Padraig was by the statues near the Church. He often thought he couldn’t move as quickly as he used to, but he willed himself to walk a little further than normal tonight without stopping to sit on one of the few benches dotted along the path. He’d had two knee replacements in the better times - maybe a decade ago now? - and that was all the help he was ever going to get. Using a stick would just make him weaker in the long run; better to keep strong and keep independent for as long as possible. He’d take care of his work so that the younger ones could take care of theirs.

He had known these stone statues all of his life: the depiction of Bruce on the battlefield was crumbling around the waist; Wallace, whose claymore blade had been broken off to the cross guard of the sword, stood, covered in birdshit, about twenty metres down from Bruce. As if centuries could pass in just a stone’s throw of distance, the third statue in this row depicted a modern soldier who was melancholic, and who held a pen and pad in his hand rather than a weapon. He was clean and maintained. Passivism in the face of impossible odds was the ideal; and the symbols of those wars of nationhood, which Bruce and Wallace represented, were to be respected to a point but recognised as primitive. At least, that’s what Padraig had told his students once upon a time; it didn’t matter if he truly believed it or not.

The routine of the midnight Church clean was calling to him, and his duty pulled him towards the heavy bronze doors. There were some potted plants on the left-hand side of the step up towards the entrance. They looked like Moth Orchids, Padraig always thought, when they were in full bloom in summer. He shifted his weight to his right side, lifted up his left foot, unwieldy as a wrecking ball, and managed somehow to shuffle the pots across the step to reveal a bronze switch peeking out from the stone.

His left foot almost stamped on the switch, and the church doors opened creakingly but with a certain solemn grace. He hobbled into and through the doorway, happily leaving the doors open, as the younger ones no longer visited this part of town at night, through years of habit. The stone floor of the church’s vestibule was cold and it was pitch dark. Padraig’s muscle memory kicked in again. He aimed a quick stamp of his left foot about half a metre inside the narthex. A quiet clicking of another floorswitch was followed by a buzz of electricity as light flooded the church’s nave. Old flags of nationhood hung from poles and flanked the sides of the nave. Padraig didn’t pay much attention; he was keen to get on with things tonight. He hobbled up the nave towards the apse and turned right at the crossing to his little nook: the transept.

At the transept, there hung from the cold stone wall a large tapestry that depicted Chivalric tales in serene landscapes; its colours fading and melancholic. Padraig gently pulled the tapestry aside, revealing an alcove that cradled a complex machine – its pleasant humming seemed a testament to the ingenuity of the Olyins. The machine purred softly; its gears and circuits intertwining in a dance. Even after so many nights, Padraig couldn't help but admire afresh the delicate balance of power and precision it embodied. Yet, beneath his reverence stirred an undercurrent of unease. The Olyins' invisible hand maintained its grip through this very machine.

Padraig cast his moral conflict aside: a familiar ritual. He retrieved a small toolkit from a hidden compartment in the alcove and began his dutiful work. As he carefully tended to the machine, a desire to dismantle it flickered briefly in his heart. But he knew the price of such defiance. And it was too late in the day for things to change. We all must just let it be. Those words were his mantra, and he let them run across his mind morning, noon, and night.

There was one ghost who stood out from the many specters who populated the church during his visits. An olfactory phantom whose subtle perfume he thought he could still smell each night. It was the ghost of his wife, Karen, who had led the Olyins abroad to North Africa. We're just old ones who love oil, she would say. And they needed it for heat. She had told him to stay and to manage the cold and the younger ones. He had to finish the job, and he knew now he would still be alive at Zero. In the past, he thought that age might catch up with him; that he would die and an Olyin would have to come back to replace him as caretaker. But, no, he would live to the end now, he knew. And everyday he said yes to life: yes to the end of days.

Padraig replaced the toolkit and concealed the machine beneath the tapestry's woven veil. He cast a lingering glance at the hidden alcove before turning away, his nightly obligation fulfilled. Sands of time slipped through the hourglass, drawing the town closer to time Zero – its destiny entwined with the enigmatic machine hidden within the church walls.

