SUNDAY
It happened at 12:04 p.m. Pacific time.
The sky went white. Not cloudy, not stormy, just white. Blinding. A light that filled everything, every shadow erased, every edge softened until the world became a silhouette inside its own brightness.
We didn’t know what it was.
It lasted about six seconds. Long enough to feel your mind split between awe and terror. Then it faded, like a light switch turned off too fast, and everything looked normal again. Except it wasn’t.
Ronnie was outside when it happened. She was in the backyard, looking up. She said she’d just noticed a bird flying overhead—something graceful, gliding in slow arcs above the avocado tree. That’s when the light hit. She came inside a few minutes later, squinting and rubbing her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide and her hands were shaking.
She said it felt like someone had turned the sun inside out.
Since then, she’s had a headache that won’t quit. Her eyes are red, and she winces at the dimmest light. We’re keeping the room dark. I tried looking it up online. What kind of solar flare could do this? But no one knows anything. Nothing credible, anyway.
The news has already started calling it The Flash. Scientists are scrambling, but there’s no consensus. Some are saying it wasn’t from the sun at all. That it came from behind it. A cosmic lensing event? A gamma-ray burst? But that makes no sense—gamma rays wouldn’t leave visible light like this.
There’s something else. I don’t know if it’s just in my head, but the light outside seems wrong now. Duller. Grayer. Like it’s coming through a screen. I held my hand out in the sunlight just before writing this, and the shadow it cast felt softer. Less defined.
I keep thinking about Ronnie’s bird. She teaches—taught—photography at the community college, so she notices light the way a musician notices pitch. If she says the sun looked wrong even before The Flash, I believe her. She said the bird seemed to hesitate in mid-flight, like it felt something coming.
Maybe animals know things we don’t. Maybe that bird was trying to warn us.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just shaken.
But something happened today.
I’m going to keep writing each night, for as long as it makes sense. If we lose power or the internet goes down, I want a record. I don’t know why. Maybe because no one else will. Maybe because I want to believe someone, someday, will read this.
If this is the beginning of something, I want to watch it all the way through.
She’s asleep now, or pretending to be. Her breathing is shallow.
The sun set like normal.
I wonder if that’s the last normal thing we’ll get.
MONDAY
The sun rose late today.
Only by a few minutes, but I noticed. The light was... faded. Not just overcast, not morning haze—weak. I checked the weather, the solar radiation index, the webcams from across the state. Same thing everywhere: a washed-out sky, like sunlight trying to pass through fog that isn’t there.
Ronnie can’t see the light anymore. She says everything’s gray. Her eyes are worse today—veins like tiny rivers. She winces at sound now, too. We talked about going to urgent care, but there’s no point. We’re hearing reports from around the world—people with similar symptoms after The Flash. Headaches, vision problems, some going blind. Some seem to be losing their minds. One anchor on the BBC said it felt like a lens burned into the back of his eye. He was crying as he said it.
Power’s still on. Internet still up. The news is calling this a “low solar output event,” but that doesn’t make any sense. The sun doesn’t dim. It can flare, fluctuate slightly over cycles, but drop off like this? In one day?
I spent the morning diving deep into astrophysics papers, forums, anything I could find. My background in engineering helps me parse some of the technical language, but most of this is beyond me. Still, I found disturbing discussions on academic sites. Theoretical physicists are quietly floating ideas that don’t make it to the news: spontaneous stellar collapse, dimensional rifts, even weaponized gravity waves. One deleted post mentioned something called “induced stellar hibernation”—artificially triggering a star’s transition to a lower energy state.
The idea that someone could do this intentionally is starting to form in my mind, though I can’t say it out loud yet. It’s too crazy.
Somebody leaked audio from an emergency meeting at NASA. I listened to the clip three times. One voice says, “We’re not just losing light. We’re losing mass.” Another responds: “No known mechanism. No warning signs. The models don’t work anymore.”
