The sun is rising, I think. It gets harder to tell with each day that passes. The brightest source of light in the sky, breaking through the shadows of the night before. Too bad the sun no longer greets the moon. It’s been gone for a long time now.  

Mom used to tell me stories of how the sun and the moon would play an endless game of tag. Chasing each other across the sky. But one day, the moon disappeared. Now the sun is alone. But that’s just how it is. We’ll all end up alone.  

Eventually, the dull morning light breaks through the sheer dusty curtains. It beckons me to start my day before the world’s only light source is consumed by the darkness of space. That’s right, humans have lost our artificial light.  

Ever since the sun began to grow, its golden rays had turned red, leaching the Earth of its warmth and bringing a winter colder than ever before. Its ominous glow bathed the land in shadows and turned the waters into rust. It hasn’t been long since the final war over Earth’s last resources has reset civilization back to the Stone Age. We’ve learned to adjust, but the days have steadily been getting shorter. Blame the eternal fog of war looming in the atmosphere. It brought a permanent gloomy overcast, depressing the world below it. But there’s nothing we can do about it.  

I quickly dress in my layers: shirt, sweater, sweatpants, socks, boots. Time is ticking after all. I hate the cold. It creeps under my layers, biting at my skin, until I can feel it settle deep within my bones. The thought of it sends a cold chill down my spine. I wish I could control the sun. 

When I finally get downstairs, I’m greeted by the sight of my poor old grandmother sitting in her favorite wooden rocking chair in front of the fireplace. Soft coos echoed throughout the den in place of her silence. Seems like Neo’s awake. 

Neo was Granny’s oldest friend and companion. I often played with him when I was younger, responding to his coos with my own little bird chirps. Time has taken its toll on him now. All he does is sit in his birdcage, tucked in the farthest and darkest corner of the den. At least he still greets me in the morning. 

“Good morning, Granny!” I greeted as I hugged her tightly. She was the only one to stay with me at the end of all the wars. Mom and Dad wanted to escape to a better place. Somewhere with no dark residue from the weapons that destroyed our world; somewhere the world was no longer bathed in crimson. I couldn’t leave, though. Not when everything I knew was right here. Not when Granny couldn’t go with us. So, they left. Now it’s just me and Granny. 

Granny greeted me back with a gentle smile on her pale, wrinkled face; the same greeting every morning. I wrapped my arms around her for a hug, knowing that she couldn’t return the gesture. She’s only gotten weaker since my parents left us, so I squeeze her tighter to let her know it’s alright. This was our morning routine: a smile and a hug. This way we always remember that we’re never alone. We will always have each other.  

“Granny, you need to bundle up more. Your skin is frigid.” I scolded her as I quickly wrapped her up in the old quilt that she made for me. It was a beautiful quilt, decorated in all the colors of a rainbow. It painted the story of the game between the sun and moon that Mom used to tell me every night. Sadly, the colors have faded now, their vibrance now muddied. 

Once Granny was all bundled up, I lit up the fireplace for good measure. “Winter is coming, and we wouldn’t want you to be sick! It’ll be a lot of trouble finding a good doctor now that most of them have evacuated.” 

Granny didn’t say anything back. She just continued to rock back and forth in that wooden rocking chair. 

“Okay, Granny, I’m going out to water the daffodils, then I’ll be back to make breakfast,” I told her gently. “Is there anything you need before I go?” 

Granny just continued to rock in her wooden rocking chair.  

“Okay then, I’ll be right back!” 

Before I completely left Granny to her lonesome, I decided to put on a song in her old phonograph. It was the only thing we had that could rid the eerie silence of our home. Besides the conversations between Granny and myself, of course. Though, those conversations aren’t very long. Granny doesn’t talk much.  

I can faintly hear Frank Sinatra’s voice as he sings “My Way of Life” on the old phonograph. This was hers and Granpapi’s song back in their youth. Mom used to tell me of their love story. They fell in love to this song at their school dance. It has been their song ever since. I remember the days when they would spend hours dancing to this song in their living room. I was still a very small child, but I dreamed of finding love like theirs. Now, this song is the only thing Granny has left of her beloved. 

I filled up Granny’s old watering can. It was bright blue, decorated with small daffodils, some embossed and the others painted. Despite its age, I still prefer to use this watering can. I can imagine Granny in my place, going out to water her daffodils in her youth. It makes me feel closer to her. 

Cold chills ran down my spine as I approached the front door. Putting on extra layers was bothersome, but I’d rather not freeze to death while I’m watering Granny’s daffodils. I put on Granny’s old gardening gloves before I pulled on Grandpapi’s old coat. The coat was definitely way too big on me as it fell to my ankles. But it gets the job done, so it doesn’t really matter. 

