Sun Day

In one week, the world ends. A short story.

SUNDAY

It happened at 12:04 p.m. Pacific time.

The sky went white. Absolute white. A blinding 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, just 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.

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 a slow arc above the avocado tree. 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.