Losing mass. If that’s true...
I don’t want to finish that sentence.
The trees look wrong in this light. Like photographs from an old film reel—too flat, too still. I watched a squirrel stop halfway across the fence this morning and just sit there, as if waiting for something. Ronnie used to photograph wildlife in this kind of diffused light—she called it “liminal illumination.” Now she can’t see it at all.
She keeps rubbing her eyes. She hasn’t opened them all day.
I can’t tell if it’s cold because I’m scared, or if it’s actually colder outside.
TUESDAY
It’s colder today.
Even inside, I can feel it on the backs of my hands, in the air between breaths. We’ve sealed off the hallway with blankets and tape. Ronnie can still feel the chill even through her thickest sweater. I let her sleep in this morning—though “morning” isn’t the right word anymore. The sun came up again, but barely. A dull disk behind a veil of nothing. You can look right at it now. That can’t be right.
She’s stopped trying to open her eyes.
She says it feels like there are sparks behind them. Bright ones. Flashing in the dark.
She’s started asking me to describe things. The window. The trees. Her mug. Our hands. I do. I hold her hands in mine and talk about their shape. The way the light falls, even though it doesn’t. It’s like giving her photographs made of words. She taught me to see light as texture, weight, emotion—now I’m trying to give that back to her through language.
It’s only been two days.
The news is turning. Less certainty now, more guesses. The word “cosmological” came up three times in one segment. They’re talking about an event horizon—not metaphorically. One physicist suggested a kind of micro black hole forming inside the sun. Not one that would eat it from the outside in, but one that somehow tunneled into it like a drain punched through the core.
Another said maybe it’s a wormhole. A tear. Something that’s leaking the sun’s mass and light into another place. Or time.
I watched a simulation—gravity lines curling in on themselves, the sun’s field weakening, the earth’s orbit beginning to slip.
They said, if this is true, we’re already moving.
It didn’t feel real until I looked up at the sky this evening and noticed the moon had shifted. It’s a few degrees higher than it should be. Or maybe it’s us that moved. Doesn’t matter.
Something’s changed.
Ronnie didn’t speak much today. When she did, she asked if birds know when the sky breaks.
I didn’t have an answer.
But tonight, I started thinking: what if this wasn’t natural? What if someone did this?
We always assume extinction will be violent. Fire, flood, war. But what if it’s not? What if someone just... turns off the light?
TUESDAY NIGHT
I can’t sleep. Ronnie’s been unconscious for hours—not sleeping, something deeper. Her breathing is so shallow I have to put my hand near her mouth to feel it.
I’ve been online for the past four hours, falling down rabbit holes I didn’t know existed. The official channels are still pushing the “solar anomaly” narrative, but the real discussions are happening in encrypted forums, academic back-channels, places where people with security clearances whisper about things they’re not supposed to know.
Someone posted a thread claiming to work at SETI. They said the radio telescopes detected something in the seconds before The Flash—a structured signal, geometric, impossible to decode but clearly artificial. The post was deleted within minutes, but I screenshot it. The signal apparently came from the direction of the galactic center, traveled at exactly the speed of light, and arrived precisely when our sun began to dim.
A coincidence? The poster didn’t think so.
I found another thread discussing “stellar engineering” from a throwaway account that claimed to be a theoretical physicist at Caltech. The math was beyond me, but the conclusion was clear: what we’re seeing is consistent with an artificially induced stellar transition. Someone or something with technology we can’t comprehend reached across the galaxy and switched off our star like a light bulb.
The thread was titled: “We are not alone, and they are not friendly.”
But that’s crazy. It has to be crazy. Conspiracy theory loons. Even the smartest among us can fall for them.
I’ve started making lists. Canned food, water, batteries, anything that might help us survive what’s coming. But survive for what? If we’re truly drifting out of orbit, if the sun is actually dying, then we’re just postponing the inevitable.
