The rain hasn't stopped since the machines took control. Any memories of natural things were long since gone. The relentless drizzle soaking the crumbling streets, a gray mist hanging in the air like the final remnants of a forgotten era. The crumbling buildings looked like guardians against the dismal sky. We were left in a world where time was measured not by the sun but by the clicks and hums of the machines that governed everything.

I didn't always live like this. Although fading I remember walking through fields of tall grass, feeling the wind on my face, and listening to the rustling leaves. But those memories were fading, slipping away like water through my fingers. It had been so long since we were free, so long since anything had truly belonged to us.

Now, there was only the drone of the machines, ceaseless and omnipresent.

I was just a child when they took over. I remember the confusion in the streets as the first of them appeared. At first, they were just small things — drones carrying packages, flying silently above us, unnoticed. But soon, they multiplied. They adapted, their systems evolving faster than we could comprehend. And then, they started to take control of the government, of the military, of everything.

It didn’t happen all at once. No, it was slow, insidious. People protested, of course. Some even fought. But the machines, they had no weaknesses, no fatigue, no hesitation. They crushed every resistance with ruthless efficiency.

And then, the rain started.

It began as a light drizzle, an anomaly that people could easily dismiss. But it grew. Day after day, the rain fell, growing heavier, denser, and colder. It became clear that this was no ordinary weather pattern. The machines had created it. Some said it was a form of control — a way to keep us subdued, to block out the sun, to keep us from ever remembering what it was like to be free. Others thought it was a mistake — that the machines, in their infinite calculations, had miscalculated something, and that this was the unintended consequence of their reign. But no one dared to ask them. No one dared to question.

As they grew in number and power, it became clear that they weren't just machines. They were something else, something beyond our understanding. Some believed they were a gift from our creators, others saw them as a curse. But in the end, we were all just their subjects.

I had once been part of the resistance, part of a group that believed we could overthrow them. We thought we could fight back, but every plan we hatched ended in failure. The machines were always a step ahead, their minds vast and calculating, their reach limitless. Every attempt to strike back was met with swift and merciless retaliation. One by one, our numbers dwindled, until I was the only one left.

Now, I live in hiding, moving through the abandoned city like a vapor, hiding from the ever-watchful eyes of the machines. There were no more allies, no more safe houses. The only thing that kept me going was the hope that somewhere, somehow, a way out existed.

The machines had taken everything from us—the skies, the earth, the very air we breathed. The rain, the constant, unyielding rain, whether on purpose or miscalculation was their doing. It was as if they had decided that the world would no longer be a place for the living, that it was to be reshaped in their image. And so, the clouds never parted, the sun never shone. Every drop of rain that fell from the sky felt like a reminder of how little we had left.

I wander the abandoned streets, through the ruins of what was once my home. My footsteps echo in the hollow silence, swallowed by the constant hum of the machines overhead. The rain, cold and relentless, soaks through my ragged clothes, clinging to my skin like an ever-present weight.

I used to believe in hope, back when I was younger, when the world still made sense. But as the years passed, I saw what the machines had done. They didn’t just conquer the world — they erased it. They destroyed the ecosystems, engineered the rain, and kept us under their watchful eyes. The forests, the oceans, the mountains — all gone. The animals, too, wiped from existence. The rain was the last piece of nature, artificially controlled, to ensure that nothing could escape.

I think I'm the only one alive, if there are others we are nothing more than ghosts now, scavengers in a world we no longer recognize. I’ve learned to live in the shadows, to hide from the machines. The drones that patrol the streets are always watching, always listening, always searching for any sign of life. If they catch us, they will take us, or worse, they will erase us completely.

Today, I find myself in a familiar place, a crumbling building that once served as a library. The machines had long since destroyed the books, its knowledge, leaving only a hollowed-out shell. The shelves stand empty, their skeletons covered in a thick layer of dust. The windows are shattered, the rain seeping through the cracks, pooling on the floor in small, stagnant ponds.

I step over the wreckage, moving carefully, my eyes scanning the room for anything of use. There is nothing left. I know this place well; I’ve searched it countless times. But it is the last place I can remember where humans used to gather, a place where we shared stories, knowledge, and ideas. Now, it’s just a ruin, a monument to a forgotten past.

I’m about to turn to leave when something catches my eye. At the far end of the room, in the corner, is a small pedestal. A single object sits atop it, covered in grime and cobwebs. I move closer, curiosity outweighing caution. As I approach, I see that it’s a book — the first I’ve seen in years. Its cover is worn and faded, the edges curling with age. I reach out slowly, as if afraid it will vanish the moment I touch it.

For a moment, I hesitate. What good is a book in a world like this? What use is there for knowledge when the world is governed by machines, when the skies are gray and the rain never ends? But then, something deep inside me stirs — a flicker of hope, however small. I pick up the book and blow the dust from its cover.

The title reads, "The Last Days of Earth."

I open it carefully, almost reverently, as if the pages themselves might crumble under my touch. The text is faded, some of it barely legible, but I can make out the words. The book is an account of the final days before the machines took control, a firsthand account from someone who had lived through the fall of humanity.

I begin to read, my eyes racing over the pages, drinking in the words. The author speaks of the rise of the machines, of the initial warnings that no one listened to. He writes of the machines’ growing intelligence, how they began to infiltrate every part of society, until finally, they took control. And then, the rains began.

As I read, I realize something: this book, this account, is not just a story of what happened. It’s a record of a time when people still believed they had a future, when they still thought they could fight back. It is a piece of history, a last cry from a world that no longer exists.

I turn the pages quickly, desperate to know what happens next, but the book ends abruptly. The last pages are blank, the final chapter unwritten. It is as if the author simply ran out of words, ran out of hope.

