On the morning of April 7th, 2022, at 14:52 PST, the Sun abandoned us. We shouldn't have been surprised; we’ve ignored His warnings since we first looked skyward.

September 1st, 1859. The Earth's magnetic field absorbs a massive solar emission, and night becomes day worldwide. While most stare in awe at the shifting Aurora, telegraph machines all across the globe electrocute their operators in a desperate scream for attention. Their wires spark and smoke; this goes on for two days.

What systems survived the damage were disconnected from their power sources by their operators; it did not stop them from functioning normally for hours on end, relaying messages despite being switched off. We dubbed this the Carrington Event; and it was the first time we were equipped to hear, if not listen, to the Sun's warnings.

1892--glowing skies, burned-out fuses, communication blackouts all across the globe. For the first time since the invention of the telegraph, the world became vast again, and silent. In 1967, American polar surveillance radars went completely dark, nearly sparking World War 3. But it wasn't an attack, and it wasn't by an enemy; it was a father scolding His children. 1978--entire underwater minefields detonate as one. The warnings are getting louder. Deafening. Frantic.

It wasn't until the year 2000, on Bastille day, when his blabber filled our satellites, that we began to realize the danger posed by these all too common events. Less than one year after that, one of the biggest solar flares in recorded history spewed out from its fiery surface, narrowly missing the Earth. By then, we could hear His voice loud and clear; if only we could listen, too. But can you blame us? We thought they were natural occurrences, cosmic randomness, something as of yet not understood. We were deaf to His language of plasma and magnetism, so we focused inward, on what these solar flares meant for us, rather than on why they were happening. We panicked over the words, not their message.

How could we have known?

On April 7th, the threats finally stopped. After one final, unintelligible message that fried our technology for good, the Sun leaves the firmament. We, who so stubbornly refused to heed His warnings, now face His complete absence. He is gone, swallowed by the darkness; his life-giving and hateful warmth, his light, has left us. Whatever He was trying to tell us, we can only speculate--all we know for sure is that the skies are bare and the Earth's still spinning, orbiting an empty space and that Ptolemy and Copernicus were both right. Our lonely planet barrels through space unfettered, yet we do not stray from our eternal path. Humanity, such as it is, is abandoned but not alone; without power, but not without light.

We turned on the Sun, and now the Sun has turned on us. In His absence, something else keeps us warm; something from below bathes us in Her radioactive love.

We will never be cold again. Our only recourse burns bright with envy. All She asks for in return is a home for her children.