Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 37 – Ellie’s Tomorrow
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 13:30:00 +0000 UTCPOV: Ellie Ellie's earliest memory wasn't a lullaby or a birthday candle, nor was it the warmth of pancakes or the tickle of summer grass. I
POV: Ellie
Ellie's earliest memory wasn't a lullaby or a birthday candle, nor was it the warmth of pancakes or the tickle of summer grass. It was the colour of dust — not golden, not soft — but grey, choking, the colour of loss.
She remembered her mother's hands more than her voice. Thin, trembling fingers pressing against her shoulders, shoving her toward the half-open basement hatch as sirens howled like wounded animals above them. The sky outside had turned to fire. She had caught a glimpse of it — just a flash before the heavy door slammed — and it had etched itself behind her eyelids forever. White. Endless white. Like lightning had kissed the world and left it dying.
Later, curled against the concrete wall in a basement that smelled of mould and fear, Ellie had asked what had happened. Her mother crouched beside her, brushing her tangled curls back, and tried to explain in a voice too calm to be real.
"A bomb," she said softly. "A nuclear one. It... makes a huge boom."
Ellie blinked up at her. "What's a nuke?"
Her mother didn't answer right away. Her eyes slid to Ellie's father, who stood across the room, his hands curled into fists, staring at the ceiling as if he could see through the concrete to the world that was no longer there.
"I don't know," her mother finally whispered. "But it's bad, sweetheart. Very bad."
Ellie didn't fully understand what a bomb could do. She only knew that it had taken everything out of her. Her school. Her friends. The park with the swing shaped like a dragon. Her neighbour, Mr. Halberd, gave her gumdrops on Sundays.
Gone.
They stayed down there for two days. She knew because she counted — not hours, but the times her father took a single bite of their food and gave the rest to her. She stopped asking for more.
A week later, they left.
There was no goodbye—nothing to say farewell to. Just silence, and ash still falling from the sky like dead snow. Her parents moved like ghosts. They packed quickly, methodically. Ellie was allowed one bag. No toys. No dresses. No books. Just clothes and her bunny — old, soft, stitched together too many times to count. She'd named it Tatter, and she wrapped its ears around her fingers when she was afraid. She hadn't let go of it once since the basement.
The new place was underground too, but different. The air was cleaner. Cool. It didn't sting her lungs or make her eyes water. They called it a safe haven, and for a while, it felt like maybe they were telling the truth.
But the worry never left her parents' faces.
It changed shape each day. Some days, her mother checked her temperature every hour, gently placing a charm patch on her wrist, then whispering healing words even when Ellie didn't feel sick. On other days, her father would return from outside, clothes stained with dust, his eyes haunted and empty.
Then the children started disappearing. First, the boy who shared his bread with her during lunch. Then the two sisters who used to braid her hair. They'd fall asleep one night… and just not wake up.
After the second, her mother began checking Ellie even more. Ellie hated the tests. They made her skin prickle and her head feel dizzy. But she endured them — because of the way her mother's hands trembled when she tied the charm string, because of the look on her face afterwards, a silent prayer wrapped in a forced smile.
Then one evening — the kind that didn't have a sunset, just more grey fading into darker grey — her father came home... smiling.
It was such a strange sight that Ellie almost didn't recognise him. The corners of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he looked like the man in the photograph beside her cot—the one with a baby on his shoulders and sunshine in his eyes.
He knelt in front of her, brushing dirt from her cheek.
"Do you remember who I told you about?" he asked, voice thick. "Harry Potter?"
Ellie blinked. "The one from the books?"
"The one who vanished," he said. "But he's back. And… he's found us a place. A real place. Clean air. Real light. A future."
Her mother appeared in the doorway behind him, her face softened in a way Ellie hadn't seen since the war began. She wasn't crying, but her hands covered her mouth like she didn't trust the sound that might come out.
They both looked at her like something sacred had happened.
And Ellie — small, bone-thin, bunny in hand — decided Harry Potter must be very important indeed.
Not because he'd come back. Not because he was a hero. Not even because he had found them somewhere safe.
But because her parents had smiled.
