The day the sky fell, so too did the existence they knew.

Alien ships, like darkish blots towards

the solar, descended with a violence that grew to become their blue skies to fireplace. In their
wake, the impossible: a contagion that didn’t bleed them dry however crammed the streets with
the reanimated shells in their own. Their cities, their sanctuaries, became hunting grounds for
these twisted echoes of who they once have been.
Amid this wreck, Maria walked, a bulwark of flesh and blood against the creeping loss of life.
Her pregnancy have been a component of joy in a world that now seemed to ceremonial dinner
on melancholy. Each step was heavy—no longer simply with the burden of her unborn toddler
but with the burden of solitude. The bag she carried become worn on the seams, full of extra
hope than components—a onesie that also held the store's crease, a blanket never used, a pacifier
never bitten.
Her own family turned into long gone, ate up by way of the chaos or was the very monsters she
fled from. Yet as she moved through the hollowed husks of homes, she spoke to her child. She
advised tales of green parks and laughter, of ice cream on hot days and kisses goodnight—stories
of a world she prayed can be once more.
The human beings she met have been weary, eyes darting with a suspicion born of betrayal.
Once, to be human supposed to be a part of a network. Now, it supposed you were just a chew
away from becoming the enemy. But in Maria's stomach, there has been an innocence the world
hadn't yet touched, and she would do everything to guard it.
Her bravery wasn't a preference—it changed into maternal instinct, honed sharp as a knife’s
facet. The fear that she might not stay to peer her infant's first breath turned into a ghost that
walked beside her, but she would not let it take her hand. She breathed via the ache, via the
contractions that got here more insistently now, a reminder that life, cussed and beautiful, was
preventing to emerge.
This changed into her story, written not with words but with the rhythm of survival—the beat of
a coronary heart that refused to forestall, the warm temperature of a frame fighting against the
cold, the electricity of a will that would not ruin. Her child might be born into a international of
monsters, yes, but Maria vowed to shape a pocket of peace amidst the horror, to be a mother in a
time when humanity become described by way of its absence.
She walked on, a symbol of what the sector had lost and what it can, perhaps, regain—a light
inside the darkness, a whisper of love, a testament to the human spirit. This became her rise up,
her act of defiance, her battle. And she would fight it one step, one breath, one heartbeat at a
time.