The Day the Sky Forgot the Sun

The morning began with silence.

Not the usual kind—the calm before the city wakes up, the hush of dawn—but a silence that felt… wrong.

When I pulled the curtains, my chest tightened.

The sky was there, endless and blue, but the sun was missing. Just—gone.

No golden light, no warmth on the skin, no shadows stretching across the street.

Only a flat, cold glow, like the sky had forgotten how to live.

People gathered outside, pointing, whispering, some crying. Phones buzzed with breaking news, scientists fumbling for explanations, politicians urging calm. But the truth was clear: the world looked the same, and yet everything had changed.

By noon, flowers began to close their petals. Birds circled in confusion, then vanished. My neighbor’s toddler cried until his voice cracked, reaching for a brightness that wasn’t there.

That night—if you could call it night—was worse. The stars looked sharper, crueler, without the sun’s steady promise anchoring them.

On the second day, the silence deepened. Not outside—inside us. Conversations slowed. Smiles disappeared. Hope thinned.

It wasn’t hunger that gnawed at us. It was the absence of something we had trusted without question, something we thought could never be taken away.

On the third day, a child in our street drew a giant sun with chalk on the pavement. Yellow lines stretching wide, glowing against the grey. Neighbors stopped, stared, and for the first time since the disappearance—smiled.

And that’s when it hit me:

The sky may have forgotten the sun.

But we hadn’t.

The warmth was still here, in us. In chalk drawings, in laughter shared in the dark, in the stubborn belief that even if the light vanished, we could make our own.

Unreal, maybe.

But real enough to save us.