Heatwave: Year 2080

The year was 2080, and the world had stopped pretending that summers were seasons. They were punishments.

In what had once been Karachi, the sun pressed down like a hammer. Streets shimmered as though fire crawled across the asphalt. The city was quieter than it had ever been in its history. People rarely ventured outside during the day now; the government enforced “shade curfews,” a law demanding everyone remain indoors between noon and six. Breaking it was not just illegal but suicidal.

Inside one of the few habitable towers left, twelve-year-old Ayaan pressed his face against a window covered in reflective film. He squinted at the horizon, where the sea had shrunk back like a dying animal. What remained was brown, brackish, and streaked with oil. Once, his father told him, the sea breeze made evenings cool. Now the wind carried only dust and heat, hot enough to scald skin.

“Step back,” his mother warned. “You’ll burn your eyes even through the filter.”

Ayaan obeyed, though curiosity gnawed at him. He had heard stories of parks, of trees whose shade stretched wide enough for entire families to picnic under. He’d seen old videos where children played cricket in the afternoon sun, laughing instead of gasping for breath. He wondered if those memories belonged to another planet.

His father, Idris, worked for the Climate Stabilization Authority, one of the countless agencies born too late. Every evening, he returned smelling of sweat and plastic, his clothes heavy with dust. Today, he looked more tired than usual. He collapsed into the chair by the cooling unit, which sputtered like an old man wheezing for air.

“They shut down another grid,” Idris said flatly. “Power cuts will last longer.”

Ayaan’s mother closed her eyes, steadying herself. “How long this time?”

“Maybe weeks. The demand is too high. People are running cooling units day and night.” He rubbed his temples. “The Authority says the new reflectors on the orbital belt should lower surface temperatures by half a degree. Half a degree.” He laughed bitterly. “As if that matters when the ground itself is boiling.”

That night, sleep was impossible. Even with the unit running, the air in their room felt thick, like breathing through a wet cloth. Ayaan lay awake, listening to the faint crackle of the city outside—the sound of wires sagging in heat, the whine of distant drones, the occasional wail of someone who hadn’t made it indoors in time.

The next morning, Ayaan slipped out while his parents dozed. He padded quietly down the stairwell, clutching a cloth soaked in the last of their cold water. The building’s front door was heavy, and when he pushed it open, the heat hit him like a wall. His lungs seized, his skin prickled. Still, he walked on.

He wasn’t searching for adventure. He was searching for something he wasn’t even sure existed. Rumor had it that near the city’s edge, where the old gardens once stood, a few trees still clung to life.

His sandals stuck to the softening road, each step a struggle. He shielded his face with the wet cloth, but it dried almost instantly. The sky above shimmered, not blue but white, so bright it felt alive.

After what felt like hours, he reached the edge of the district. There, amidst crumbling stone and dried fountains, he found it: a tree. Its trunk was gnarled, half-scorched, but a few stubborn leaves clung to the branches. A miracle.

Ayaan stood under its meager shade, his chest heaving. For a moment, the air felt bearable. He pressed his palm to the bark and imagined an entire forest—green canopies, rivers of shade, the sound of birds that hadn’t been heard in decades.

Behind him, the city groaned. Above him, the sky blazed mercilessly. Yet here, under this dying tree, Ayaan let himself dream. If one tree could survive, perhaps more could return. Perhaps the world hadn’t finished burning.

And perhaps, in the heatwave of 2080, hope was the only thing strong enough not to wither.