They Called Us the Children of the End
We were born in the quiet that followed the world’s screaming. Our sanctuary was a forgotten preschool, a small island of books and routine in an ocean of monsters. Some of us remembered the day it started; we were dropped off for school, and our parents simply never came back. Others were found, left in baskets or wandering lost in the woods, little ghosts gathered from the ruins. Our teacher, Madame Dubois, became our mother, our nurse, our everything. She taught us that manners are a mirror showing our portrait and that prayers would be answered.
Then she got sick.
We did what she taught us. We hunted, grew food, and read to her from the book of Isaiah, a prayer for the sick and dying. But we knew prayer alone wasn’t enough. And then, they arrived.
They were a strange trio: two women in black habits and a boy who told us he once walked backward for three months. With them was a man who looked like he’d been carved from the earth itself—grizzled, quiet, and weary. The children called him “Father Daryl,” a name he wore as uncomfortably as a borrowed coat. He did not look like a priest, but when he spoke, his words had a raw honesty that felt more real than any sermon. “Lord,” he prayed over our meager dinner, “I’m sure you have your reasons for turning the whole world upside-down. We probably do deserve it. But not tonight. Tonight is good”. In that moment, he understood our world better than anyone.
He carried the weight of a long journey. He spoke of a home across the sea he was desperate to return to, a place called the Commonwealth. The woman, Isabelle, told him that “family” are the people you’re with, but his eyes were always on the horizon.
Their journey became tangled with ours. The man, Daryl, saw Madame Dubois fading and knew what we refused to admit: she needed medicine, not just songs and prayers. He learned of a local monster, a man called La Tarasque who hoarded supplies in a nearby castle. Against our leader Lou’s wishes, he went on a raid, not just for a horse to continue his journey, but for a sliver of hope for our teacher.
He didn’t go alone. Two of our older brothers, Hérisson and his friend, went with him. It was a foolish, brave act, like something from the stories Madame Dubois used to read. They faced the monster—an American like Daryl, but twisted by this new world—and they returned with supplies, but it was too late.
We buried Madame Dubois with the same quiet dignity she taught us. Isabelle did what she had to do, what we couldn’t, and we said our goodbyes. I think Daryl finally understood then. He had lied to us, telling us the medicine would work, all so he could get a horse to go home. But seeing our grief, he saw more than just a means to an end. He saw us. “These kids look up to you,” he told Lou, “and that’s a good thing”.
The boy, Laurent, is the reason for their journey. They say he’s special, the key to saving humanity, but he just wants to be a normal kid. He hates being special. After watching us, maybe Daryl gets it. We aren’t special. We’re just children doing our lessons, growing our food, and holding onto the echoes of a world we can’t miss because we never truly had it. We are the children of the end, and this is the only home we know.