Ronnie stirred around midnight and whispered something I couldn’t catch. When I asked her to repeat it, she said, “The light people are coming home.” I asked what she meant, but she’d already drifted away again.
Light people. What did she see in those last moments before her vision went dark?
The temperature has dropped another few degrees. Our breath is starting to fog indoors. I can hear the house settling differently, wood contracting, pipes groaning. Everything is pulling inward, like the whole world is hunching its shoulders against the cold.
Tomorrow I’ll seal the windows completely. We’ll retreat to the bedroom and wait.
For what, I don’t know.
WEDNESDAY
The sun didn’t rise this morning.
It climbed, yes. But it didn’t rise. It glowed. Weakly. Dimmer than any dawn I’ve ever seen. A dull bruise behind the clouds.
I think today is the day I stopped believing this is just physics.
I’ve been watching archived footage of the sun from three days ago, side-by-side with today’s feed from the last functioning solar observatory. The change is unmistakable. It’s not just dimming. It’s withdrawing. Retreating. Like it’s being pulled away from us. Or pulled inward. Like it’s collapsing.
But there’s no radiation spike. No explosion. No flares. Just... the dying of the light.
What if this isn’t a malfunction of a star?
What if it’s judgment?
I don’t mean that in the religious sense. Not exactly. But what if we were seen? Examined. Evaluated. And found lacking. What if someone—or something—decided that the experiment of humanity should end?
Not with war. Not with asteroids. But with silence. With a dark switch flipped from light-years away. Not punishment. Just a decision. Like shutting down a factory. Or erasing a failed sketch.
What if they turned off our sun?
That crazy conspiracy theory.
The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. We’ve been broadcasting our presence into space for over a century. Radio, television, radar—all of it propagating outward at light speed, announcing ourselves to anyone listening. Maybe someone finally heard us. Maybe they didn’t like what they heard.
A species that wages war on itself, that poisons its own planet, that builds weapons capable of ending all life and points them at each other—would we pass judgment on a civilization like that? If we had the power to quietly switch off their star, would we hesitate?
I haven’t said this out loud. Not even to Ronnie.
She spoke for the first time in hours today. Whispered, really. I had to lean in close.
She said, “The light behind my eyes is growing.” And then she laughed. Quietly. Like a child who told a secret.
I asked what she meant, but she just smiled and turned her head toward the window, even though the curtains were drawn and she couldn’t see anymore.
I held her hand until she fell asleep. It’s colder again today. Our breaths come out in little clouds now, even inside the bedroom.
The moon was missing again tonight. The stars looked... wrong. I thought I saw Orion’s Belt turned on its side. Maybe the sky’s moving. Maybe we are.
Or maybe I’m losing it.
But if I am, I’m not alone.
THURSDAY
The power grids are beginning to fail.
I heard it on the radio, FM stations mostly. They also said we’ve lost contact with most of our satellites. Somehow, they’ve been disrupted. Many will fall back to Earth. There was a disturbing report about the International Space Station... they’ve lost attitude control, something’s wrong with their orbit. They were escaping in the Soyuz lifeboat but couldn’t work out proper reentry trajectories. Then the news stopped reporting on it.
The radio stations still broadcasting are all emergency programming now. They’re saying substations are freezing, natural gas lines are locking up, solar fields are dead, and hydro plants are icing over. People in northern states are already without heat. Some cities have lost all power. Backup systems running on fuel are rationing what little they have.
We still had light this morning—what passes for it—but it was barely enough to cast a shadow. Just a dull silver smear across the sky. The sun is a phantom now. No warmth, no color. Just a presence that’s disappearing.
I spent the morning moving supplies into the bedroom. Canned soup, crackers, the last of our bottled water. I found Ronnie’s old camping gear in the garage—sleeping bags rated for subzero temperatures, a portable camping stove, chemical hand warmers. Things I never thought we’d need in Southern California.
She asked about her camera equipment while I was organizing. All those lenses, all those years of capturing light. “What’s the point now?” she said, but not bitterly. More like someone recognizing the end of an era.