Because hope had cracked through the ash.
That night, Ellie opened the corner of her backpack and unwrapped the bit of chocolate she'd hidden months ago in an old sock — a gift from a trader who passed through their shelter. It was half-melted, misshapen, barely edible.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she whispered, "For Harry," and wrapped it again.
If she ever met him, she'd give it to him. It was the best she had. And he'd brought her mother's smile back.
That was worth all the chocolate in the world.
The strangers around her whispered soft things Ellie didn't understand — comforting sounds in many languages, like lullabies hummed through cracked lips. She clutched her bunny to her chest and tightened her hold on her mother's hand. Her other hand was swallowed by the callused fingers of a kind-faced woman in patchy robes who smelled like rosemary and burnt thread. Together, they stepped toward the Mirror.
It shimmered — tall and impossibly thin, its surface like water pretending to be light. Ellie's heart thumped wildly in her chest. She thought it would hurt. She thought she might vanish.
But the Mirror didn't burn. It didn't pull. It breathed.
Crossing it felt like falling into a sigh.
There was no flash, no sound. Just a gentle ripple across her skin — cool and soft, like wind moving through glass, brushing her hair back and curling under her sleeves. For half a second, the world tilted.
Then… it stopped.
And Ellie blinked.
The light hit her like a new colour. Not harsh or blinding, but golden, warm. It felt thick and kind, like syrup poured from the sky. Her lungs filled with something so fresh and clean she almost coughed again out of habit… but she didn't need to. The air didn't fight her. It didn't scratch her throat or sting her eyes.
It was safe.
The world here smelled different — no more oil smoke or sour concrete. The air was smooth, with something faintly sweet underneath: clean robes, herbs, metal polished by hand, and a hint of something Ellie didn't have words for. Like magic after a long sleep.
She looked up.
Lights floated in soft lines above them — not bulbs, but glowing bands that shimmered gently in the air, like lazy fireflies arranged in a dance only grown-ups could understand. They bent slowly to guide the crowd ahead, forming quiet lanes of movement across the great, vast chamber.
Ellie didn't see walls. Only curves. The space was too big to be a room. It felt alive.
She tugged her bunny closer under her chin and walked forward with her parents. Her feet made soft sounds against the floor. Everyone moved like whispers.
Then they reached the counter.
Two black-armored guards stood there, taller than anyone Ellie had ever seen. Their armour wasn't the bright kind from old war movies, but dark, polished and silent, gleaming in black and silver. Their helmets were off, but their faces were serious, eyes straight ahead, unmoving.
Jaffa.
Her father had whispered that word with awe. But Ellie only saw statues—living ones.
One turned slightly.
She froze. Her legs locked. Her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
Then he did something she didn't expect.
He knelt.
Not like a robot. Not like a soldier waiting for orders.
But gently — like someone trying not to scare a wild animal.
His armour creaked softly as he moved. Then he looked at her and smiled — not a big grin, but a small curl of the mouth. His eyes weren't hard. They were… tired. Kind.
Ellie didn't smile back, but she didn't run either.
She gripped her mother's coat and let them step forward.
The counter had no pens, no papers. Only a softly glowing table and a woman who looked part librarian, part space-pilot. She asked their names. Ellie's mother answered, voice shaking. Then the woman touched a panel and handed them small tablets — thin, glowing things of glass etched with faint light.
Ellie took hers carefully, holding it with both hands like a treasure. Her name shimmered on it, spelt perfectly.
The woman behind the counter smiled. "Welcome to your journey home."
Home.
The word made something ache in Ellie's chest. Not hurt. Not quite. Something softer.
They were led gently forward — no shouting, no hurrying. Ellie's father carried the bags, and her mother whispered something into her ear about being brave. But Ellie was already walking without needing to be pulled.
She didn't know where they were going yet.
But for the first time in forever, she wasn't afraid to follow.
The corridor inside the ship smelled like lavender and metal and something faintly warm — like sunshine bottled in glass. It hummed under her feet, a low, comforting purr that seemed to come from deep within the walls. The grown-ups walked more slowly now, hushed and tired, as if the air itself had told them to rest. But Ellie's legs moved faster, dragging her parents along by the hand, her bunny flapping at her side.