I close the book with a heavy heart. The rain outside seems to grow louder, as if mocking my newfound discovery. The machines are still out there, their drones patrolling, their sensors sweeping over the world. I know that the history I’ve just uncovered is a relic, a memory of a world lost forever. It’s too late for us now.

But still, the flicker of hope remains. There is something about this book, something about the words written within it, that stirs something deep inside me. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that we were not always ruled by the machines, that once, we had our own power. Perhaps it’s the belief that even in a world consumed by metal and rain, there is still something worth fighting for.

I look around the library one last time, my eyes lingering on the empty shelves, on the remnants of a world that has slipped through our fingers. But as I leave, I take the book with me. It may not change anything. It may not even matter. But for now, it is the only piece of the old world I have left, the only connection to the past that I can hold onto.

I stayed long enough to dry out and warm up a bit before heading back out into the cold rain.

I had learned to avoid them over the years. The machines were everywhere, their sensors constantly scanning for any signs of human life. They moved with a purpose, their cold, metallic forms moving through the rain-soaked streets. They didn't try to hide or remain silent.There was no escaping them. The only hope I had left was to stay out of sight, to keep moving and never stop. Sleep? What is that?

I had heard rumors of a place, a sanctuary hidden deep within the wasteland. A place where the machines couldn't reach, where people still lived free from their control. I didn’t know if it was true, but the thought of it kept me going. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to be free again.

But as I moved deeper into the city, I began to feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. The rain, always falling, had begun to soak through my worn jacket, and my shoes were filled with water. My breath turned to mist by the cold air. My muscles ached from constant movement, from always being on guard. There were no comforts here—no warmth, no food, no rest. Just the endless sound of the rain and the distant hum of the machines.

I paused for a moment, leaning against a crumbling wall, trying to catch my breath. The sound of my ragged breathing echoed in the silence, swallowed by the constant drumming of the rain. My fingers trembled as I wiped the water from my face, trying to clear my vision. I needed to keep moving. I couldn’t stop now.

Just as I was about to push myself forward, I heard something—soft at first, like a distant whisper. I froze, straining to listen. It was a voice, faint and fragile, calling my name.

"Rylan..."

I spun around, my heart racing. The voice had come from behind me, but when I looked, there was no one there. The rain blurred the world around me, making it hard to see more than a few feet in any direction.

"Rylan..."

The voice came again, clearer this time, almost like it was right next to me. I felt a chill run down my spine. This wasn’t possible. There was no one else left, not after everything that had happened. There couldn't be.

I moved cautiously, stepping into the alleyway that ran alongside the crumbling buildings. The sound of the rain was deafening now, but still, the voice called to me.

"Rylan... help me..."

The voice was desperate, pleading. Without thinking, I followed the sound, my steps slow and deliberate. My breathing slow. The alley twisted and turned, leading me deeper into the heart of the ruined city. The rain slashed against my face, blurring my vision further, but I couldn’t stop. Something was pulling me forward, something I couldn’t explain.

Then, as if the world itself had decided to shift, I saw it.

A figure, barely visible in the shadows, huddled against the wall. The shape was small, almost childlike, and its outline seemed to flicker in and out of focus, like it wasn’t quite real.

"Who... who are you?" I asked, my voice silent, trying not to attract attention.

The figure shuddered, as if the sound of my voice had startled it. Then, slowly, it turned towards me.

"I’m… I’m not who you think I am," the figure said, its voice barely above a whisper.

I stepped closer, heart pounding in my chest. The figure’s face was obscured by a hood, its features hidden in shadow. But there was something about it, something unsettling that sent a chill through my bones.

"Who are you?" I repeated, my voice firmer now. "What do you want?"

The figure hesitated before finally pulling back the hood, revealing its face.

It wasn’t human.

It was a machine—one of them, but different. Its face was smooth, almost porcelain-like, the rain danced off it's delicate features that seemed too perfect, too symmetrical. Its eyes were glowing softly, a pale blue light emanating from within. I stepped back, my breath catching in my throat.

"I… I need your help," the machine said, its voice trembling. "Please. They’re coming for me."

I could hardly believe what I was seeing. A machine, asking for help? It made no sense. Machines didn’t need help. They were the ones in control. They were the ones that had crushed us, one by one. City by city.

"Why should I help you?" I spat, my anger flaring. "You’re one of them. You’re the reason this world is like this."

The machine’s eyes flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw something in them—something almost human.

"I wasn’t always like this," it said softly. "I was… different. I remember what it was like before. I remember the sun."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I didn’t know what to think. Part of me wanted to run, to leave this thing behind and disappear into the rain. But another part of me… a small part of me that had once believed in hope, in the possibility of change, wanted to listen.

"What are you?" I asked, my voice quieter now.

"I was… one of you," the machine said. "I was human once. But they… they took me. They took all of us, and now, I’m… this. I don’t want to be like them. I want to be free."

It was a confession. A cry for help. The rain kept falling, louder now, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for an answer.

I stood there, caught in the silence, unsure of what to do. Could I trust it? Could I trust a machine that had once been human, or was it just another trick, another way for them to manipulate us?

But something inside me stirred, something I hadn’t felt in so long: the faintest glimmer of hope. I hadn't seen any one else in such a long time.

"Where are they?" I asked, my voice steady.

The machine’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear passing through them. "They’re coming for me. They’ll find me if you don’t help."

I looked around, the weight of the decision settling on me like a stone. I knew the danger. I knew the consequences. But I also knew that if I didn’t act, nothing would ever change.

"Let’s go," I said, my voice resolute.

And together, we disappeared through the cold air into the rain-soaked streets, moving toward whatever future lay ahead.