He’d only visited New York a handful of times, and the Met museum once.
It was on a school trip. And he barely remembered the exhibits. But the grand stairway and entrance—those had stayed stuck in his memory.
But the fact that it stood apart from its surroundings and was the sole source of light was jarring.
Even more jarring was the fact that its doors were kept wide open, seemingly held by an invisible force. As though waiting.
For him?
Light spilled out from within.
He took the steps slowly, one hand brushing the railing on the stairs. Dust didn’t cling to the surface. No grime and well-maintained.
Everything about it felt wrong.
It was like someone had taken the effort to keep this single location clean and intact.
‘I guess this is a not-so-subtle hint that this is the site of the trial for the inheritance…’
Kain entered the open doors and paused.
Warm air greeted him. Unlike the dingy air he’d just been breathing in, this was filtered and clean…and smelled faintly of pine.
‘This is really weird…Even if a location was maintained during the end of the world, why a museum?’
Inside, off white lighting illuminated pristine marble floors. Velvet ropes lined either side of the grand entrance hall.
There were none of the expected works of art: no Picassos, no Monets, no Van Goghs. No ancient statues from Greece, Rome, or Mesopotamia.
Instead, arranged behind polished glass panels like priceless relics were…
Familar everyday objects.
And Snapshots that looked like clips from a doomsday film.
The Apocalypse Exhibition.
In the first display case was a smartphone with a cracked screen. The screen was frozen on what appeared to be a TikTok Live.
The streamer was mid-sentence, panic in her eyes. The latest comments appearing on the screen:
“bro she deadass outside rn???”
“nah that dead person MOVED 💀”
“girl don’t just stand there. RUNNN 😭😭”
“not the end of the world on live 😭📱”
“lowkey it’s fitting that Ohio goes first 😭😭😭”
“at least you’ll look cute when you die ✨”
Then there was a picture of a collapsed building. Though Kain couldn’t tell simply from the picture what the building was originally.
Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, what was next to it answered his questions.
Next to it was a child’s backpack. Pink. Cartoon unicorn smeared with a dried dark liquid. The exhibit tag read simply:
“Evacuation Site 17. Brooklyn Elementary. No survivors.”
Kain took a step forward.
Another exhibit: an artistic collage of news headlines printed onto a curved wall, styled like the front of a subway car.
“CDC CONFIRMS NEW 4TH STRAIN—INFECTED NO LONGER DYING. BUT WORSE?”
“UN Reports unusual energy Signatures in South China Sea”
“London Bridge Collapses During Quarantine Riot”
“Pope Disappears. Vatican Sealed From Inside.”
He kept walking. His steps were loud on the marble flooring.
To his left, a looping projection played against an arched panel labelled:
“Day 37 – The Last News Broadcast.”
A man sat in front of a cracked webcam. Wearing a wrinkled suit and hollow eyes. He looked halfway between a newscaster and a survivor.
“This will be our final update. If you’re watching this, you’ve survived… but I don’t know what that means anymore. Governments are gone. Power grids down. Satellites blind. If there’s anyone left out there… stay underground. And if you see something in the sky moving—don’t look up.”
The clip reset. Played again. Same cracked voice. Same empty hope.
Kain stopped. His hand curled unconsciously.
On his right: a series of framed photographs. Not art. Surveillance stills. City after city in ruin.
Tokyo, abandoned and swallowed by vines.
Berlin cracked down the center by a massive trenchlike a paper ripped in half.
Aerial views of Chicago—entire blocks blackened, as if burned by flames.
A cruise ship off the coast of Sydney, stuck between reef and shore, passengers unmoving on the decks.
Manhattan from above, the Statue of Liberty barely visible in the toxic fog.
Underneath each, a one-line caption:
“Week 2.”
“Week 4.”
“Week 6.”
“Week 7.”
“Week 8.”
There were no photos beyond Week 8.
Next to it was a full wall of screens frozen on news presenters from a variety of nationalities all giving emergency announcements in different languages. One of the screens, beneath the anchor, had the weather predictions for that week: Sunny every day.
“Well at least the weather was nice while everything else was going to shit…” Kain murmured under his breath.
Further inside, another exhibit. This one with a map of the United States. Thumbtacks dotted major cities—each connected by red thread, like a conspiracy chart. Except there was no mystery left.
The thread ended with a final pin in the center of the Atlantic. Its tag read:
“Presumed escape route of Air Force One. Confirmed loss of signal.”
Kain walked deeper still.
The museum was nearly silent—except for the distant, ghostly sound of sirens. Not real. Part of the audio system, maybe. But layered and overlapping with other sounds: sirens, cries, screams, radio static…a mother singing a lullaby in a language Kain wasn’t familiar with to calm down a crying baby.
It was like someone had taken all the sounds of Earth’s final days and remixed them.
One final object stood at the far end.
A door. Simple. Plain. Painted white.
Unlike the others, it wasn’t labeled with a date or a location.
Kain stared in confusion. Clearly, this was meant to be the final destination this trial was drawing him towards. But…
The door had no handle.
Fortunately (or creepily, depending on how one looked at it), as he approached, it creaked open with the same invisible force that had welcomed him into the building.
Warm light spilled out once more.
But this time… it wasn’t the off white glow of florescent lights.
It was violet.
Kain looked back once more—toward the hallway of exhibits. Toward the memories of a dead Earth.
And then he took the first step toward what would hopefully be an inheritance that could prevent history repeating itself on his new home.
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