Before the Sky Falls

311 Days

The sky outside felt too wide.
Too open. Too vast. Like it was trying to swallow her whole.

Rika stood at the jagged edge of the broken rooftop, the city yawning far below in a patchwork of blinking lights and shifting shadows. The wind clawed at her coat, tangled itself in her hair, cold and restless against her skin. Her fingers curled around the metal railing, rusted and half-detached, like even it didn’t know how much longer it could hold on.

Down below, life moved on. Cars passed. Streetlights flickered. People walked, talked, argued, laughed. As if nothing was wrong. As if the sky itself wasn’t broken.

But the sky—no, the sky knew.
The moon hung low, swollen and pale, like an eye that never blinked. Watching. Waiting. It felt heavier than it had ever been, a looming presence that pulled at everything—tides, time, hearts, hope. It didn’t just hang in the sky anymore; it threatened.
It was more than a warning. It was a promise.

For too long, Rika had been buried—drowned in calculations, formulas, simulations that always fell short. A thousand failed attempts and a hundred sleepless nights. She had watched the world shrink to the size of her desk, her life compressed into late-night coffee, glowing screens, and countdown clocks. But now—for the first time in weeks—she was outside. And it was terrifying.

She let out a sharp breath. The air bit at her lungs, sharp and dry and real. And still, she welcomed it. The weight pressing against her chest hadn’t gone away, but it felt clearer now. Sharper. Focused.

She wasn’t here to wallow. Not anymore.

She was here to fix this.

The moon. The tides. The clock that ticked down in every news broadcast. The unspoken fear behind every half-hearted reassurance. All of it. She would fix it.

Even if she had to wait twenty days to get her stupid construction permit.
Even if nobody believed it could be done.
Even if the plan wasn’t guaranteed.
Even if Sayo wasn’t here to do it with her.
It didn’t matter anymore.

With quick, practiced movements, she pulled a folder from her bag and flipped it open. Papers rustled in the wind—some creased, some stained with coffee rings and sweat. Diagrams, notes, scribbled formulas that barely made sense anymore. But she knew them like a second skin. These were hers. Her lifeline. Her rebellion.

The machine. The gravitational anchor. The last chance.

Her heart pounded as she skimmed the blueprints—lines, numbers, pressure readings, stress tolerances. The scope of it was enormous. It had to be built in a big clearing or underwater or just far enough away that any failure wouldn’t drag half the city down with it. Still, she had no intention of failing.

She glanced at her tablet. A message still waited on the screen, timestamped days ago:

“I’ll be in touch. Let’s meet. We can build this together.” —Kirishima

Her stomach flipped. That was it. That was the first real step.

She wasn’t doing this alone.

A Few Weeks Ago

The tablet screen glowed dimly in the corner of Rika’s cluttered room. Empty mugs lined the windowsill, and a half-eaten convenience store sandwich sat forgotten beside a stack of physics textbooks. She paced the narrow space between her desk and the bed, chewing at her thumbnail and glancing at the time for the sixth time in two minutes.

She had drafted the message three times already. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Hesitated. She wasn’t even sure he’d answer.

But then, without warning, the call connected.
The screen flickered—and there he was.

“Rika?”
Professor Kirishima looked older than she remembered, back when she and Sayo were still students. His once-black hair had gone almost entirely gray, and his sharp features were softened by exhaustion. He sat in what looked like a cramped study, books and tools piled up behind him in precarious towers. The light overhead buzzed faintly.

She almost ended the call right there.

“Hi,” she said, voice cracking like it hadn’t been used in days. “Um. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“It’s always late now,” he said, a dry smile touching the corners of his mouth. “But no. It’s good to see you.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. So she didn’t.

“I have something,” she said instead. “An idea. A design. I think it could actually work.”

Kirishima didn’t reply right away. He leaned forward slightly, hands steepled under his chin. “Is this about the moon?”

“What else would it be about?”

He sighed through his nose, then leaned back. “Everyone’s got a theory these days. Gravity counterwaves, reverse-tide engines, lunar reflectors. I’ve seen a dozen start-ups trying to profit off panic. So before you pitch me anything, I want to know: what makes yours different?”

Rika blinked. She hadn’t expected it to go like this.

“I’m not trying to sell anything,” she said. “And I’m not guessing anymore. I’ve run simulations. I’ve tested models. This isn’t just theory, it’s a working design.”

She grabbed the folder off her desk and flipped it open, holding up the diagrams to the camera. The video quality was terrible—choppy, grainy—but Kirishima leaned in, squinting at the scribbled equations, the shape of the machine.

“It’s a gravitational stabilizer,” she said quickly. “Built to generate a controlled repulsion field. Not a full reversal, just enough to nudge the moon’s path. Slowly. Gently. Over the course of months. Maybe a year. But it would buy us time.”

Kirishima was quiet for a long while. She could hear her own heartbeat in the silence.

“Where do you plan to build it?” he asked finally.

“That’s what I need you for,” she said. “I’ve narrowed it down to either an isolated mountain region, or... maybe offshore. Underwater. Somewhere far from civilian zones, with enough geological stability to withstand the output.”

He rubbed his temple. “That’s not a small ask.”

“I know.”

“You’ll need permits.”

“I got them requested.”

“You’ll need funding.”

“I have enough to get started. The rest—we’ll figure it out.”

Kirishima studied her. Not the blueprints, not the numbers—her. The dark circles under her eyes. The rigid set of her jaw. The wild, desperate hope burning behind everything she said.

“You always were stubborn,” he murmured.

“I learned from the best.”

That earned a tired chuckle.

“I want your help,” Rika said, quieter now. “I can’t do this alone. And I think… I think you believe it’s possible too. Even if you won’t say it.”

Kirishima leaned back again, staring up at the ceiling like the answer might be hidden in the cracks.

“I had a dream,” he said softly. “Two nights ago. I was floating. No sky. No ground. Just me and the moon, like a second sun. When I woke up, I couldn’t breathe for five minutes. I think I know what you're feeling.”

Rika didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

After a long pause, he nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Send me the full specs. If it looks viable, I’ll meet you at the site.”

Relief rushed through her like a second heartbeat. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “If we fail, this thing’s going to be a crater.”

She smiled, just barely. “Then we don’t fail.”

The wind shoved at her again, almost playful now, as if trying to ruffle her focus back to earth. She let it. Brushed her hair back, folded the papers carefully, and placed them back into her bag. Because if she had to drag the moon away from this planet with her bare hands, she would.

Rika lingered for a breath longer, her eyes locked on the moon like it was daring her.
Then she turned away.

It was time.