Mother Earth exhaled a damp breath, laced with the fragrance of petrichor. Yogini stood by the riverbank, watching the water ripple in soft circles. The morning light painted her olive skin gold. Her hands held a bowl of medicated oil, a symbol of her craft and faith. She was a healer; in this world with one year left, she believed her role was far from over.
The announcement had come abruptly, as a piercing interjection to mundane routines. Global scientists, spiritual leaders and governments united for the first time in history to declare the truth: in precisely 365 days, the world would cease to exist. No cataclysmic explosion or celestial strike would end them. Instead, a universal shift— something incomprehensible would erase life.
For most, it was a death sentence. For Yogini, it was transformation.
She walked back gracefully to her hutment, nestled amidst the hills of Himachal, where the scent of euphoric herbs mingled with the whispers of the wind. People had begun to rush in hordes since the announcement— searching for miracles. Her role, however, was not to fight against the inevitable. She desired to prepare the world for the transition.
Her first patient that morning was Aniruddha, a man in his fifties, diagnosed with terminal cancer.
“What’s the point of treatment now?” he asked bitterly, his face desolate and gaunt.
Yogini met his gaze with calmness. “What if these last days are not about dying, Aniruddha, but about living? This final chapter could be your most profound one.”
He laughed hollowly. “Living for what? A world that’s disappearing?”
“The world is not disappearing. It’s shedding its skin. Would you grieve for a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly?”
She spent her days, speaking to people of new beginnings. But the nights— those were for herself. Sitting under the sprawling canopy of stars, Yogini often entered a pensive state. She’d lost her parents to a landslide decades ago. Her only family left behind were the mountains, the forests and her patients. Her solitude had always been a conscious choice. With an impending void ahead, she wondered if she had missed something in life.
One dark night, a knock on the door startled her. Opening it, she found a young woman, trembling and clutching a baby wrapped in a tattered shawl.
“Please,” the woman whispered, her voice breaking. “My daughter has fever. I’ve walked miles to get here.”
Yogini took them in, her healer’s instincts taking over. The child, barely a year old, had a high fever but responded to the herbal concoction she prepared. As the woman wept in gratitude, Yogini realized that even in the face of finality, life persisted in the smallest of ways— a sick child… a mother’s unperturbed hope…
Over the months, the world began to shift in unexpected ways. Cities didn’t descend into chaos; instead, they slowed. People quit their meaningless jobs; gathering in open spaces to sing, paint, or simply be together.
With old grudges forgotten, wars ceased. The idea of competition seemed distant. In her village, Yogini noticed a similar transformation. Strangers who once avoided eye contact now shared meals. Children, freed from schools that had closed indefinitely, played freely in the fields. Even the elderly, who had resigned themselves to quiet ends, began to rediscover lost passions.
It wasn’t perfect— there were still tears, grief and anger— but there was also acceptance.
One evening, as Yogini sat by her hutment, watching the sky turn crimson, a tall stranger approached her. He wore a weathered face with eyes that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “You’re the healer everyone talks about,” he said.
Yogini nodded, gesturing for him to sit. “And who are you, revered sir?”
“Just a traveler, looking for answers.”
“Have you found any?”
He smiled faintly. “Not yet. But I heard you believe this is not the end.”
Yogini studied him, sensing something unusual about his presence. “I don’t just believe it. I know it. Energy doesn’t die; it transforms. Why should we be any different?”
The man leaned closer. “What if I told you I’ve seen the other side? That I’ve walked through what comes after?”
Yogini’s pulse quickened, but she kept her voice steady. “And what did you see?”
He looked into the horizon, his expression unreadable. “It’s not a place or a time. It’s a becoming. We don’t move to another world; we become the essence of this one— the rivers, trees, winds… The end is merely the shedding of what no longer serves us.”
His words echoed her beliefs, yet hearing them from someone else felt like a validation she hadn’t realized she needed. “Who are you, really?” she asked.
The man stood, his shadow blending with the growing darkness. “Just someone who wanted to remind you that your work matters. Keep healing, Yogini.”
And with that, he was gone.
As the year dwindled, Yogini’s hutment became a sanctuary not just for the sick but for the curious and the hopeful. She taught them how to meditate, how to forgive and how to let go— not just of life but of the fears and attachments that weighed them down.
On the final day, the village gathered in the open fields. The sky was a deep, otherworldly violet. The air hummed with an unexplainable energy. Yogini stood among them, her heart steady.
When the moment came, it wasn’t with a bang or a collapse. The world didn’t shatter; it simply… shifted. A golden light engulfed everything, warm and embracing. Yogini felt her body dissolve, not into nothingness but into oneness. She was the river… the mountain… the wind…
And then, silence.
When she opened her eyes, she was standing in a field, vibrant and lush, with colors she had never seen before. Around her were familiar faces— Aniruddha, the mother and child, the villagers— all whole.
The traveler stood in the distance, smiling. Yogini smiled back, her heart swelling with gratitude. The final chapter wasn’t an end; it was the start of a fresh unknown.
Word Count: 1000 words excluding the title
Pic Cover courtesy: Pixabay Holgerheinze0
