The Last Day of a Disappearing Village

The Last Days of a Disappearing Village

The tide was higher today than it had ever been before.

Fatima stood at the edge of what had once been the village’s marketplace. The sea lapped at her feet, the water cool and familiar, yet now an intruder. She could still remember when this place had been full of life — vendors selling fish, spices, and woven mats, children playing, the warm sound of laughter. Now, all that remained were broken cobblestones submerged under an ever-rising sea.

Her grandmother's words echoed in her mind: "This village was here before your great-grandmother was born, and it will be here long after you're gone." The thought stung, a promise broken by the ocean. For centuries, their village had thrived along the coast, nestled between the sea and the mountains, but no one could have prepared for the day the sea would turn against them. The village had been the heart of their family for generations — the place where her parents were married, where her brother had learned to fish, where she had first heard the stories of her ancestors who had lived and died by the water.

Now, it was sinking.

Fatima wiped a tear from her cheek, trying to suppress the anger welling inside her. She wasn’t angry at the ocean; she couldn’t be. The ocean had been their sustenance, their protection, their life. But it was now also their enemy. Her real anger was directed at the world beyond their island. The world that burned coal, built factories, and made decisions that had led them to this. A world that had forgotten small villages like hers existed.

The village elders had tried to hold back the tide. They built sea walls, piled up sandbags, and prayed. But nothing had worked. Every year, the water crept closer, swallowing more and more of the village. First, the outer homes, then the school, and finally, the marketplace. Now, only the church and a few stubborn houses remained, like lone sentinels guarding the final memories of a fading past.

Her father had been one of the last to leave. He had stayed, refusing to abandon the house where his father had been born, where he had raised his own children. Even after the waters flooded the floors and destroyed their belongings, he stayed. "I will not leave this place," he had said with defiance, his eyes clouded with the weight of history. But when the ocean began seeping through the cracks of their front door, when it became too dangerous to stay, he finally relented.

Now, the village was nearly empty. Most families had left for the mainland, where they were strangers in unfamiliar cities, forced to start over in cramped apartments far from the sea. Fatima hated the city. It lacked the soul of the village, the rhythm of the tides, the salt-scented wind that had been her constant companion since birth. She couldn’t stay in the city, so she returned whenever she could, even as the waters kept rising. It was painful to return and see the decay, but it was even more painful to imagine a day when she could no longer return at all.

Fatima's younger brother, Karim, had stayed in the city. He was practical, and he told her repeatedly, "The village is gone. We have to move on." But she couldn't. There was no moving on from this — from losing the only home she had ever known. The ocean had taken their past, and the world beyond their island had stolen their future. How could she move on when she was filled with so much grief and anger?

She crouched down, letting her fingers brush the water's surface. In it, she could still feel the pulse of the village, its heart beating faintly beneath the waves. She could hear the whispers of her ancestors in the wind, calling to her to remember.

With a heavy heart, she stood and took one last look at the sinking horizon. It was time to leave, but she knew she would return until the very last day, until the village was completely gone, and only the sea remained.

Because even though the village was disappearing, it was still a part of her, and as long as she remembered it, it would never truly die.