I used to think the world ended with fire or war or some man-made stupidity.
But now, when I look back, I can say with absolute certainty:
The world didn't end.
It simply… woke up.
And it woke up angry, beautiful, and ancient.
I remember the exact moment it began. The air went still, unnaturally still, like the pause between a heartbeat and a heartbeat. The street outside my home held its breath. The clouds stopped drifting. Even the insects quieted, as if the entire planet waited for someone to flip a switch.
Lyra was the first to feel it.
She burst into my room trembling, her eyes bright like molten gold. She kept saying, "Dad, it's loud. Everything is loud." Before I could ask what she meant, Orion staggered in behind her, pale, clutching his head.
"It's coming," he whispered.
"What is?"
He looked at me with tears in his eyes.
"Everything."
And then the sky tore open.
A soundless explosion of light cascaded across the atmosphere — not fire, not lightning, not anything known to science. Colors I had no name for rippled across the clouds, blooming like cosmic flowers. The ground trembled. The walls hummed with energy. My bones vibrated.
And from the horizon came a roar — the roar of something enormous, ancient, and returning.
Lyra collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest. Her breath steamed in the cool night air. Her skin flushed red. When I touched her, she was burning.
Not fever-burn.
Fire-burn.
Orion screamed. Not from pain — from overload. He clutched his head, crying out words I couldn't understand: "Too many voices! Too many! Dad, make them stop!"
I pulled them close, one under each arm, and the house shook around us. Outside, trees erupted from sidewalks, tearing through concrete like it was soft clay. Electricity flickered, then burst in showers of sparks. Wind spiraled through the streets, carrying leaves, dust, and something else — whispers.
Whispers in languages I did not know. Whispers in voices that were not human.
Before I could react, Lyra convulsed. A flash of orange burst from her palms, streaking across the floor. Flames — living flames — crawled up the wall like curious fingers. She stared at them, horrified.
"Dad… I—I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," I lied.
Nothing was okay.
The walls groaned. The ceiling cracked. The house tilted as the earth shifted beneath us. I grabbed our emergency bag, slung it over my shoulder, and hauled the twins to the back door.
But the backyard wasn't there anymore.
In its place was a forest.
Not a sapling, not a patch of sudden overgrowth — but a full, ancient forest where my fence had been ten minutes earlier. Trunks so wide three adults couldn't wrap their arms around them. Leaves the size of shields. Glowing spores drifting through the air like lazy fireflies.
The universe had come home, and it brought every forgotten thing with it.
Behind us, the house groaned again — then collapsed inward, swallowed by roots breaking through the foundation.
I pulled the twins away from the falling debris. Orion's eyes were unfocused, staring into visions only he could see. Lyra's hands trembled, flickering with unstable flame.
"We have to move," I told them.
"Where?" Lyra whispered.
"I don't know. But not here."
We stepped into the forest cautiously, branches cracking beneath our feet. Creatures moved in the shadows — small, quick, watching us with reflective eyes. The air smelled like fresh rain and ozone and something sweet, like nectar.
Orion stiffened.
"Dad."
His voice was small.
"There's something coming."
"From where?"
He raised a trembling hand, pointing deeper into the trees.
"It's not human."
The forest went silent.
The kind of silence that means something hungry is listening.
I tightened my grip on my children.
"Run."
We crashed through the undergrowth, dodging vines and roots that hadn't existed an hour before. Lyra stumbled, sparks shooting from her hands as she tried to steady herself. Orion gasped, overwhelmed by the emotions of something trailing us — something ancient and curious and starving.
Behind us, I heard it.
A low, rumbling growl.
Branches snapping.
Heavy footsteps.
This was no hallucination.
This was real.
I shoved the twins ahead. "Keep moving! Don't look back!"
The creature thundered closer. I could feel its breath on my neck. Cold. Wrong. Predatory.
We burst out of the trees just as something leapt at us from the shadows.
A blur of movement intercepted it — a figure slamming into the beast with force that echoed like a gunshot. The creature shrieked, tumbling into the brush. The figure twisted, grabbed the creature by the neck, and drove a knife into its skull.
It twitched.
Went still.
I stared, breathless.
A woman stood over the corpse, dark hair tied back, a tactical vest strapped to her chest. Her arms were scarred, her expression carved from stone. She looked at us with suspicion — then recognition.
"You three alive?"
"Barely," I said.
She wiped her blade on her leg.
"Well," she muttered, "you're lucky I was close."
"Who… are you?" I asked.
She sheathed the knife.
"Name's Zara."
She glanced at the twins, eyes lingering on Lyra's smoldering hands and Orion's vacant stare.
"Looks like you've got your hands full," she added.
"Yeah," I breathed. "You could say that."
Zara looked around the forest, tense and alert.
"We can't stay here. There are worse things out tonight."
I swallowed hard and looked at my children — one burning, one breaking.
"What's happening to the world?" I asked.
Zara shook her head.
"Nothing happened," she said.
"We're just finally seeing it."
She jerked her head toward a path barely visible in the thicket.
"Come with me if you want to live through the night."
And that was the moment I realized:
The world hadn't ended.
It had only just begun