From July 12th, Saturday, to July 16th, Thursday

July 12, Saturday.

The sky was painted a dark gray, with a light drizzle falling nonstop. Not enough for umbrellas, but enough to dampen people's clothes slightly.

After the funeral mass, the burial of Eugénie Lloris, Jonas’s grandmother, began. The boy stood still, pale and expressionless. There were no tears—only an emptiness inside him. Thérése wouldn’t let go of her brother’s hand, her lips trembling, her gaze vacant.

The priest spoke with kindness and compassion. He had known Jonas’s grandmother for decades, and although the recent global divide between apocalyptic and non-apocalyptic believers had turned religious ceremonies into almost political acts, funerals in that town still tried to avoid that. The priest mentioned her piety, her devotion, and her sacrifices. For Jonas, it was too many of them.

"From dust you came, and to dust you shall return. She has returned to the Father’s house," said the priest, an elderly man with a white mustache and glasses, making the sign of the cross.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Jonas just stared at it, feeling numb. The woman who had raised him after his parents died—who scolded him strictly, but loved him sincerely—was now just a buried memory. He couldn’t even describe the feeling. Another part of his world was crumbling.

As the guests began to disperse, Iris approached Jonas, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Hey. Want to talk?" the girl asked.

Jonas didn’t respond immediately. He took a deep breath, looking at the spot where his grandmother was buried, while Thérése still clung to his hand.

"I just... I don’t know what happens now," Jonas said. "She was the owner of the house. All the bills are in her name. I don’t even know if we can stay there or if the government, or the bank, or whoever, will kick us out. And I can’t handle all this paperwork, Iris. I’m not even an adult!"

"You’re not alone, Jonas. You and Thérése can count on me. My parents are still debating whether they’ll move to one of those religious camps. Things are getting worse every day. But... I have a plan. If they really leave, I’m not going with them."

"What are you going to do?"

"Secret. But if it works, you and Thérése can join me and them."

They stood in silence for a few seconds. The world had forced them to plan survival strategies like adults.

"Come on. There’s something I want to do," said Jonas, walking with Iris and Thérése to the area where they kept flowers for the guests to leave for the dead.

Jonas picked up a few and searched for a certain grave—Quentin’s. He knelt and placed the flowers on it.

"He didn’t deserve what happened..." Iris mourned.

"No one does. He just wanted to do good, you know? Just like my grandmother. Even if I don’t understand it, even if it all seems insane now... I know they believed they were doing the right thing..."

Jonas looked up, and for the first time since everything happened, he cried—a mix of anger, pain, helplessness, and sadness—as his tears mixed with the soft drizzle. He wondered if faith was supposed to cost one's life.

July 16, Thursday.

The weather kept changing—sunny one day, rainy the next. Zek, of course, took advantage of it, claiming “he felt like messing with the weather.”

The sun was setting, and Renata leaned against a streetlight post. Lucien had messaged her, saying he wanted to take her to a place she’d like. She had never hung out with friends before—not because she didn’t want to, but because no one had ever wanted to. Still, she was cautious. She didn’t fully trust this boy who had shown her some kindness.

"Hey! Sorry I’m late!" said Lucien.

"Just tell me what this place is. I’m curious."

"It’s not far. It’s a surprise."

Renata followed Lucien through the streets, already preparing to run in case it turned out to be some stupid prank. After ten minutes, they arrived at what looked like a repurposed warehouse, painted with vibrant graffiti and adorned with various lights and murals, with a sign that read “Church of the New Dawn.”

"This is a church..." Renata said, stopping in her tracks.

"Yeah, but it’s different. They’ve got a skate ramp out back, poetry and freestyle nights. They play rock, reggae, hip hop... It’s tailored to a young, urban crowd. I thought you might like it. No stereotypical sermons."

She was silent for a moment. Part of her wanted to turn around and leave. But curiosity—and the strange feeling of someone considering her interests—kept her there.

The improvised church was full of young people, with electronic music playing in the background. A large wall displayed murals of religious scenes reimagined with urban aesthetics, like Jesus helping the homeless.

They attended a short session led by the pastor—a man with dyed hair, piercings, and tattoos—which felt more like a motivational talk than a sermon. Then a former drug addict gave his testimony on how the church had changed him. They also took part in a creative writing exercise. It wasn’t bad. Renata even liked parts of it. But something about it bothered her. By the time it ended, it was already dark.

"So? What did you think?" Lucien asked, walking beside her down the street.

"It’s... unique. Cool. But... not for me, you know..." Renata replied.

"I thought you’d like it."

"I thought the vibe and idea were cool, but like I said, not for me. Lucien..."

"What?"

"This felt like a trap," Renata said, turning her back on him.

"A trap?" Lucien replied, surprised.

"You invited me out, like we were going to have fun, talk, or something. Without mentioning this church stuff. I thought... I don’t know, I thought you actually wanted to be my friend. But I guess I’m just another lost soul to convert, right?"

"I told you, I thought you’d like it."

"But it didn’t feel honest!" Renata said, raising her voice, turning to face him.

"Renata, look, I like you... I’m sorry if it felt manipulative, but I wanted to help. You’re always alone, always pushing people away."

"Yeah... because people treat me like I’m broken."

"You shut people out, then complain you’re alone. If you keep being so closed-off and hostile, no one will want to be around you. Not even as a friend, let alone anything more."

She turned away again, nearly crying, but said nothing. Those words hit harder than Lucien realized.

"Fuck this. I’m going home," Renata said.

"Renata, come back! You know what? Forget it. I was warned you were weird!" Lucien snapped, heading in the opposite direction.

She didn’t bother to reply. She just went home, trying to control her anger and sadness.

248 days left.