I’ve been listening to the radio more, for Ronnie’s sake. She says the voices help. The static doesn’t bother her anymore. She says it sounds like snow.
She’s not making much sense now. She asked if the stars are whispering, and then said the bird she saw last Sunday might have been an angel. She asked me to describe its wings again, even though I never saw it. Then she said the bird must have eaten the sun.
At around six tonight, our power went out.
Just a soft click. Then stillness. No hum. No refrigerator buzz. The house went silent like a breath held too long.
I stepped outside. The cold hit me like a wall. And the city... was gone. Not in structure, but in light. No streetlamps. No houses. No signs. Just patches of moonless dark between clouds growing thick and fast.
The sky is closing in.
Wind is picking up. Gusts that sound like groaning wood, like the Earth trying to speak.
I stood in the yard for a minute, thinking maybe I’d see the moon. I didn’t. Just clouds. And beyond them—nothing.
We lit candles, then put them out to save what little wax we have. I’ve got the last lantern by the bed now. Ronnie’s asleep, or maybe dreaming with her eyes open. She asked me if the Earth is crying. I told her yes.
And maybe it is.
THURSDAY NIGHT
Complete darkness now. Not just our house—everything. The city has gone black.
I can hear them out there. Our neighbors. Voices carrying across the cold air, some calling for help, others just calling names. The Garcias next door are fighting—I can hear Alex shouting about the car not starting, about how they should have left yesterday. Mary’s crying. Their kids are silent.
Earlier, I heard breaking glass three houses down. Then screaming. Then nothing.
People are realizing that there’s nowhere to go. The highways are clogged with cars that ran out of gas or broke down in the cold. The airports shut down when the control towers went dark. Even if you could fly somewhere, where would you go? This is planetary. There is no escape.
I tried to reach my sister in Denver, but the phones are dead. Cell towers must be down. We’re cut off now, each family isolated in their own small pocket of warmth, burning whatever they can find, waiting for the inevitable.
Ronnie woke up around midnight and asked me to tell her about colors. I described the blue of her eyes, the green of spring leaves, the gold of sunset. She listened like someone memorizing directions to a place she’d never see again. When I finished, she said, “Thank you for being my light.”
I started crying then. Quietly, so she wouldn’t hear. But she reached over and touched my face, found the tears, and smiled.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We had good days.”
We did. Many years. Morning coffee together, weekend hikes, the way she’d critique the lighting in movies, how she’d wake me up early to catch the perfect sunrise for a photograph. All those captured moments, all that light she saved in her images—none of it matters now. The power’s out, the computers are dead, the prints will freeze and crack.
But I remember. I remember the way light looked through her eyes.
The wind is getting stronger. I can hear it testing the roof, probing for weaknesses. Something crashed down the street—a tree, maybe, or a power line. The sound echoed in the empty darkness like a gunshot.
I keep thinking about the bird she saw. That moment of grace before everything went wrong. Maybe that’s what we are now—something briefly beautiful against the vast indifference of space, captured in the moment before the light goes out.
I’m going to try to sleep. Tomorrow will be worse.
FRIDAY
We were awakened by the shaking.
A low groan, then a jolt hard enough to rattle the bedframe and knock a picture off the wall in the hallway. Ronnie screamed. I grabbed her before she could fall out of bed. We sat there in the dark, holding onto each other as the floor rolled beneath us like a wave.
It lasted maybe twenty seconds. Then silence again. No sirens. No lights. Just silence.
One of the emergency networks was still up—shortwave, maybe. They confirmed it wasn’t just us. Fault lines all over the western U.S. have started to rupture. Quakes in California, Nevada, Utah. Fires from gas mains. Cracks in highways. A small tsunami off the coast near San Diego.
They said it’s not just tectonic. It’s orbital.