Cold winds immediately embraced me as soon as I opened the front door. I could feel the chill biting through my many layers. The freezing wind kissed my cheeks and burned my throat. In a few moments, I knew I wouldn’t be able to feel my nose or lips. I really hate the cold. It makes me feel so lonely.  

Watering the daffodils was a simple chore. The watering can does all the work. Just gently tilt the water over the bed of flowers and slowly move it back and forth. See? Easy. If only the flowers would bloom. The stems have weakly crept up from the earth, green stalks bent at awkward angles. Some even twist around the stems of their neighbors. I’m like Granny’s daffodils, withstanding the winds and the cold. It’s a shame that the stems won’t bud, and the buds won’t bloom. But Granny always said to be patient. Flowers will bloom when their time comes. So, I will continue to water her daffodils in her stead. Patiently waiting for the time when they bloom gold like the sun used to be. When that time comes, I’ll bring some in for Granny to admire from her wooden rocking chair. 

Something felt off when I got back into the house. I quickly shed off the extra layers and made my way back into the living room, where Granny should be.  

Granny looked the same as ever. Wait, no. Something was wrong. Granny stopped rocking. As I approached her, I realized the thing rocking on that wooden rocking chair was just an empty husk. Her skin was shriveled and a sickly brown. Dark cavities replaced the parts of the body where flesh had once been. Her eyes were the most terrifying to see. They were empty.  

“Granny? Granny? You have to wake up!” I shook her frail body like a madman. Still, she remained deathly still. “Granny, you can’t leave me too!” 

I felt my breath quicken uncontrollably. I couldn’t breathe. My body moved before I could think, and I suddenly found myself in front of the bird cage in the corner of the room. My hands shook as I frantically scribbled a note for help. Neo, Granny’s old carrier pigeon: this is our only hope. Despite the tremor in my hands, I somehow managed to tie my note onto Neo’s leg with the hope that his pigeon instincts will be enough to find help. A sharp pain shot through my hand as Neo’s teeth pierced my hand. Tears filled my eyes as I clutched my injured hand close. 

I could feel something bubbling up in my chest. It tightened in knots, clawing at my lungs. Darkness crept into my vision from the corner of my eyes. Granny’s wooden rocking chair and Neo’s birdcage swirled together into a fuzzy picture. What is happening? Memories came to mind: It was the last day I ever saw Mom and Dad. 

 “Sweetie, you have to come with us!” Mom called to me desperately. Behind her, a large vehicle was patiently waiting. Dad was talking to some people covered head-to-toe in thick white suits.   

“We must leave now if we are to make it to the last evacuating rocket,” Dad spoke hurriedly. 

“I’m not leaving Granny!” I remembered myself telling them, “I can’t just leave her behind! I won’t!” 

“This is nonsense!” Dad yelled, reaching out to grab my arm. 

I was faster. I slammed the door closed and locked it. I could see Granny in her wooden rocking chair in the living room. Don’t worry, Granny, I won’t leave you.  

My Dad pounded against the door. My Mom screeched for me to open up. To leave with them. I’m sorry, Mom. 

“Sweetie! Please open the door!” Mom cried. 

“You better open this door right now, Chloe!” Dad continued to pound, “There’s no use helping your grandmother, she’s already—” 

My eyes quickly snap to Granny as I am jolted from my memories. It was like a film was lifted from my eyes. Our home was destroyed. Everything was covered in a layer of dust. The colors were all dull. Granny’s quilt was tattered and torn; the patch of the moon was gone. The sun, too. Frank Sinatra no longer sang. Her watering bucket was grayed, the daffodils gone.  

Granny was gone. I was alone.  

This can’t be! How can this be? Granny was always with me! We were always together! It was and has always been just the two of us against this dying world. 

I then realized that I was wrong. Granny was dead. She died that day my parents left. I was always alone.  

Faintly in the distance, I began to hear that song: Frank Sinatra’s voice whispered softly into the den. He was singing again. He was singing “My Way of Life”. 

“Chloe, come here, child,” a familiar voice echoed through the house. 

“Granny?” I called out. That was her. That was her voice. The faintest sound of scurrying caught my attention. The old, splintered front door flew open. Harsh, cold winds surrounded me, pulling me to go outside.  

“Come out, Chloe, come look at the daffodils. They’re beginning to bloom.” 

My body had moved on its own when I found myself in front of the flower bed. Granny was still nowhere to be found.  

“Look, Chloe! The daffodils are blooming! They glow yellow like the sun!” 

The daffodils weren’t blooming. And I still couldn’t see her. 

“Granny where are you?” I asked frantically.  

“I’m right here, child. I’m always with you.” 

I then saw it. Amidst the tangled mess of stems, crooked and winding, a small yellow bud began to bloom.  

“See Chloe, the daffodil is blooming.” 

Yeah. The daffodil was blooming. A bright golden yellow. How beautiful. I haven’t seen that color in a long time. Not since the sun turned red.