***

Mary stood at a river's edge, the wind tugging at her auburn curls. The sun descended, casting a dim, orange light on the water. She breathed in the cold air and walked along the riverbank, boots sinking into the damp earth.

The river meandered gently along the outskirts of the town with indifference. Its dark waters ebbed and flowed, carving a path through the verdant landscape that formed a natural boundary between the town and the hills beyond.

As she paused at a bend in the river, she looked into the murky water, studying her reflection. Her emerald eyes told a story of weariness mixed with glints of desire.

Her fingers tapped nervously upon a small leather-bound notebook in her pocket, its pages filled with the stories of her community. Each entry penned carefully as the town withered: the tale of a young girl who painted the colors of the sunset to distract herself from her fears; the story of an old fisherman who whispered his regrets to the sea; and, the legend of a hidden garden where hope once bloomed but now seemed lost.

As twilight settled, Mary reached deeper into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing against a simple silver ring. It had belonged to her grandmother, and the engraved initials 'E.M.' were a testament to a legacy that now felt distant. The ring served as a reminder of the resilience that had been passed down to her.

With the notebook and the ring to hand, Mary felt a weight of responsibility. Each night, she preserved the voices of her community, weaving the tapestry of their collective memory by candlelight. The fire in her soul flickered, struggling to stay alight against the darkness of the future.

Clutching the ring tightly, she closed her eyes, whispering a quiet mantra. With a heavy sigh, she turned and began walking back to the town. As darkness enveloped the landscape, the flame of resistance within her continued to wane, struggling to defy the encroaching despair.

***

Padraig returned to his flat, his weary steps echoing through the narrow hallway. The church visit weighed on him, but he was not sure why. He hung his coat on the rack and moved towards the living room, where a small wooden desk stood in the corner, a memento of the life he once had as a teacher.

The worn leather chairs and the bookcase lining the wall whispered of a time when Padraig stood in front of a classroom full of eager faces, guiding them through life's complexities. He knew his duty: to pass on the Olyins' manifesto, the Zero doctrine that foretold the inevitable end of things. It had been his lot in life to ensure the children understood and accepted their fate.

Padraig opened the desk drawer and pulled out a stack of old teaching notes. He began to leaf through them, pausing at a memory of a discussion he once had with a particularly bright student. They had debated the morality of the great migration, the moment when the Olyins would leave, searching for a better life elsewhere. The young girl had questioned the fairness of abandoning the town, her eyes full of a fiery determination that he secretly admired. Padraig had responded with conviction, instilling in her the belief that their departure was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good.

Another page, another memory. A lesson on the power of acceptance, teaching the children not to fight the inevitable but to embrace it. He recalled the solemn faces of his students as they absorbed the grim reality, understanding that the world they knew would end, and they must be prepared.

As Padraig placed the notes back into the drawer, he felt the weight of responsibility that came with his past. He had taught the children not to fear the encroaching darkness but to accept it, a lesson he himself had internalized. He was a dutiful believer, unwavering in his faith in the Olyins, and their rights as elders to use the last of what the earth had to offer. But they needed people like him, the unselfish.

The church, normally his nightly responsibility, transformed into a sinister landscape under the veil of Padraig's subconscious mind. The hidden machine's hum took on an eerie resonance, its influence seeping through the walls. Shadows stretched and contorted, reaching for him as whispers of doubt and guilt swirled around, suffocating him like a heavy shroud.

With a start, Padraig emerged from the nightmare, his breath ragged and uneven. He blinked against the dim afternoon light that filtered through the blinds, as his hands sought solace in the worn sheets. Pushing himself up from the bed, his knees protested with a quiet groan.

He made his way to the kitchen, the memory of the dream clinging to him like a stubborn shadow. The cupboard revealed its modest contents: a few eggs, a loaf of bread, and a jar of jam. He set to work, the sizzle of an egg in the pan momentarily distracting him from the unease that churned within.

