The Child Who Remembered the End of the World

Ethan was only seven years old when he began to speak of the end.

Not in the vague, fantastical way most children did—no monsters under the bed, no dreams of meteors striking the playground. His words were precise. Too precise. He spoke of skies turning red, of oceans swallowing the coasts, of cities cracking apart like dry earth.

At first, his parents laughed nervously. Children said strange things all the time, and Ethan had always had a vivid imagination. But the details unsettled them. He described people they had never met but somehow existed. He spoke of a countdown, of clocks stopping, of fire raining down from above.

When his mother asked where he had learned such things, Ethan answered simply:
“I already lived it. I was there when the world ended. But I came back.”

They told themselves it was a phase. Children outgrow strange stories. But then the signs began.

On the news, coastal towns were flooding with tides higher than recorded in decades. Ethan had spoken of “the water eating the land.” Earthquakes rattled distant cities, just as Ethan had described: “The ground split open like it was yawning.” And one night, when the sky burned orange from a chemical explosion in another part of the world, Ethan only said, in a quiet voice: “It begins.”

Word spread quickly in their small community. Parents whispered about the boy who spoke of the end. Some thought he was cursed. Others believed he was gifted, a prophet. Teachers watched him warily, unsure whether to encourage or silence his strange foresight.

Ethan himself seemed burdened by it. He drew pictures of broken cities, of blackened forests, of shadows rising against the horizon. Yet sometimes, after describing destruction, he would fall silent and curl into himself, whispering, “It hurts to remember.”

One evening, his father sat beside him in his room. The floor was littered with sketches of fire and ruins. “Ethan,” he asked gently, “why are you telling us these things? Why remember them if they hurt you?”

Ethan’s eyes, far too old for his face, lifted to meet his father’s. “Because it’s happening again. Last time, nobody listened. Maybe this time someone will.”

His parents exchanged fearful glances. The boy believed it—every word. And the frightening part was that the world seemed to be proving him right.

Months passed. Storms grew stronger, breaking records year after year. Crops failed unexpectedly. Reports of strange illnesses surfaced in distant countries. And each time, Ethan would quietly nod, as though ticking boxes off a list.

People started coming to the family’s doorstep. Some begged him to tell their future. Others accused them of faking it for attention. The pressure weighed heavily, but Ethan never wavered. “I don’t see the future,” he corrected them. “I remember it.”

Then, one night, Ethan woke screaming. His parents rushed to his side, finding him trembling, his hands clutching his chest as if the air itself was burning him.

“They’re coming,” he gasped. “The sky people. The ones made of light and fire. They came before. They will come again. And this time—” His voice cracked, and tears filled his eyes. “This time I don’t know if I come back.”

Days later, the world news erupted with reports of strange lights in the sky, dancing above multiple continents. Scientists called them rare auroras. Ethan only shook his head. “Not lights. Warnings.”

His parents tried to shield him, tried to believe the scientists, but the boy’s certainty gnawed at them.

And then came the night the sky turned crimson. The lights shifted from shimmering green to violent red, stretching across the horizon like blood spilled into the heavens. Sirens wailed across cities. The power grid flickered and failed. Panic erupted in the streets.

Ethan stood at his window, watching. His small figure looked impossibly fragile against the burning sky. “It’s the same,” he whispered. “Just like before. I told you.”

His mother clutched him, sobbing. “If you’ve lived this before, if you came back, tell us—how does it end?”

Ethan’s face tightened with grief no child should bear. He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t end. It repeats.”

The ground shuddered beneath them. In the distance, the glow of collapsing buildings lit the horizon. Fires climbed upward like hungry beasts. Screams filled the night.

And through it all, Ethan stood silent, eyes fixed on the sky, as though searching for something only he could see.

Perhaps he was cursed to remember. Perhaps he truly had lived through it once before. Or perhaps he was the only soul who carried within him the memory of humanity’s endless cycle of destruction—born again and again, forced to watch the same mistakes unfold.

As the world tore itself apart, Ethan whispered one last time:
“Maybe… next time… you’ll listen.”