Silent observers like fading sparks

When the city sirens had not yet wailed, I, to my regret, already knew everything for a long time, because there were many such things, because it was around me, because of those with whom I worked… I pulled myself back mid-word. The fountain pen left a jagged stroke on the paper at the end of the word. The touch of the cold wind on the exposed part of my neck, which the autumn coat did not cover, felt as if someone dead had touched it with their bony and blue fingers, chilled to the soul. The metallic screech of tram wheels at the rail joints, which, judging by the grinding sound mixed with it, had not been checked or serviced for a long time. It sounded especially loud. The caw of a crow in the darkening sky, the sun setting beyond the horizon, handing over its duties to its successor – the Moon, which was forced to become a silent observer of the entire scene spread out on the ground beneath it. It would guide them with its light on their final journey or meet those who miraculously survived. The pulse of burning windows, fading, torn, the last one.

I got off the tram, walked to the first embankment, and sat on the first bench I came across. I lit a cigarette and closed my eyes, feeling the hairs on my arms stand on end, turning into small sharp needles, as if trying to shield me from the impending and inevitable demise.

The sirens split the evening in two, the time “Before” and the time “After,” of which so little remained. 14 minutes, if you think about it, is enough for a lot, if you don’t be greedy and spend a minute on each desired action. Closing my eyes, I sat and listened to how the world around me was rapidly shrinking. It was already dead, but it did not yet understand this, and only individual sparks in it, like in a cooling fire, glowed, those who were in no hurry. Those who had nowhere to hurry, and no time for it.

While my mind plunged into a sea of thoughts and momentary oblivion, a stray cool wind flipped a couple of pages of my notebook. As if it was interested in knowing what one of the small sparks, one of the small souls, who would soon extinguish, was writing. But it did not try to avoid this, calmly awaiting what was to happen. Rustling the yellowed pages, on which remained the imprints of my beloved coffee mugs, I opened the notebook on the page where I had started writing and continued. Why am I writing this? My fate is to die along with my creation, my city, to which I dedicated all of myself, gave my body and soul. But who knows the fate of these notes? Foolish, how foolish. I smirked, understanding that the paper would not survive the impending explosion, which would soon occur. But despite this, I continued to write, as if it could somehow change the inevitable or at least allow me to forget for a couple of moments and lose myself in the sea of oblivion, which was gradually advancing on the shores of my sanity.

I continued to write, despite the trembling in my hands and the cold seeping into my bones. Time flowed like sand through my fingers, and I knew it would all end soon. But in these final moments, I felt a strange calm, as if I had accepted my fate. I wrote to leave a mark, even if ephemeral, in this dying world. And perhaps, someday, someone will find these pages and understand that we were here, that we lived. NO please…