s evacuation began. The planet was dying—climate collapse, disasters, famine. Humanity united and left for Kepler-22b. Only those who couldn’t or wouldn’t go remained. I was one of them. No wife, no children. Just memories. But now, there was Phoenix. And with him came doubt.
The night before departure, I lay awake. Phoenix purred beside me, as if trying to quiet my thoughts. At dawn, I made my choice—threw together a bag, tucked Phoenix inside, and set off for the airfield.
The crowd was a mix: some leaving, others watching. Children, forcibly evacuated. Those clinging to hope.
The shuttle that landed bore a name in bold letters: *PHOENIX*. I smiled—too fitting to ignore.
At security, an officer frowned.
“Open the bag, please.”
“That’s Phoenix. He’s a cat,” I said.
The officer shook his head.
“Pets aren’t permitted. The genetic archive’s already aboard.”
“But he’s got… no one. Neither have I.”
“Rules are rules,” came the reply. “The cat stays, or you do.”
I hesitated. Phoenix squirmed in the bag, sensing danger. Then—decision.
“Alright, Phoenix. Not our time. Let’s go home.” I nodded to the officer. “Cheers anyway.”
We watched the shuttle shrink into the sky. Numb, I fed Phoenix scraps as dusk settled. I stood, slung the bag over my shoulder, cast one last glance at the stars—
Then—a spark. A craft broke from the satellite belt, descending fast. Minutes later, it landed lightly. Out stepped the same officer.
“You! Glad you’re still here. Get in—*Phoenix* is waiting!”
“But… the rules?” I breathed.
“The captain said: ‘Phoenix belongs on *Phoenix*.’ Good omen, that. Rules?” He grinned. “Sometimes, to stay human, you’ve got to bend them.”
The craft soared, carrying us toward a new life—one where Phoenix had risen, leading me away from the dying Earth.
