The light from the TV screen reflected on my face, faintly blue.
"... The solar storm warning has been upgraded to the highest level in the world, and it is expected to reach the earth's low-Earth orbit in 72 hours. The general public is requested to stay calm and cooperate with the government's "Ark Plan" evacuation order in an orderly manner..."
The news anchor's voice was so steady that it didn't sound like he was talking about the end of the world, but more like he was giving a weather forecast.
I turned off the TV and the only sound left in the room was the low hum of the air conditioner. Spread on the table is an internal notice just issued by the City Planning Bureau, requiring all employees to complete the handover of the work at hand within three days, bring necessary personal belongings, and report to the assigned air-raid shelter in the third area.
Check in.
This word is used really carefully, like going to a meeting that you must attend.
I picked up the notice, the edges of the paper crinkling between my fingers. Air-raid shelter number, entrance location, list of items to carry - food, water, medicine, warm clothes. Inflammable and explosive materials, large electronic equipment, and pets are prohibited.
Clear and thoughtful.
It's so perfect that it makes one's heart ache.
The phone vibrated in my trouser pocket. I took it out and saw news from the work group. My colleagues were discussing which book to bring in to pass the time. I crossed out the notification and the screen went dark.
Then it shook again.
This time it's not a smartphone in your pocket. The vibration came from the bottom drawer of the bedside table. It was muffled and had the rough feeling of an old-fashioned motor.
