PHOENIX: RISING FROM THE ASHES
He walks through the streets of a lifeless city, each step slow and heavy, as if every movement requires effort. The man is no longer young but hasn’t yet reached old age. His gaze—sharp, alert, yet weary—darts across the hollowed-out buildings, as if searching for traces of the life that once thrived there.
The wind howls like a madman, whistling through the skeletons of broken streetlamps, tossing rubbish into the air and spinning it in dusty whirls. The lampposts tremble, groan, but stand firm—stubborn, just like the man himself.
He pauses at a poster column, as he does almost every day. The faded adverts for long-cancelled plays are achingly familiar. He doesn’t even know why he looks—whether in hope of spotting something new or just out of habit.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters into the emptiness.
These days, he only talks to himself. A living voice, no matter how small, breaks the silence. Suddenly, a clatter rings out—a tin can clangs against a rusted bin. From inside comes a faint, shuffling sound. His instincts kick in, and he steps closer. Just then, a lamppost collapses behind him—right where he had been standing seconds before. The falling pole tears a strip of posters away, revealing an old advert for the musical *Cats*.
Stunned, he stares at the poster, then back at the shattered lamppost, until the noise from the bin draws his attention again. He pushes aside the debris—plastic wrappers, rags—and freezes. Amid the rubbish, two golden eyes stare back at him. They belong to a skeletal, bloodied, battered cat.
Without thinking, he shrugs off his coat, spreads it on the ground, and fishes the creature out, cradling it close despite the grime. Tucking the bundle against his chest, he hurries home, forgetting his usual evening walk.
Behind him, a drone’s automated voice crackles through the air:
“Attention. Final evacuation transport departs in thirty days…”
Today, he doesn’t listen. His focus is on the cat. For days, he tends to it—feeding, cleaning, bandaging its wounds. Slowly, the cat grows stronger, its fur fluffier, its golden eyes brighter. A fiery ginger, it looks like a tiny sun. One evening, he murmurs aloud:
“Not a fan of solitude, are you?”
The cat purrs in reply, as if agreeing.
“Suppose I’ve got used to it,” he shrugs.
Another night, he strokes the cat thoughtfully.
“What should I call you, then?”
The cat blinks lazily at him.
“Phoenix. That’s it—you’re a proper Phoenix.”
And so, the name sticks.
By the time Phoenix is fully healed, they’re walking the streets again. The city is still dead, still silent—but it no longer feels quite so empty. With company, even a cat’s, everything shifts. Then, as they amble down a dust-choked path, the drone’s voice returns:
“Final evacuation ship departs in three days.”
Five years ago, Earth’s exodus began. The planet was dying—climate collapse, disasters, famine. Humanity 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’s Phoenix. And with the cat comes doubt.
The night before departure, he doesn’t sleep. Neither does the cat. It purrs endlessly, as if trying to drown out his 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 ragged mix: some saying goodbye, others boarding. Children, forcibly evacuated by the government. Those still clinging to hope.
The ship that lands with a deafening roar bears a name in bold letters: *PHOENIX*. A sign, he thinks.
At security, an officer stops him.
“Open the carrier, please.”
“That’s Phoenix. He’s a cat,” the man explains.
The officer scowls. “No pets allowed. The genetic preserve’s already been evacuated.”
“But… he’s all I’ve got.”
“Sorry,” comes the clipped reply. “The cat stays, or you do.”
The man falls silent. Inside the carrier, Phoenix bristles, eyes darting, sensing danger. Then—decision.
“Alright, mate. Guess it’s not meant to be. Let’s go home.” He nods at the officer. “Cheers anyway.”
They watch as the ship vanishes into the sky. The man, hollowed out, feeds the cat. Dusk settles over the ground. He shoulders the carrier, takes one last look at the stars.
Then—a spark detaches from the satellite belt, streaking downward. Minutes later, a small craft lands. Out steps the same officer.
“You! Thank God you’re still here! Get in—the *Phoenix*’s waiting!”
“But… the rules?” the man breathes, stunned.
“Captain’s orders. Said it’s only right—Phoenix belongs on the *Phoenix*. Sometimes, to stay human, you’ve got to break the rules.”
The craft soars upward, carrying the man and his ginger companion toward a new beginning. A life where Phoenix rose from the ashes—and led the one who’d once chosen to stay right back into the sky.
