The sky was broken, a rift in the fabric of the world that had never healed. For as long as anyone could remember, it had hung there, heavy and unyielding, blocking out everything that once existed. The sky had been consumed by a blackness that arrived without warning, a mass of swirling clouds that descended and took control, leaving the earth beneath to wither and die.
No one knew where the clouds had come from or why they appeared, and no one knew when the world had last seen the sun. All records, all memory of the time before, had been lost or buried in stories that no one truly believed. They were just fragments of a forgotten past, pieces of a world that had slipped beyond reach, like shards of broken glass swept up by a wind no one had ever felt.
The land had become a graveyard—a barren wasteland of dry earth and cracked soil. The rivers had long since run dry, the lakes had evaporated, and the once fertile ground was now little more than a stretch of dust and stone. The plants had died first, their roots unable to find water or nutrients in the hardened earth. The animals followed shortly after, their food sources gone, their bodies succumbing to the same lifelessness that had taken over everything else.
Yet, somehow, people had survived.
At first, they had clung to their cities. The great towers, the sprawling streets, the remnants of a civilization built for a world that no longer existed — people had tried to hold onto them, to force the old ways to fit the new reality. But the cities had not been built to endure the end of the sky.
Without the sun, power grids failed. The grand machines that once provided light, warmth, and food broke down, one after another. Some places held out longer than others, patching together fragile systems to delay the inevitable, but the decay was relentless. Crops withered, water supplies ran dry, and soon, people weren't fighting to keep the cities running — they were fighting each other.
Desperation turned to violence. Resource wars erupted in the streets. The great cities, once symbols of human achievement, became tombs filled with the echoes of those who had torn each other apart trying to survive. Fires raged unchecked in the ruins, swallowing entire districts in black smoke, but there was no wind to carry the flames further. The air was too still. Too dead.
Eventually, those who remained made a choice: leave, or die.
They abandoned the husks of their old world, scattering into the wasteland in search of a different way to survive. Small settlements formed — outposts built on the edges of nothing, where people could at least control what little they had. There, away from the ghosts of the past, they learned to endure in the only way they could.
Most settlements had a greenhouse — if they were lucky. These were not the lush, sprawling farms of old stories, but fragile, self-contained structures that clung to life the same way people did. The greenhouses were sealed, their walls built to trap what little moisture remained. Water was precious, collected from underground reservoirs or coaxed from the air in a slow, painstaking process. Soil was treated like gold, carefully maintained and reused to ensure that some crops could still grow.
But it was never enough. The plants struggled in the artificial conditions, and harvests were small. Not every settlement had the resources to build a greenhouse, and those that did often guarded them fiercely. Without them, people relied on whatever food could be scavenged or traded. Hunger was a constant presence, a dull ache that never truly left.
For generations, no one had questioned it.
Not because they didn't wonder, but because they were afraid.
There were warnings — stories passed down, spoken only in hushed voices. Stories of those who had searched for answers, who had tried to understand the sky, only to vanish without a trace. Some believed they had wandered too far into the wastelands, lost in the unending darkness. Others whispered of something else, something that did not want the past uncovered.
Over time, people had learned not to ask questions. To wonder was dangerous. To seek the truth was to invite disaster.
Azure had never been good at pretending they didn't wonder.
They were born into this world, just like everyone else. They had never seen the sun, never felt the wind, never heard the sound of rain against the earth. Yet, even as a child, they had found themselves imagining what it must be like.
That wasn't how you survived, though.
Dreamers didn't last long here.
Azure had learned early that hope was a delicate thing, easily crushed under the weight of reality. This world did not make room for longing. It rewarded the practical, the strong, the ones who knew better than to chase things that could never be. And so, Azure had hardened. They had learned how to endure, how to keep their feet on the ground and their mind fixed on what was in front of them.
But deep down, they had never let go of this quiet ache.
The part of them that still wanted to know.
"You must remember," Grandmother would say, her voice steady even as her body weakened. "You must never let the stories die."
Azure had never argued with her. But they had never truly believed, either.
Now, Grandmother was dying.
Azure sat beside her bed, watching her chest rise and fall with shallow, uneven breaths. Her skin, once firm and lined with years of resilience, had grown thin and fragile. The fever had drained her strength, leaving her body too weak to fight.
The village healers had come and gone, offering what little they could. Hot cloths. Bitter teas. Hollow words. But the sickness would take its course, and it was only a matter of time.
It had always been this way. Nothing changed. Nothing ever could.
"There has to be something we can do," Azure said, their voice low, measured. Desperation was useless. Pleading was useless. But still, the words slipped out.
For the first time in days, Grandmother's eyes opened fully. They were cloudy, distant, but filled with something sharp and unwavering. "There is a cure," she whispered.
Azure's fingers tightened around hers. "A cure?" They didn't mean to sound skeptical, but they did.
Grandmother's fingers curled weakly around their wrist, her grip as frail as paper. "A flower… a flower that can heal."
Azure swallowed the immediate response that rose to their lips. A flower. In a world where nothing grew. The very idea was absurd.
"It cannot grow in the darkness," Grandmother continued, her breath quick and shallow. "It needs… the sun. The rain. The wind."
Azure's jaw tensed. Sun. Rain. Wind.
Things no one had seen in living memory. Things no one even spoke of anymore.
They turned to the small window, their gaze falling on the blackened sky. The clouds churned endlessly, shifting and moving, but never parting. The darkness stretched far beyond the horizon, a ceiling of endless night.
For their whole life, they had focused on survival. Kept their head down. Moved forward.
But what if Grandmother was right?
What if the sky hadn't always been like this?
What if it had been stolen?
The thought was reckless. Dangerous. The kind of thinking that got people killed.
But Azure had never been able to stop wondering.
They clenched their fists.
For the first time in their life, they let themselves consider the impossible.
If the sky had been stolen —
Then there should be a way to take it back, right?
In that moment, they made a decision: No matter what, they would figure out the answer to that question. And if it turned out that the sky had indeed been stolen, they were gonna steal it back!