Ravina often found solace in the fading images of a world that no longer existed. The photos, packed hurriedly by her parents before they fled, were a miraculous remnant of the Earth they once knew. She often spent her nights staring at them, imagining herself back there—running through the tall grass, breathing in the scent of wet soil after a fresh rain, the earthy fragrance tangling in her hair. The world in those photographs was vibrant, alive with the simple beauty of nature. She could almost hear the cicadas, their calls urging the rain to come. In her dreams, she saw herself reading beneath mango trees, their sprawling branches sheltering her from the cool October wind that tousled her hair.
Her parents had spoken of that world often—a green world, filled with rain and sometimes blood, too. A world that had seemed so full of life, until it wasn’t. The next photo was a memory of a time before the chaos: a young girl with dark plaits and a wide smile sitting on the steps of a large, white house. “Sabrina’s first day at kindergarten. February 1989.” The date seemed almost unreal now, like it belonged to another life, another person.
“Ravina?” A soft voice crackled through the intercom, pulling her from her reverie. “It’s dinner time. Coming with us?”
She blinked, taking a moment to process the request. Her room, stark and white, still felt foreign to her, despite the passing years. It was small, cramped—just enough room for a bed, a closet, a foldable nightstand, and a mirror that seemed to watch her every move. How could she call this place “home”? A tiny cocoon in a vast, indifferent void.
For a brief moment, she considered skipping dinner altogether. The thought of joining her friends felt exhausting. They were always so eager to go on with their lives, oblivious to the gravity of their situation. They seemed so thankful for their chance to escape, to survive, while she couldn’t shake the feeling of being an imposter, a survivor in a world where most of her people had been left behind. She longed for someone who would share her sadness, someone who would grieve with her—not just for her.
“You go ahead,” she replied softly, her voice betraying a trace of the sorrow she carried. “I’ll meet you there.” She needed one more moment, just one more minute, to linger in the past, to hold on to that fleeting sense of what once was. Her gaze fell back to the photo in her hands—the happy little girl on the steps of the house, a stark contrast to the grim reality of her present. The girl was her grandmother, before the fires, the snowstorms, the floods, and the wars had ravaged everything they held dear. Everyone they had ever loved was gone, and Earth—her once-beautiful, chaotic, flawed home—was no more.
When they had been told to leave, it had felt like a betrayal. She could still feel the sting of the argument with her mother, the raw emotion in her voice when Ravina had first resisted taking the offer. It had been the only time she’d ever seen her mother cry—tears for the future, tears for the past. The protest banners she had made to oppose the lottery system still hung in her room, faded remnants of her rage at a world that played god, deciding who would survive and who would stay behind to die.
There were only ten spots available for women from Type-5 countries. To qualify, they had to meet stringent criteria—ancestry from a Type-1 country, high intelligence, moral integrity, excellent health, low pollution rates, and a high fertility index. When Ravina had received the call, her mother had packed her bag without hesitation, swearing that she would drag her to the shuttle, if necessary.
The robotic voice cut through her thoughts, mechanical and distant: “You are missing dinner time. Please complete all meal times to maintain optimal health.”
Ravina sighed, setting the photo inside the large tin box her mother had used to protect their valuables from the leaking rainwater. It had once been a symbol of survival, but now it only reminded her of everything they had lost. She walked over to the window, peering out at the dark expanse of space. Earth loomed below her, a distant, dead orb—alone in the void.
The rumors of extreme temperatures and food shortages on Earth had been circulating for months. The more she heard, the more she was convinced that her parents were no longer alive. If they had survived the transition, they were surely lost now, victims of the very conditions that had made their escape necessary. The thought gnawed at her, and she could only hope that, wherever they were, they had found peace—together, as they always had in life.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Ravina practiced the smile she would put on for her colleagues. The smile that said everything was fine, that she was okay. She didn’t want to burden anyone with the weight of her grief, but sometimes she wondered if it would be easier if someone, just for a moment, could see the sadness in her eyes. If they could understand the ache of leaving behind everything she had ever known, everything she had ever loved.
With one final glance at the photo, she turned and left her room, making her way to the dining hall. The lights above flickered softly, and she wondered if the moon she had once loved so much still hung in the sky, or if it, too, had vanished in the face of humanity’s greed and destruction. Perhaps one day, when the memory of Earth had faded into myth, someone would look up at the stars and wonder what happened to the people who once called that fragile planet home.