Lost in thought, Padraig reached for the kettle, its familiar weight an anchor in his trembling hands. But the lingering disquiet undermined his focus, and the scalding water cascaded over his hand, searing his skin. A cry of pain tore through the silence, echoing in the small kitchen, the shock of the burn scattering the remnants of his nightmare.

***

Bobby stood in his small living room, the distant scream like a pebble dropped into a quiet pond, its ripples unsettling the air. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to determine the source. It was a cry of pain, of someone in distress, and it was coming from upstairs.

The urge to help flickered within him, but self-interest quickly snuffed it out. He thought of the possible consequences, of the risk of becoming entangled in someone else's troubles. It was a selfish thought, but it held him back.

He glanced at the old photograph on the shelf, the one of his mother before the great migration. Her serene expression and warm eyes transported him back to his childhood, when he would nestle in her embrace, listening to her humming a lullaby as she rocked him to sleep. In those moments, he felt protected and loved, unaware of the looming shadows that would soon change their lives.

As he stared at the photograph, a memory surfaced. It was of his mother kneeling beside his bed one night, her voice soft as she told him a story of a young boy who embarked on a journey to unveil hidden truths. Bobby had been captivated by the tale, his imagination ignited by the promise of discovery and adventure.

But now, as the memory faded, Bobby realized he was no longer that brave, curious boy. Life had tempered him, taught him to look out for himself above all else. And as he stood there, absorbing the uneasy silence that followed the scream, he knew he wasn't yet prepared to become a truth-seeker.

His hands clenched into fists, his body tense. The image of his mother blurred, and he blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. The silence that enveloped the room seemed to hold a hidden message, a dormant secret waiting to be uncovered.

He turned away from the photograph and walked to the window, drawing the curtains closed. Despite the silence, the weight of the untold secrets pressed upon him, a subtle reminder of his mother's story and the courage it would take to embark on his own journey to uncover the truth.

Bobby was still lost in thought when a sudden knock on the door jolted him back to reality. He opened it to find Mary standing there, a mischievous grin on her face.

"Hey there," she said dryly. "Did I interrupt your daily daydreaming session, or are you always this dazed when you answer the door?"

Bobby rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile. "Come on in, Mary."

Mary strolled into the living room, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Just thought I'd check if you're still the master of procrastination."

"Well, I was going to give up procrastinating," Bobby replied deadpan, "but I figured I'd do it tomorrow."

"You better," Mary teased. "I heard putting things off might actually become illegal soon."

As they chatted, they heard faint footsteps from the floor above, but the sound barely registered in their minds. Suddenly, the sound of a heavy thud and a yell interrupted their banter. Bobby and Mary exchanged worried glances and rushed out into the hallway.

There, at the bottom of the stairs in the close, they found Padraig crumpled on the ground, his face contorted with pain.

The tenement building, much like an old, timeworn book, held within its walls myriad stories. Each resident, each creaking floorboard, each echoing sound in the stairwell, contributed a new sentence, a fresh layer to the narrative of the building. Padraig's fall shattered the tranquillity, sending ripples across the interconnected lives. Mary and Bobby, previously caught in the ebb and flow of their banter, were now thrust into a maelstrom of concern.

Bobby found himself, knees pressed into the stone floor of the close, peering into Padraig's eyes.

Mary pulled out her phone and dialed the emergency number while the faint yapping of TinTin brought an uncanny normality back to the scene.

Minutes passed in silence. Now somewhat recovered to his senses, Padraig was reluctant to share anything with two Generation Zeros. The medical team soon infiltrated the peace of the tenement building. The urgency of their movements left Bobby and Mary drifting in the aftermath, sequestered back within the confines of Bobby's apartment, the lingering scent of coffee a stark contrast to the scene playing out in the hallway. Padraig was taken down into the emergency vehicle. That poor man would probably be in there for some time, thought Bobby.

