Mountaintops

“Wake up!” someone yelled—then a shock of cold washed over my body.

I opened my eyes to a fantastic scene: mountains upon mountains, covered in snow. The sun reeled down from the sky, burning into me.

“We’ll see you in twenty-four hours. Hopefully, you won’t be dead,” said the voice as an engine roared behind me. A car drove off. I didn’t see it—I couldn’t move my arms, and I couldn’t feel my legs.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird’s cry echoed through the mountains. I wasn’t sure where I was, but I knew I was alone.

The sun burned on, as it always has and will—for some time, anyway. I thought about the day it would finally die. Surely, some life would go on. Maybe less. Maybe more. Would they be afraid—or prepared?

The birds kept calling, their cries reverberating across the ridges, folding in and out of each other like layers of time. I wondered then: would any of Earth’s wildlife survive the end of the sun?

I was pretty sure the larger species wouldn’t. Not the birds. Not my cat. Not my dog. Not my daughters. Not the horses, or cows, or tarantulas, or crocodiles. Just the smallest things. Microorganisms. They’d keep going, unaware anything had changed. Their world is already so massive to them—how would they know?

The sun began to set. The mountain grew colder.

The birds fell silent, and strangely, I felt comfort in that. I knew this night would be terrible. But worrying over how I might survive only made me more tired.

I dreamt awful things—things I can’t fully recall, but I remember waking in a cold sweat. In all that darkness and freezing air, I panicked. That’s when I heard the shots.

Gunshots, echoing through the mountains. Then: explosions of fire. Brilliant bursts of color—beautiful, almost compassionate. They streamed through the sky all night. And the singing…

How could I forget the singing?

I’ve never heard anything so enchanting, so spiritual. The chorus of gods. I saw my children playing in the snow. My husband cooking dinner. I saw myself there, smiling. The song lingered, woven into the fire, and it haunts me still.

Morning came.

My old friend—the sun—rose before me. Alongside it, the mountain sang again. Birds took flight. Majestic beasts soaring, gliding past one another like myths with wings. I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

But in a moment, joy was shattered by a crack in the sky. A cloud of burgundy blood and feathers crossed my view.

“She’s a beauty,” said a voice.

An elderly man was suddenly beside me, looking me dead in the eye.

“What are you doing up here, kid?” he asked.

“You shot it,” I said, furious.

“Sure did. Awful rats, they are,” he chuckled.

“It didn’t do a goddamn thing to you, and you shot it clear.”

He just smiled. “Now, son, these birds aren’t canaries. They’re not songbirds. They’re vicious… carnivorous.”

He raised his hand. Two fingers were gone. The others, partially mangled.

“One nearly killed my boy when he was five. When I fought them off, they did this—and left him deformed. God bless him,” he said, wincing.

I didn’t know what to say. Embarrassed, I asked, “Can you help me out of this?”

He smiled, patted my shoulder, and undid my bindings.

“Now let’s get you some breakfast, right?”

I shook what was left of his hand and thanked him.

On the plane ride home, I slept.

I dreamed of my children. My husband. When I woke, it was to the sun again—warm on my shoulder, waking me from a dream I’ve had a hundred times.

And once more, I thought of the end. The sun, fading.

I couldn’t say whether we’d be ready. Life on Earth is tricky. There’s no rhyme or reason. Maybe people will vanish long before the sun does—maybe an asteroid, or the oceans will rise. Maybe God just wants to return. Who knows?

All I know is—I have my sun. And canaries will always sing.

I’ll grow old. My children will grow old. We’ll all be gone sooner than we’d like. The sun will have its rightful time too—and for that, I’m grateful.

For now, we live by it. We respect it. We thank it—for everything good and bad.

Today, I’ll thank that kind old man on the mountaintop.

I’ll thank the lights.

I’ll thank the awful dreams that somehow kept me warm.

And I know—I’m going to be grateful for it all for a very, very long time.