139 Years to the End of the World

Door to Tomorrow, Part Three

One thing I've never believed in was divine powers. God didn't create the world in a week and the Day of the Mist certainly wasn't a way to punish sinners. My grandfather once told me that we had just one life in this world, and that was it. No afterlife or happily ever after when we pass. And because we had just this one chance at living, we had to make each and every second of it count. What we leave behind after we're dead is our legacy, and it's our responsibility to make that shine as brightly as possible. I think that idea's much more beautiful than anything a deity could represent.

I left G outside as the large, oak double door of the church closed behind me, the dimness of the building settling into view. There was only one pathway from the entrance pass the marble stoup. I crossed the container of holy water without interacting with it in any way and into the main hall of the small church.

Long wooden benches lined the aisle that lead to the bema, the extended platform from which clergymen would preach from. The body of Jesus Christ was portrayed into the stained glass window behind the podium. The only source of light came through the body of the son of God. Christianity was one of the few things that made it through the Day of the Mist. In the face of almost certain destruction, I guess some people needed hope and spiritual support more than food or shelter.

Sitting nearer to the aisle on the front bench to the left were the silhouettes of two people. A tall, pony-tailed woman in a glowing white lab coat, and shorter figure with clipped and wavy auburn hair. There were no guesses needed to know who they were.

"Joan," I called out to my wife in a nervous, almost inaudible whisper. "Leila."

My heart skipped a beat when the pony-tailed woman twitched in surprise at my voice. A wave of insecurity drowned me in a flash flood. What if she doesn't recognise me? Does she even remember my name? All my worries were moot however, when in less than five seconds, she had crossed the length of the church and ran into my chest in a tight embrace, face buried in my chest.

She lifted herself off and stared face-to-face with me. Her hair, once dark like the night sky, were now lighter, akin to charcoal. Thin creases, barely visible, ran through her forehead. Aside for the length of her hair, Joan looked almost the same as she did seven years ago. Her lab coat was ragged with patches of dirt, as I had assumed it would, and she still wore her patented style of shorts and dirt stained white shirt underneath.

As her hazel eyes scanned my face as frantically as I scanned hers, our stares met and she broke out with a smile. Though not openly weeping, balls of tears rolled down her cheeks. "Hey you," she croaked.

My heart melted at the familiar voice, soothing me both emotionally and physically, and I let out a breath I didn't even knew I held. "Hey yourself."

On the way over, I had dozens of questions deluging in my head to ask when I met her. How are you? Is Lelia doing good in school? So you're a hero now? But with my wife in front of me, all those questions disappeared, and it felt as if we've not parted for more than a day. For me at least, that was the truth. I had after all, just woken from what was basically a nap.

I asked, "Where's Leila?"

The smile slipped from Joan's face. Just slightly, barely noticeable. But I could tell. I had always been able to know. It's one of those things about loving someone deeply. Something was wrong and she was putting up a strong front.

She turned to the other figure that remained on the bench and called out, "Leila, come say hi to your dad."

If I was any older, I would probably have had a heart attack the moment the girl stood up. Dragging her feet across the aisle, my daughter was the epitome of proof that I was, indeed, seven years into the future from my previous day.