The morning sun cast long shadows across the abandoned wheat field as Sarah traced her fingers through the dying stalks. Twenty years of tending these acres with her father, and now they stood as a monument to humanity’s hubris.

“You shouldn’t waste time out here anymore,” Michael said softly from behind her. Her brother’s voice carried that familiar mix of concern and resignation. “The soil’s dead. Has been for months now.”

Sarah didn’t turn around. “Remember when Dad used to say this field was our future?”

“Sarah…”

“I know, I know.” She finally faced him, managing a weak smile. “But sometimes I think this stupid field is all we have left of him. Of before.”

The afternoon light filtered through dust-laden air as they walked back to the shelter. Their footsteps crunched on dried grass, a sound that had replaced the gentle rustle of healthy wheat. Most others had fled north when the warnings came, but their father had refused to abandon the land that had been in their family for generations.

Inside the concrete bunker, Emma was preparing their rationed dinner. The teenager looked up as they entered, her face brightening momentarily before settling back into its usual careful neutrality.

“Any change out there?” she asked, though they all knew the answer.

Michael shook his head. “Same as yesterday. Same as it’ll be tomorrow.”

They ate in silence, the kind that had become comfortable over the past year. The quiet was punctuated only by the soft scraping of spoons against metal bowls.

“I found Dad’s old journal today,” Sarah said suddenly. “He wrote about the first harvest after Mom died. Said the field saved him that year. Gave him purpose.”

Emma set down her spoon. “Maybe we should try again. Plant something new.”

“With what?” Michael’s voice was sharp, then softened at Emma’s flinch. “Sorry. I just… there’s nothing left to grow. The soil’s poisoned. The rain’s poison. Everything’s…”

“Dying,” Sarah finished. “Like Dad’s dream of passing this land down.”

Later that night, Sarah stood at the bunker’s small window. The field stretched out before her, bathed in moonlight that seemed to mock its barrenness. She heard Emma’s footsteps behind her.

“Tell me about before,” the girl requested, a ritual they had developed over the months.

Sarah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “The wheat used to dance in the wind. Golden waves as far as you could see. Dad would stand right where we are now, planning the next season before the current one was even over.”

“Do you hate him? For making us stay?”

The question hung in the air like the ever-present dust outside.

“No,” Sarah answered finally. “He believed in something. Even if it was foolish. Even if it killed him.”

They stood together, watching the dead field that had once represented hope, now a testament to everything they had lost. In the distance, storm clouds gathered, bringing more acid rain that would further poison the earth.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Sarah whispered, surprising herself with the words. “Head north like we should have done with the others.”

Emma’s hand found hers, squeezed gently. “The field will still be here.”

“No,” Sarah said, feeling the weight of final acceptance. “It won’t. And maybe that’s okay.”

The wind picked up outside, whistling through the empty stalks. Tomorrow they would leave this monument to their father’s dreams, this foolish field that had defined their lives. But tonight, they would remember it as it was, golden and full of promise, one last time.