How many times have we watched the world end? How many heroes have we lost to suicides, real or imagined? The human race is obsessed with the images flashing before them, with the end of days, and the ending of ourselves.

What if it was all meant to prepare us? Our obsessions with death and destruction not brought to us by an evil caliphate but instead by our own natural life span. If the seeds of life hitched a ride here on a comet then maybe humanity is little more than the last wilting flower in the garden of life on earth. Our self-awareness nothing more than an biological tool to trigger the self-destruction of a garden welcoming its last bloom.

One woman saw it happening, a mother, who left her brand new son to perish in the woods. She was hunted down and persecuted, just like her husband and her mentor and all the rest of humanity. Systematically self-destructing in waves of terror, slavery, and mass suicide. Leaving that son to flourish as the last man left to fight, using pen and paper to document the lives lost before he too surrendered to the twilight and the beckoning call of his mother's voice.