[immortal]

I hurry along the narrow passageways to the Observatory. The maze of corridors and locked doors make the Underground as complex as a rabbit's warren... not that I've ever seen one. They say that the solar flares are what makes that impossible. But fortunately, the way to the Observatory is easy to find. All paths seem to lead to the Observatory, if you follow them far enough. I just hope that I've timed it right enough that all the guards will be asleep, like they always are at dawn. Not that it really matters anyway; I think the guards only really pretend to care about where we go at night. It's not like anyone can actually go Outside, in any case.

As I run, my pulse throbs until my legs ache and my breaths are ragged pants. It used to be worse, but I've gotten used to the feeling, and besides, there is no time to lose. The guards could be waking up any minute. At one point, I think I hear the soft pattering of bare feet on the metal floors, but I know I have to be wrong. It is only me who wanders the Underground by night, and the guards wear steel-capped shoes. I would be able to tell if it was one of them... I must be imagining it. 

And yet, my ears seem to be proving me wrong, because I can clearly hear the sounds of footsteps echoing around me, and I wonder, again, if it really is her. I've seen her disappear when she wants to; sometimes, it seems that she almost melts into shadows when she wants to be invisible. But I still see her, because I can be invisible too. There are a million places to visit at night when no-one can se you, although only one is worth breaking Curfew for. And it seems that I'm almost there.

My candle is only a blackened stump now, but that's okay. The sun's first rays are starting to filter into the corridors, so I can't be far away from the Observatory. When I'm there, it's never truly dark; there are always lights flickering softly in the night sky. My mother says that they're called stars, and that when the world was young, they used to be so bright that people would gaze up at them and spot patterns in the invisible lines that connected them. I tried to do that the first time I visited the Observatory, but the dots were too blurred and the sky too clouded. But the moon's still in clear sight, and when it's midnight, it seems to light up the whole sky.

And by the weak rays of morning sun that have begun to shine, there is no need for a moon to light these passageways. I blow out my candle - it is almost burnt out anyway - and hurry towards the Observatory with silent footsteps. The corridor widens to reveal a large open chamber, flooded with the first light of dawn. Overhead, there is a canopy, which curves downwards to enclose the entire place in a glass dome. It must be the most beautiful prison on Earth, and the last, if it's true what they say. In the middle of the room, an oak tree grows, but for once, it doesn't grow alone. A girl with hair like tarnished silver sits underneath the tree; staring up at the clouds. Her eyes burn with silent tears.

As I walk towards the tree, the girl looks up and her eyes widen with fear. She is not supposed to be here at these hours, and she knows it. Not that I am either, or that anyone really cares. The times of revolution are long past, and perhaps that is a mercy. The girl hurriedly gets up from her seat on the floor as if to run away, but I raise a finger to my lips and smile shly. I sit down next to her underneath the tree, and gaze up at the sky. The stars have almost faded away, now, and the moon slips back under the horizon. Rusted leaves cling to the branches of the trees like whispers.

"I heard that you can tell what season it is just by looking at the leaves," I tell the girl softly. She nods, but remains silent.

I do not know her name, but I call her Echo, because the whole room seems to resonate with the words she cannot say. 

Echo lifts her eyes back up to the sky and sighs sadly.

"There are no birds," she says at last.

I look at her incredulously, and in that moment a thousand questions burn on my tongue. I want to ask her whether her parents told tales of people who flew with metal wings and fell from space itself; whether she used to read Shakespeare and Hemingway by candelight, in dark corners where no-one cared to look; and whether she wishes for something more than this glass prison. I want to ask her if she is like me. But I don't.

"No birds," I repeat, "just clouds and solar flares."

Echo nods, and her eyes seem to lose some of their spark. I can see disappointment in them, and I can relate. For years I listened to stories of the Outside, and how huge silver birds used to cut through the clouds like razors. But if there were ever any birds, they are long gone now. 

The glass seems to reflect the clouds back at us, so that it looks like we are in the sky itself. I guess we are the only birds now, but we can't fly. We can only wander these corridors in search of something more, and that has to be enough. But is it enough? Can it ever be enough to wait in silence while the sun burns the world to dust?

Reaching into the deep pockets of my tunic, I pull out a small yellow candle and a box of matches. I smile as I light the candle, because its glow seems to fill the whole room, despite the bright rays of sun outside. It is enough. I pass it to Echo, but she doesn't smile with me, and she doesn't need to. Her eyes smile for her. I lean back and watch the shadows of the leaves dance on the dusty floor of the Observatory, and I think how it would be to be the last of a species; the last tree on earth, if they are to be believed. And then I think that in a way, we are the last of our kind. We are the only ones who seem to care anymore about what our lives have become.

I walk towards the glass dome and put my hand on the barrier between us and the world outside. There are burning embers on the ground, but I look back to Echo, and I see burning embers in her eyes. Outside, the world burns. Inside, we burn. We burn of impatience from doing nothing.

Trapped inside this jar of life, we are immortal. 

But maybe we can start a revolution just by living.