There Is No Tomorrow

The wind howled through the empty streets of what used to be downtown Chicago. Streetlights flickered in vain, casting eerie glows on shattered windows and overturned newspaper stands. The headlines—faded and tattered—still read: GLOBAL COUNTDOWN: FINAL 24 HOURS.

Elena pulled her scarf tighter around her neck as she trudged past the ghost of a once-bustling café. The chairs were still out, frozen in place like relics of a lost world. She clutched a small backpack to her chest and kept her head down. Not because there was anyone left to be afraid of—but because the silence screamed too loud when she looked up.

The world had known it for weeks. Scientists, governments, even the skeptics had finally agreed: the asteroid was real. And unstoppable. No nuclear defense, no miracle trajectory shift. Just a rock the size of a mountain hurtling toward Earth, due to collide in less than twelve hours.

And then… nothing. No tomorrow. No second chances.

Elena wasn’t afraid anymore. She had been, once—when the news first broke. When people ran wild in the streets and stores were looted for food and batteries and desperate prayers. But as time passed, something strange happened. People stopped running.

They just… started saying goodbye.

Some made peace with family. Some turned to faith. Others turned inward.

Elena had done none of those things. She had waited too long.

She arrived at the rusted gate of an old brownstone on Monroe Street. The place hadn’t changed in years, even as the world fell apart. There was ivy on the walls, a crack down the left windowpane, and a small ceramic bird above the doorbell. She didn’t press it. She just stood there, knuckles white around the strap of her backpack.

Then the door opened.

“Figured you'd show up eventually,” her father said. His voice was gravel—tired, but not surprised.

She looked at him. At the deep wrinkles that worry had carved into his face, at the gray in his beard she’d never noticed before.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d let me in.”

He stepped aside.

“You shouldn’t have waited until the end to come home.”

“I didn’t know how,” she whispered.

They sat in the old living room, surrounded by dust and memories. He poured tea, though neither of them drank it. The air was thick with unsaid things.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “For leaving the way I did. For all those years.”

He nodded slowly. “And I’m sorry for how I made you feel like you had to.”

They both exhaled. Not quite peace—but something close.

As night fell, they moved out to the back porch. The stars were unusually bright—no city lights to drown them out. Somewhere in the sky, death was coming. But the stars didn’t care.

Elena reached into her backpack and pulled out a photo album—old and heavy.

“I thought… maybe we could look through it.”

They turned pages together. Birthdays. Beach trips. A dog they had both loved. A mother now long gone. Somewhere between page twelve and thirteen, her father laughed for the first time in years. It wasn’t much—but it was real.

At midnight, the sky began to change. A soft glow appeared on the horizon—not sunrise, but something brighter. The comet. The final hour.

Elena leaned her head on his shoulder. “Are you scared?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But also… not really. You?”

“No. Not anymore.”

And they sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the sky that had always felt eternal—but now looked as fragile as glass.

As the light grew, Elena closed her eyes and thought of all the things they had missed. All the words unspoken. But also, she thought of this moment. Of the weight lifted from her heart. Of reconciliation—however late.

Maybe, she thought, you didn’t need a future to find peace.

Maybe sometimes, today is enough.

And then, the sky lit up like fire.

And there was no tomorrow.

But for the first time in years, there was no regret either.