A tall woman in a blue uniform showed them their room — small, clean, and glowing with soft overhead lights like stars pressed into the ceiling. It had a narrow doorway, smooth white walls, and two bunks built into the curved wall, one on top of the other like floating shelves. There was a silvery panel on the far side with a soft light and a window — no bigger than a dinner plate — but it glowed faintly with colours she didn't yet have names for. The stars hadn't come into view yet, but the sky was already moving. The ship was breathing. Waiting.
Then she saw it.
The bed.
Her bed.
A real one. Not a blanket on the floor. Not a cot shared with two others. Not a makeshift pile of clothes in a damp, underground shelter. But a bed. With corners and sheets and a pillow — a pillow — and a tucked-in blanket with faint embroidery that sparkled when she leaned closer.
On the pillow lay a card. She blinked at it.
The letters shimmered softly, written in looping golden ink.
Ellie Green – We're proud of you.
She stared at the words for a long time, her fingers hovering just above the edge of the card. No one had said those words in a long, long time. Not since the world had started shaking. Not since her mother had cried into her coat when she thought Ellie was asleep.
She didn't say anything.
Not yet.
Her mother's hand rested gently on her shoulder, warm and steady. Ellie turned to find her mother's face lit up with something rare — not relief, not quite. Something softer. A trembling joy.
"There you go," her mother whispered, voice thick with something she couldn't swallow. "A big girl bed."
Ellie nodded solemnly.
She climbed up carefully — one knee, then the other — and curled into the blanket like it might vanish if she wasn't fast enough. Her bunny came with her, tucked under her chin. She sank into the mattress slowly, like it was holding her, and for the first time in what felt like forever…
She didn't feel like she had to stay alert. Didn't feel like the floor might collapse beneath her. Didn't think about coughing, or sirens, or the cold, or the bomb.
This space was hers. Her name was on it. Her bed. Her breath. Her sky.
Ellie tucked the card into her pillowcase like a treasure, like something too valuable to leave exposed.
And as the ship rumbled faintly beneath her, she closed her eyes for just a moment and smiled.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would draw a picture of her room — so she could remember what hope looked like.
Tonight, she would rest. Like a big girl. Like someone safe.
Like someone with a future.
They were led down a wide corridor, the soft voice of the guide barely reaching Ellie's ears over the quiet hum that now filled the ship — something deep and constant, like a giant's heartbeat echoing through the walls. Her fingers were curled tightly around her mother's, bunny swinging from the crook of her other arm. Then the corridor curved and opened, and Ellie gasped.
The viewing gallery was nothing like she expected.
It wasn't just a window — it was the sky itself, stretching from floor to ceiling, from one end of the room to the other. A vast, bowed wall of shining alloy-glass that showed everything beyond the ship in sharp, impossible clarity.
She ran to it — carefully, but without hesitation — and pressed both her palms against the cool, smooth surface. Her nose bumped the glass, breath fogging a little patch as she stared out.
At first, all she saw was clouds. Endless, white-gold cloud drifting past the lift bay, streaked with amber light. The ship hadn't lifted yet, but it was ready — she could feel it in her chest, in her toes. A kind of tremble that made her feel giddy and still all at once.
Then — it happened.
A soft rumble.
A shifting of weight in her bones.
The Phoenix stirred. — like a giant waking from a long dream."
The ship lifted, so gently at first she barely noticed — until the clouds began to fall away. Or maybe they weren't falling, maybe the ship was rising — rising fast—and suddenly the curve of the earth unfolded beneath them like a secret being revealed.
They rose higher. And higher.
The sky changed colour.
First, a pale blue that looked like morning, then a sharper one, colder and deeper, until the blue was fading into something darker — violet and midnight pressed together — and then…
Black.
But not empty.
Stars.
Thousands of them. No — millions. Glittering across the void like someone had thrown diamonds into ink.
"We're in space," her mother whispered behind her, barely audible.
Ellie didn't answer.
Her breath had caught in her throat. Her chest ached with the wonder of it.
