The perpetual grey is a constant companion now. It seeps into everything, dulling the edges of our existence. The vibrant hues of memory, once so sharp, are slowly fading, replaced by shades of ash and shadow. I often find myself reaching for a warmth I can no longer feel, a light that exists only in the deepest recesses of my mind. The last time I seen the sun was a day of innocence, a day before our world changed forever, a day I now cling to as a fragile reminder of what we’ve lost.
Echoes of Sunlight
I remember the warmth on my face, a warmth I can barely conjure now. It was the kind of heat that seeped into your bones, chasing away the chill of early spring. The smell of cut grass and sunscreen hung in the air, a heady mix that spoke of carefree days and endless possibilities. I was lying in a field of wildflowers, the buzzing of bees a constant soundtrack to my thoughts. The sky was a brilliant, almost impossibly blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds that drifted lazily overhead. The light danced on the petals of the flowers, painting them in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours. I closed my eyes, soaking in the sensation, never imagining it would be the last time I’d feel the sun’s embrace. The last time I seen the sun.
That day, I was with my grandmother. She was a woman of quiet strength and unwavering optimism. She loved the sun, calling it the “lifeblood of the world.” She knew all the names of the wildflowers in the field, and she would tell me stories about the sun, stories passed down through generations. Tales of its power, its beauty, its essential role in the delicate balance of nature. She told me how the sun nourished the earth, allowing life to flourish. How it painted the sky with breathtaking colours each dawn and dusk. How its warmth sustained us, both physically and spiritually. Little did we know at the time, these stories would become treasures. Artifacts of a reality no longer existent.
The Sky Turned Orange
The change began subtly, almost imperceptibly. At first, it was just a haze, a slight blurring of the normally crisp horizon. We dismissed it as unusual weather, a passing phenomenon. But the haze thickened, day by day, until the sun became a muted disc, its light filtered and weakened. Then the sky turned a sickly orange. A colour so unnatural, so unsettling, that it sent shivers down my spine.
And then came the ash, a fine, grey powder that rained down from the sky, coating everything in a layer of dust. It stung our eyes, choked our lungs, and left a bitter taste in our mouths. We retreated indoors, believing it would be temporary, a fleeting inconvenience. We huddled together, listening to the news reports, clinging to the hope that the scientists would find a solution, that the sun would return.
But it didn’t. The ash kept falling, day after day, week after week, until the sun was completely obscured, hidden behind a thick, impenetrable cloud of volcanic dust and debris. The temperature plummeted. Plants withered and died. The world plunged into a premature, unnatural twilight. The day the sun disappeared, so too did our hopes and dreams.
Life in the Shadows
We live by the glow of LED lights now, a pale imitation of the sun’s radiance. The buildings are sealed, air filtered and recycled, life sustained by artificial means. The outside world is a forbidden zone, a toxic wasteland where the air is unbreathable and the light is nonexistent. Our days are measured not by the rising and setting of the sun, but by the monotonous ticking of clocks, by the shifting of schedules in the sterile, underground complexes that have become our homes.
Many suffer from “sun-sickness,” a deep depression born of the endless night. They long for the warmth, the light, the freedom of the world above. They yearn for the colours of the sky, the feel of the wind on their faces, the simple pleasures that were once taken for granted. Some retreat into memories, clinging to old photographs, replaying stories of the sun in their minds. Others succumb to despair, lost in the darkness that surrounds them.
Children born after the cataclysm have never seen the sun. They know it only through stories and simulations, through faded pictures and secondhand accounts. They struggle to comprehend the concept of warmth, of light that comes from above. They see the sun as a myth, a legend, a fantastical tale told to them by their elders. Their concept of last time I seen the sun is something imagined, not lived.
Chasing Glimmers of Hope
Yet, even in this darkness, hope flickers. A small band of scientists believes there’s a way to filter the atmosphere, to pierce the cloud of ash that shrouds our world. They work tirelessly, day and night, experimenting with new technologies, searching for a breakthrough. They analyze the data, run simulations, and pour over ancient texts, hoping to find a clue, a solution, a way to bring back the sun.
They tell us that the process will be long and arduous, that there are no guarantees of success. But they persevere, driven by a fierce determination, fueled by the memory of the sun. They believe that humanity deserves a second chance, that we can learn from our mistakes, that we can rebuild a world where the sun shines again.
I cling to their hope, because without it, there’s nothing left. Without the possibility of seeing the sun again, life becomes a meaningless exercise, a pointless struggle in the darkness. I tell myself that one day, I will stand beneath the sun’s rays once more. I will feel its warmth on my skin, see its light in the sky, and breathe the fresh air of a world reborn.
Grandfather’s Tales
My grandfather used to take me to the beach. He’d tell me stories of the ocean, of the power of the waves, of the life that thrived under the sun’s gaze. He’d point out the different kinds of seashells, the patterns in the sand, the flight of the seabirds. He taught me to respect the ocean, to appreciate its beauty, to understand its importance. Those stories are my only connection to that lost world. Those memories are my lifeline, my beacon in the darkness.
He’d talk about the sun’s influence on the tides, its role in creating the weather, its power to shape the landscape. He explained the science behind the sunsets, the refraction of light through the atmosphere, the chemical reactions that created the vibrant colours. He taught me that the sun wasn’t just a source of light and warmth; it was a force of nature, a fundamental element of our planet. He instilled in me a deep respect for nature and the environment, lessons that I now carry with me in this dark age.
Now, the beaches are desolate. Empty husks of what once was, covered in ash and shrouded in darkness. I will probably never see the ocean again, hear the waves, or feel the sun on my skin as I stand on the shore.
Remembering the Sun
The last time I seen the sun was a lifetime ago, but the memory of its warmth, its light, its life-giving power, remains etched in my soul. It is a memory that fuels my hope for a future where our children can once again bask in its golden rays. It is a memory that reminds me of the beauty and wonder of the world, a world that we must strive to reclaim.
Will we ever see the sun again? Or will its memory fade, like a photograph bleached by the endless night? Will the stories of the sun become nothing more than myths and legends, tales whispered in the darkness? I don’t know the answer. But I refuse to give up hope. I refuse to let the darkness consume me. I will continue to cherish the memory of the sun, and I will continue to fight for a future where it shines once more. A future where we can say again, with joy and gratitude, that we have seen the sun. The last time I seen the sun may have been long ago, but the hope for its return keeps me alive. The hope keeps us all alive. And that hope, like a tiny seed buried deep within the earth, waits for the day it can finally blossom in the sunlight once more.