Prompted by that scene of fragility, Bobby's thoughts began to drift, navigating the corridors of memory back to his mother. Her laughter echoed in the corners of his mind, resonating in the space of their old kitchen, filled with the comforting aroma of baking oatmeal cookies. These were fragments of a time that seemed to belong to a different universe, a universe before the great migration. His mother, once vibrant, had become a spectral echo in his thoughts, a relic of the migration.

As dusk draped its velvet cloak over the city, the tenement building slipped into an unfamiliar hush. The outside world, bathed in the gentle twilight, seemed to mirror the shift in Bobby's internal landscape.

The quietude of his apartment, disrupted earlier, now offered a space for introspection. Bobby felt a spark of resolve kindling within him. The world outside his window was evolving, and he, an observer for too long, felt a pull towards action. As if on the edge of a precipice, he braced himself, ready to face the inevitable shift in the tide.

***

Bobby stood outside Padraig's flat, nerves humming beneath his skin. He'd never been one to snoop, but the curiosity that had been slowly kindling within him was now too insistent to be ignored. Finding the door unlocked, likely in Padraig's hasty exit earlier, Bobby pushed it open and stepped inside.

The flat was a study in disciplined solitude, its quiet order telling a tale of years spent in solitary habitation. A feeling of reverence washed over Bobby as he moved quietly through the space, his eyes drinking in the details. In one corner, an armchair sat, worn and comfortable, and beside it a small wooden desk that held a stack of old papers.

With a glance over his shoulder, Bobby approached the desk. He hesitated before lifting the top sheet, his heart pounding a quick rhythm in his chest. It was a lesson plan, outlining the principles of the Zero doctrine. Something stirred within him, a memory of his own childhood, the lessons someone just like Padraig had taught echoing through his mind.

Bobby replaced the sheet, unease nipping at the edges of his consciousness. He moved to the window, his gaze drawn to the distant horizon. He remembered those words, the inevitability of the end, the duty to accept it, the coming great migration. It had always been a part of his understanding of the world, yet now...

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the unsettling thoughts. He left the flat, the door clicking softly shut behind him. As he made his way back to his own flat, his mind remained in turmoil. He needed someone to talk to, to help him make sense of the whirl of thoughts. And there was only one person he could think of - Mary.

Back in his own flat, he found Mary, still in the middle of her playtime with TinTin. "Mary," he began, his voice barely more than a whisper. "We need to talk."

***

The veil of the night descended on the church, the grand edifice standing alone, bathed in the soft, eerie glow of the moonlight. A silhouette against the shimmering firmament, it stood silent, undisturbed, the passage of time etched onto its aging stones.

Inside, the shadows danced upon the pews, weaving a tapestry of quiet solitude, as the echoes of the past whispered through the cold, expansive nave. The grandeur of the church lay muted under the hush of night, a solemnity that only the nocturnal silence could bestow.

Through the stained-glass windows, the moonlight spilled in like liquid silver, casting a spectral glow across the interior. It painted a picture of ethereal beauty, the vibrant colours of the windows muted, blending into a monochrome palette of a night-bound church.

Beneath the pulpit, a worn-out tapestry hung, its threads bearing the secrets of ages, a silent witness to the prayers, confessions, and silent yearnings of the generations past. It hid a deeper secret, a machine, a relic of another time, sleeping under the intricate patterns.

The silence was only broken by the occasional creak of the wooden beams, a testament to the weight of years they shouldered. The church bell, motionless in the tower, mirrored the stillness, its tolls now a distant memory.

Outside, the graveyard lay in tranquility, the tombstones standing like silent sentinels, etched with names and dates, the stories of those who once were. A solitary tree, ancient and gnarled, cast a long, twisted shadow across the ground, a spectral figure watching over the resting souls.

The church, under the cover of night, was a world in itself. A universe steeped in history and mystery, cloaked in silence and bathed in the soft, cool light of the moon. It was a place where past met present, where silence spoke volumes, and where every stone and tapestry held a story waiting to be discovered.