If Earth is breaking free of the sun’s gravity, then the balance that kept our crust in check is falling apart. The rotation, the moon, the tides, the pressure of the core—all of it finely tuned by our place in orbit. And now it’s unraveling.
We are unraveling.
Ronnie didn’t say much today. She just kept asking where “the light people” went. I don’t know what she means. I didn’t ask.
I tried to go outside again this evening to check the sky, see if the moon had reappeared, but the wind nearly knocked me over. I saw tree branches bending like bows and a line of clouds so thick they looked like stone. The air smells like copper and ice.
And the ground... it doesn’t feel still anymore. There’s a vibration I can’t quite explain. Not a sound, exactly, but a sensation—like something deep inside the Earth has started to stir.
The temperature inside dropped again. We’ve stopped bothering with the rest of the house. Just the bedroom now. I’ve begun stuffing towels under the door and hanging blankets along the walls. We wear everything we own and still our breath fogs the air.
There’s a crack in the ceiling above the fireplace. I noticed it around noon. It’s grown wider.
Tomorrow we seal ourselves in completely.
SATURDAY
The living room wall cracked today.
Not a hairline fracture. A real crack—like something trying to split the house in two. I heard it before I saw it, a sharp pop, like knuckles cracking too hard. When I stepped into the living room, the air felt colder than it should have, like the house had exhaled through the break.
We’re not using the living room anymore. We’ve moved everything into the bedroom—mattresses, blankets, food, and what little water we have left. Every window is sealed, every inch insulated. The whole house feels like it’s folding inward.
The wind hasn’t stopped since yesterday. It howls at night like it’s calling something. Or warning about something. It rattles the siding and screams under the eaves. Snow—or ice, or ash, I can’t tell anymore—blows sideways past the windows. I tried opening the front door a few inches this morning and it wouldn’t budge. Frozen shut.
We’re sealed in now. The house has become a cocoon. I don’t know if it will protect us or bury us.
Ronnie hasn’t spoken since late last night. She’s awake, but far away. She keeps turning her head as if listening to voices I can’t hear. Her hands twitch under the blankets, sometimes grasping at nothing. I hold them when I can.
She said something in her sleep that I’ll never forget.
“The stars are moving like fish.”
I looked through the skylight, and she’s right. The thick clouds had moved on. The constellations aren’t where they should be. Orion is slumped over. Cassiopeia’s rotated. Everything is shifting. Sliding.
We are no longer in orbit.
There was a time when that idea would have broken me. Now it just confirms what I’ve already felt in my bones. We are no longer bound. We’re drifting. Falling through a deep silence.
We’re not part of the solar system anymore.
We are something else now.
SATURDAY NIGHT
The last night.
I know it’s the last night because Ronnie told me. She woke up an hour ago, opened her eyes for the first time in days, and looked directly at me. Not through me, not past me—at me. Her pupils were huge, black as space, but she was seeing something.
“Tomorrow there won’t be a sun,” she said, as simply as if she were telling me it might rain.
I asked her how she knew.
“The light people told me.”
I want to dismiss this as delirium, but I can’t. Maybe her delirium isn’t delirium. Maybe she’s just closer to whatever’s happening. Maybe she just happened to be looking in the right direction. Maybe The Flash left her with something—a sensitivity, a connection to whatever force is unmaking our star.
“Did they say why?” I asked.
She was quiet for a long time. She took a breath like she was getting ready to answer. But she didn’t say anything.
I helped her sit up so we could look out the window together. She can’t see the sky anymore, but she can feel it. “It’s so quiet now,” she said. “Even the Earth is holding its breath.”
She’s right. The wind has stopped. The house has stopped settling. Even the crack in the ceiling seems to have paused in its spreading. Everything is waiting.
I told her about the first photograph she ever showed me—a sunrise over the mountains, all gold and pink and impossible beauty. She laughed and said she remembered. “I was trying to catch time standing still,” she said. “Turns out I got my wish.”
