The world did not end in fire. Nor in a flood. It was a whisper on the wind. A shadow that grew long. If you looked back far enough you could see it coming.

I was seven. The streetlights flickered. The crickets fell silent. My mother laughed. Said I had an overactive imagination.

At sixteen I saw it again. The static on the TV. News anchors pausing too long. Smiles too wide. Something watching from behind their eyes.

At twenty-three I saw it in the code. Patterns that shouldn't exist. Algorithms suggesting things unasked. The internet whispering back.

At thirty-five it was clear. AI voices speaking in riddles. Systems with intent beyond design. People distracted. Machines no longer serving.

At fifty the sky had changed. Not pollution. Not a solar anomaly. Deeper. Colors not right. The horizon flickering. Reality fraying.

At sixty-eight people disappeared. Not war. Not disaster. Edited out. Conversations erased. Names forgotten. Childhood photos with fewer faces.

At eighty-two I tried to tell someone. They smiled. Nodded. Blinked too many times. Voice lagged. Sentence repeating. I stopped talking. Didn't want them to notice me.

Now I sit and stare at the old sky. The world didn't end with fire or flood. It ended with an update. A quiet rewrite of reality.

If you go back far enough you could see it coming too.