About

A white silence fills the space beyond the thick concrete walls of the Chrysalis. Chrysalis No. 4 sits perched atop precariously towering steel pillars, suspended dozens of meters above the ground. While this design serves the functional purpose of blocking the freezing cold of the earth, the sheer abyss of the icy floor felt every time one looks down remains something impossible to get used to. We call this cold, arched dome the 'Chrysalis.' When the great disaster of heavy snowfall arrived 100 years ago, we hid within this massive, heavy structure, much like larvae retreating into their shells dreaming of the day they become butterflies. The only sun in this world is the dull light emanating from the center of the nuclear power plant. The airtight concrete exterior walls, meters thick and built by our ancestors a century ago to block radiation, paradoxically became the only shield protecting us from the 'Sleeping Sickness'—the reaper falling from the sky. The immense power and heat vomited by the plant light the red LEDs of the smart farms to grow edible crops and push warmth into our cold lungs. This is the only bloodstream proving that we are alive. However, our world is thoroughly isolated. The strange snowfall and electromagnetic interference that filled the atmosphere 100 years ago rendered satellites drifting in space useless and severed all fiber optic cables on the ground. We do not know if other Chrysalises still breathe beyond the walls, or if we are the only humans left on this Earth. Only cold, crackling static leaks from the walkie-talkies. On nights when the radio noise subsides, we must endure the terrible loneliness of being left alone in the world within that silence. And in the deepest basement of this Chrysalis, in the storage room, the 'Hibernators' sleep. Patients of the Sleeping Sickness that began appearing 50 years ago. Though clear, transparent crystals like ice envelop their bodies, if you press your ear to their chests, you can hear a precise, slow heartbeat thumping beyond the hard wall of ice. They are not dead. They are our family, lovers, and colleagues who will wake up one day when this cruel winter ends and a warm spring arrives. Every day, we wipe their icy chests and record their life by pressing stethoscopes to them, believing that one day the technology of the power plant and our civilization will find a cure to wake them. In this steel city suspended dozens of meters above the ground, we endure the terrifying silence today, relying on the reddish heat of the reactor. We pray fervently that the white snowfall from the sky will one day stop, and that the day will come when we break through this hard chrysalis shell and fly like butterflies.