My name is ∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗∗, but no one's spoken it in years—not on Sol-3A, and not anywhere else
Not even her.
I lived in Sector 17, a middle-low zone on the outer rings of Neo-Tokyo Earth. Our building was rusting, but it stood tall enough to scrape the sun. Inside, our home buzzed with recycled air and the distant hum of vertical traffic.
My mother was everything.
She used to be a teacher.
Now, she couldn't even move her fingers.
The med card said Neural Freeze Type-2. Curable, but too rare, too expensive. No insurance. No father. Just me and her.
I made breakfast that day. I told her about a memory. A joke she once made when I was ten.
She didn't laugh.
She blinked. Once.
"Today," I said, "we're going out. Just like the old times."
I helped her into the wheelchair, fastened the straps, and locked her spinal regulator. Her head leaned against the support. Her hair was silver. Her eyes? Still alive.
We left home.
The city was cruel in its beauty.
Neon light spilled across steel walls. Floating cabs whispered by in silence. LED ads shimmered on glass towers: AI pets, meat-free nutrition pods, virtual playgrounds. But real animals?
Extinct. Almost all.
We took the mag-walk through chrome tunnels to the Zoo of the Forgotten—a sanctuary-turned-museum housing Earth's last natural beings.
Inside, it was colder. Sterile.
First were the felines. A single cat, sleeping. Its ribs showed. Beside it, a faded label: "Genetically Preserved. Bengal, 2037."
Then came dogs. One barked once before lying down again.
The horses, too weak to stand, stood motionless in gravity braces.
"Life without purpose," I whispered, "isn't life at all."
My mother's fingers twitched. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe something else.
We reached the Avian Vault—the last section.
Behind the reinforced glass stood a single crow. Tall. Sleek. Blacker than night.
It stared at me.
I stared back.
Then—it cawed.
Loud. Echoing.
My mother stirred again. Her lips moved.
"That... voice... you?"
I knelt beside her. Held her hand.
"I'm still here."
The zoo lights flickered. A power pulse, maybe. Or something else.
We left.
Back outside, the clouds dimmed. A low drizzle made the concrete shimmer like oil. The L-shaped intersection before our block blinked yellow, awaiting pedestrian clearance. A freight truck—driverless, jet-black—raced toward it at high speed.
Its LiDAR pulsed red over the crossing.
Then something small dropped from the sky.
A stone.
Dark. Round. Silent. It bounced once. Rolled. And stopped near the truck's scanner.
The vehicle paused.
> LIDAR ERROR: UNCLASSIFIED OBJECT DETECTED
RECALCULATING ROUTE…
Then, it turned.
Toward us.
The system never scanned us.
Never saw us.
I saw the wheel flick. The engine rev.
I pushed the chair.
"Go!"
She rolled away—just enough.
I wasn't fast enough.
There was a noise.
Not metal. Not wind.
Me.
The sound of blood hitting the street.
I hit the ground hard. I couldn't feel my ribs. My vision swam in crimson static.
"No... not now... I can't... leave her..."
"I still haven't fixed her..."
"She was smiling in that dream last night..."
"I promised... I'd take her to the mountains someday..."
"Not like this..."
I turned my head.
The crow was on the lamppost above.
Cawing. Loud. Wild.
Behind it, glass from the Avian Vault cracked. A siren blared.
In my last breath, I looked for her.
She was at the edge of the curb. Her eyes—open.
Tears ran down, but her body didn't move.
Paralyzed.
I smiled.
Or maybe I cried.
I couldn't tell.
And then—darkness.
Only one thing remained:
A smile.
Not hers.
Not mine.
A mouth in the void. Curved. Watching.
"Another one joins the game."
I didn't hear it.
But I knew.
Before everything went black, I whispered:
"Not this time."