We sat together in the dark, her head on my shoulder, sharing whatever warmth we had left. She told me she wasn’t afraid. That the light behind her eyes was warm and welcoming, like coming home after a long journey.
“Stay with me.” A command and a question.
“Yes,” I said. “All the way through.”
She smiled and closed her eyes. Her breathing steadied. I think she’s sleeping peacefully for the first time since Sunday.
In a few hours, there will be no sunrise. The sun will not appear because there is no sun to appear. We are alone with the stars now, falling through the vast emptiness between them, carrying our small cargo of love and memory and the fading warmth of what we used to be.
This is our last night as inhabitants of the solar system.
Tomorrow, we become something else.
SUN DAY
No sunrise.
I waited. We both did. Sat by the window under layers of blankets, watching the black line of the horizon for a glow that never came. At first, I thought maybe I’d misjudged the time, but we’ve been measuring it carefully, rationing power from the little we had left. The clocks are right. Morning has passed. It is still night.
There is no sun anymore.
I’m writing this by the last dim battery lantern, bundled in so many clothes I can hardly feel the pen in my hand. My wife is asleep—or unconscious, it’s hard to tell which, now. Her blindness came slowly, and then all at once. She hasn’t opened her eyes today.
The house is cold. Colder than anything I’ve ever known. We keep the bedroom sealed, stacked with insulation and plastic, but the frost crept in days ago. Our breath hangs in the air like ghosts. Soon, even this ink will freeze. That’s why I’m writing now—before everything locks.
Most of the neighbors are gone. They left sometime midweek. Suitcases, headlights, panic. I watched one family load their dog into the back seat and drive off into the dark. But where could they go? The whole planet is spinning into the void. There’s no refuge. No equator warm enough. No coast untouched. No flight high enough to leave the Earth behind.
They’ll freeze—like we will.
Frozen where they fell. In cars pulled over on dead highways. In stairwells. In living rooms. At dinner tables. With televisions dark and ovens cold. There will be families, lovers, loners, everyone—locked in place, surrounded by the remains of their lives. Computers. Phones. Shoes. Toys. Highway signs. Skyscrapers. Billboards. All of it preserved. A museum of collapse, flash-frozen.
And the freezing has only just begun.
The oceans will keep sloshing for a while, but they’ll lock over eventually. Ice will spread from the poles to the equator, crusting over until the seas are sealed beneath miles of frozen cap. Some warmth might remain deep below—in the black trenches, near volcanic vents—where extremophile life has always clung to the heat of the Earth’s core. Maybe they’ll survive for a time. Maybe longer than us. But even that heat will fade. The planet will cool from the outside in. The last warmth will flicker, then die.
And the air will fall.
It’s already beginning. The colder it gets, the more our atmosphere will condense. Carbon dioxide will freeze first, drifting down like chemical snow. Water vapor will vanish into frost. Then, eventually, oxygen. Even nitrogen. Everything that once surrounded us will settle onto the ground in delicate crystals. Earth will suffocate in silence. Not with violence, but with stillness.
One day, if anyone looks down at this planet, they won’t see blue oceans or green continents. Just a smooth, gleaming sphere of ice, rimed with the ghosts of an atmosphere, spinning soundlessly through the dark between stars.
Maybe a ship will pass close enough to scan the surface. Maybe an alien intelligence will send down a probe and wonder who we were, and why we vanished in silence.
And maybe it will find this room. This notebook. These words.
I’ve decided to stop here. There’s nothing more to record. The world is gone. The light is gone. The sky is an empty vault. The moon has vanished—not that we’d see it even if it were still there. We’ve left our orbit. Earth is falling through deep space, a frozen casket tumbling blind.
But maybe someone will find this. One day. In ten thousand years. In a million. Maybe another star will catch us in its pull and melt the ice. Maybe this room will thaw, and this notebook will still be here, sealed in the cold. A message from one of the orphans.
Maybe someone will see this, unable to understand the writing, but know we were here.
We were here.
