Gentle. Peaceful.

The world has always been dark.

Twisting, menacing grey-and-black shadows make up my world. A thick blanket of ash and debris fills the sky, encasing us in a wintry tomb, in a monochromatic life. My grandma told me stories of when humans lived in the light. When the giant gas star used to shine on the world, bathing everything in a

golden light of warmth. Of hope. Light was life, she would say, and scientists said that the day the sun didn't shine would be the day humanity ended. The day we all died.

We didn't die, but I think our humanity did.

After the war, the world went up in flames. For a time, there

was only light. Blinding, burning, scorching light. Red flames, crimson and gold, made up the world. Smoke so thick you couldn't breathe without a respirator. And when there were no more respirators, there was no more breathing. People fought over respirators. We thought the war ended when the bombs fell, but it only continued in our homes.

Then came the ashes. Dust and debris kicked up by the epicenter

blocked out the sky. Turned the ethereal blue of the sky to a dull grey. Once green and leafy, plants turned brown and withered, crumpling at the softest breeze. No more crimson flames, no more black soot, no greens, blues, purples.

Only dull grey.

Panic ensued. Food shortages started. Things produced in

factories became commonplace. Once, my grandma said, people gathered around massive tables to celebrate. Savory soups, desserts so sweet they hurt your teeth. And the greens-the leafy greens were always there. Added on as a garnish, as a side. Mouthwatering feasts of foods of different colors. Now, they're all the same-crumbly grey ration bars made only to replenish one's nutrients.

Sometimes, I dream about feasts. A household full of people

laughing and chatting, but I don’t listen to them. It all fades to a dull murmur behind me. My footsteps are silent on the wood floor as I approach the kitchen. Before me lays a long table laden with food. It positively groans under the weight of homemade dishes. Things I've never seen before, things I’d doubt ever existed, if not for my grandma’s words. White fluffy potatoes, long green beans, and sweet yellow bread. A pot of thick, brown liquid. Some bowls of little round berries in a matching color sauce. And in the center, a turkey, roasted to perfection. But more importantly, I see the sunlight filtering through the window. Gentle

golden rays illuminate the table in shimmering light. Life. Peace. I raise a hand towards the ray of light, fingers cold from years of wanting. And every time, I wake up just before I can touch it. In the darkness, I wake, wondering. What would it feel like? What would it taste like? Does it make sound, roaring with life thousands of lightyears away?

They say humans should have died. They say we only had a year

life expectancy left. They said we would never see the sun again, and we would die because of it. But we're still here. I'm still here. Though she's long since passed, my grandmother's fanciful words have always stayed with me. Sometimes, I sit next to the reinforced windows of our home, flipping through yellowed pages of her handwritten cookbook. The pages threaten to crumble

beneath my fingers. Her own recipes written in slanted handwriting are fading with every pass-through I take, but I can't help it. There's some sense of hope, of nostalgia, when I look through them. A memory of a dream, a time forgotten.

My parents never saw the sun, and I doubt I will either. People debate

and theorize and cry about the world ending. None of it matters to me, surrounded by cement walls and reinforced windows, blankets around my shoulders

to ward off the cold. I pretend their words of doom and gloom mean nothing to me. But sometimes, when I sit by the window and gaze at the ash-covered sky, I dream that I can see the light. Golden. Peaceful. I dream that those thick grey clouds will part, and the sun will shine. Warmth will seep back into the

ground, melting the eternal ice and snow threatening to drown us all. Green, leafy plants will unfurl their leaves and bright blooms will face towards the

sky. I dream of a world of color and life, of food and peace. Instead, all I see is grey.

Snow blankets the ground when we emerge after sheltering from

the storm. Or maybe it's more ash from the sky-I'm not sure anymore. Nevertheless, it's cold, and we bundle in threadbare clothes and blankets to line up for

rations. Grey, crumbly rations that soothe the pang in my stomach, but never satisfy the vision of the 'feast' my grandma put in my head. Everyone else lines up around us. Faces drawn and weary. We don't look anyone in the eye-don't want to give anyone a reason to think we're better than them. I hug my grandma's cookbook close to my chest, trudging through the snow and ash back towards our cement house. Water seeps into my boots, soaking my socks. On days like today, when it's wet AND cold, I long for the sun in my grandma's stories. Sometimes, if I dream hard enough, I can feel the warmth seeping through the sky, drying my socks, gracing my skin.

Shouts and screams interrupt my daydream. Beside me, my sister grabs my arm, trembling. Her long hair is tied back, greasy since it's been well over two weeks since our last allotted washing time. It used to bother my mom, who remembers when she could wash every day, even after the world ended.

“What is that?” My sister breathes.

I frown at her, opening my mouth to remind her not to ask questions that could make us look suspicious. I never get the chance.

Behind us, someone shouts that the world is ending in flame. Even with my eyes closed, red bursts to life. Warmth seeps into my skin and I don’t dare to look around me. If I’m going to die by raging fire, then I won’t look. I won’t watch as I did when the fires consumed the town just south of us. I won’t watch my skin turn inky with soot. But that burning, scorching pain never comes. Instead, it’s like a warm embrace. Gentle. Peaceful. My heart leaps into my throat. It’s just like my grandma said. Warm and full of life. Slowly, I peel my eyes apart. Golden light splays across the ground, throwing the world into sharp relief. Instinctively, I squint. Tilting my head up, I gape at the break in ashy clouds. Like the stories from my childhood, a ray of sunlight breaks through. Gentle. Peaceful. Full of life. My eyes widen and I stare straight at the ball of fire gracing our skies. With a burst of heat, the world is suddenly illuminated with white light, the snow melting around us. I stare and I stare until I can stare no more.

         Later, when the clouds recover the world, it’s darker than before. My parents say it's the same, but I can barely see the outline of my own hands. Burned forever into my eyes is the outline of the sun, a tiny ball of light. My vision never returns-but the sun does, bringing with it warmth, peace. Life. Gentle, peaceful.