7:40 am

I stopped the engine for one last time. I took her in my arms. Her wheelchair awaited her. I didn't dare to look at the sky. The meteor looms above our head, ready to kill us all. The beach is already vibrant, not under sunlight, but under the meteor's blazing decomposition as it enters the atmosphere. It already dissolves in the sky. We're right under the big sky, but even her, she must see that it's no longer blue, only tainted by crimson. And so is the sea. A thick, sizzling wind comes from the west, carrying with it salt and something murderous. The sky is shattered, only to rain fire upon the entire earth. The meteor replaced that sun that looked down upon us, it had taken over the sun's throne upon the entire sky. Something boils in the air, light's twisted by the heat, the sea boils, air boils, our blood boils. The certainty that we would die—even if we weren't to die now, we'd die an instant after that, and the instant after that, and so on and so on. We're trapped by this singular fate.

But she stands under the disappearing sky, on the disappearing earth, on the disappearing existence, on her wheelchair. Her hand struggles to raise, to touch the sky. Even in what will kill us all, she can see the beauty of it. Its beauty replaced her sky. Her hand always raises up, so slowly as if it waited for her, so slowly it could've killed us thousands of times already. At last, her hand is straight, feeling for remnants of a scattered sky. There's a singular clarity in her eyes. Everything is lucid, everything is terminally lucid. I can't even wonder how beautiful the sky is to her.