She was looking at a place where stories lived, where nothing could hurt them. Not bombs. Not coughing. Not fear. Just stars. And possibility.
All around them, other ships glided upward — sleek, silver, glowing along their bellies, just like the Phoenix. Some were long and narrow, some curved like birds in flight, others shaped like petals or seashells or dreams. Each with its own glow — green, gold, violet — pulsing beneath them like heartbeats.
Ellie tried to count them.
One. Two. Five. Twelve. Thirty? Fifty?
But they went on and on, past what her eyes could see, stretching into the stars like a parade of hopes.
And then, above each ship, a halo of light appeared — not bright like a spell, but soft, like moonlight bending. Each halo shimmered, spun once, and then… vanished like each ship had whispered a secret to the sky and was being answered.
The Phoenix was last.
Ellie held her breath.
A halo formed — wide and silver-blue, etched with delicate strands of runes she couldn't read.
The light folded inward.
There was a hum, low and rising.
And then — they were gone.
Into the dark.
Into everything.
Ellie stared at the space where the stars had been and whispered to her bunny, "We're flying. Really flying."
And for the first time in her short, shadowed life, she didn't feel small.
She felt infinite.
Then they jumped.
The ship gave a soft, singing tremor — not the kind that rattled bones, but one that thrummed through them, as if the world had taken a deep breath and was holding it with her. Outside the viewing window, the stars twisted — not vanished, not blurred, but stretched. Like paint pulled across a canvas, they elongated into streaks of white and violet, blue and gold, moving faster than thought, faster than dream.
Ellie gasped.
She clutched the rail with both hands, pressing her nose against the cool alloy-glass, her breath fogging a crescent just beneath her wide, wide eyes.
This wasn't a story.
This wasn't a book.
This wasn't something on a screen.
This was real.
The hum filled everything — her toes, her fingers, the hollow behind her ribs. It wasn't loud, but total — a song inside the bones, the kind of sound stars might make when they ran between universes.
Her legs floated a little off the ground — not gone, but lighter. Like the floor had forgotten to press up, she giggled, startled, and her voice echoed too loudly in the chamber — and yet no one hushed her. Around her, grown-ups held on to rails or each other. Some had their eyes closed. Others looked as awed as she felt.
Ellie was sure of one thing: she had never felt this alive.
The light outside the ship wasn't light anymore — not in the way she'd ever understood it. It wasn't just brightness. It moved. It swirled. It wrapped around the ship in ribbons, chasing itself in wild spirals, flickering like it was trying to talk.
It sang.
Maybe not with words, but with something else — something Ellie felt in her chest, in her bunny's scruffed fabric ear, in the goosebumps on her arms.
She whispered, "We're flying through magic," and believed it more than she'd ever believed anything.
And then—
JERK.
It wasn't harsh — not like falling — but sudden.
The swirl vanished. The song snapped quiet.
And the black returned.
But not the old black.
This black was vast. Clean. Full of waiting.
The stars were back — but now still, not flying. Silent companions staring down from a place too big for thoughts.
The Phoenix floated in a patch of open space. Around it, other ships emerged, blinking gently into position. A field of them, scattered like lanterns on an endless sea. They hung in silence, as if listening for something.
Ellie let go of the rail, slowly. Her hands tingled.
The viewing gallery was quiet now.
Even the children stilled.
They had crossed something, not just space. Not just time.
Something bigger.
She turned, blinking at her mother. "Did we… make it?"
Her mother didn't answer right away. Her eyes were wide and glistening, locked on the stars. She only nodded once, a soft, uncertain motion. Like, even she wasn't sure yet.
But Ellie understood. They had gone so far, so fast, they had outrun what the world used to be.
She looked back out.
The ships rested in the void, not broken, not tired.
Waiting.
Like seeds on the edge of soil, ready to bloom.
Ellie blinked slowly, heart thudding in her chest. Maybe this was what tomorrow felt like — not loud, not grand, just... possible.
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Comments
Tushar Srivastav
Thank you
Aeden Emrys
Thanks for the story so far. I'm looking forward to reading more.
