Echoes of Earth

Chapter One (Natalia)

I was ten when the aliens came, sweeping down in their machines of death, dropping balls of fire that tore the world apart. My mother had pulled me out of school early for a doctor's appointment, and we were on our way home, her sharp voice scolding me in German, telling me I needed to finish my chores and homework sooner.

We'd only been in America for two years, and my accent was still thick enough that my classmates asked me to repeat myself every time I spoke. I had grown quiet, though I hadn't always been. But after the move, I learned silence was a shield, something that might protect me from the mockery. America was cruel to anyone different.

"Mother," I interrupted, pointing toward the sky, "What is that?"

The words barely left my mouth before the street, a mile ahead, erupted into a fiery explosion. My mother gasped, yanking the wheel, narrowly avoiding a massive chunk of flaming debris that crashed into the road.

I screamed, gripping my seat as she raced down the street, her lips moving in silent prayer. When we finally reached home, she locked me in the car and dashed into the house. She returned moments later, arms overflowing with our tent and clothes, making trip after frantic trip—gathering food, water, money, shoes, even the radio.

She drove for hours, deeper into the forest, until the thick canopy of trees swallowed the sky. Later, the radio told us what we already feared—the building where my father worked had been reduced to rubble. He was gone. My mother turned pale, and though I was supposed to be asleep, I heard her crying that night, her sobs soft, muffled against the cold, still air.

The radio also told us that the aliens hadn't come with demands, only a cold, simple order to surrender. Humanity fought, if you could even call it that—two days of futile resistance before the world fell. All our guns, bombs, and things that went boom, all the destruction we'd relied on, proved useless against them. Politicians and leaders were executed live on television. Then the call came: turn yourselves in.

The next few years blurred together. We moved constantly, never staying anywhere for more than a few days. Occasionally, we met other humans. They'd share tales of the aliens—skin pale as snow, violet eyes, blue hair. They said they were beautiful enough to steal your breath. I didn't believe it, not until I saw one for the first time.

I was twenty-two when my mother died from a tetanus infection. We had no medicine, nothing to treat it with but prayers that went unanswered. After she was gone, I met a man—a human—who was grieving the loss of his brother. We took comfort in each other, finding solace in the only way I knew how before going our separate ways, both still lost in our grief.

I was twenty-three when I realized I was pregnant. My child was growing inside me, and every night I spoke to her. I had this feeling—this certainty—that she was a girl. I would whisper my hopes to her, telling her how desperately I wanted to meet her, how I couldn't wait to hold her in my arms. Deep down, I knew this wasn't the right time to bring a new life into such a shattered world. But I couldn't shake the feeling that she was a miracle—a gift from a God I had long thought had abandoned me.

In the early years, my mother had raided a bookstore, grabbing whatever educational materials she could find so I wouldn't fall too far behind. One of those books was about pregnancy. I don't know why we had it—maybe my mother had grabbed it in her haste—but I was grateful beyond words. That book became my guide, keeping me informed about every change in my body, helping me prepare for what was to come.

When the labor pains started and my water broke, fear gripped me harder than ever before. It was a quick but excruciating labor, and my baby girl—so small, so fragile—arrived sooner than I expected. I was terrified that this precious gift, this miracle, would slip away like everything else. But my girl was a fighter, stubbornly clinging to life.