She had always been a fan of making lists. She wrote lists for the supermarket, the pharmacy, and household chores. Lists to not forget anything before travelling and others to not to forget anything during travelling. She kept lists of her favourite foods, the movies she had ever seen, the ones she hadn't yet, and the books to read. She even had those that determined her favourite words and those who were not. She carried a notepad wherever she went, and at the slightest possibility of starting a new list, she took it out and started creating like an artist, like an artist struck by the ray of the creative muses. She liked to write by hand, and she was always looking for the special pen: the one that would make her feel that her writing was too. She dreamed that those lists would become her legacy one day, as grandmothers' recipes did once.
She enjoyed imagining that her detailed and precise enumerations would one day become glimpses of herself, that future generations, no matter how many, could piece together the puzzle of her life, personality, and history. In every list, if people were observant enough, they could appreciate a perfect photograph of who she was, a close-up of her interior, and that filled her with pride.
The morning had started like any other; the black coffee, the toasts with the thin layer of butter, a glass of natural water and the clothes perfectly arranged. Everything she would do during the day was already listed in her head: going to work, meetings at strict hours, a frugal lunch, and just enough time to complain about the heat. Summer on the asphalt attacked those who dared to remain in the city and stand on it with a fury so angry that it resembled revenge. The television was tuning into a news channel that functioned more like white noise and less like an actual broadcast. In their starched suits and heavy, old-fashioned makeup, the newscast hosts talked about the inclement weather. An unexpected heatwave hit one half of the world while the other half, with equal strength, wore layers and layers of white snow as never seen before. The hemispheres were struck in parallel, each in her season, each in her time. They spoke of an earthquake, of gusts of wind that could bring destruction at any moment. They alerted of rains and the rising of the waters in the coastal areas. They talked about predictions, numbers and remaining time. Of mysticism, prophecies, and encrypted messages, but it was just one more white noise, like every day, like every year.
She came out determined with the lists on her mind. She looked at the sun that seemed more extensive and closer than ever. It was not yet noon, and her body no longer generated shadow. Motionless trees and silence all around surrounded the streets. Flocks of birds moved away from the built-up landscape in silence, black as a funeral procession and she for a moment wanted to be one of them. Time stopped. Someone had pressed the stop button and would soon be pressing the reset button.
The tremor came, a deafening roar, the sun shone until it burned, and the earth split open. Silent despair flooded the passersby. The concrete giants succumbed, and the vehicles became sizzling plates burned, warped and crumpled about to fall into the newly emerged pits in the inclement asphalt.
The prophecies had been fulfilled. The end of the world was happening, and there was no God who would come to judge the living and the dead as the Holy Gospels had promised.
She simply turned on her heel and took a seat on one of the still intact sidewalks. She took out of her bag her notepad and pen and began: an ice cream, a kiss, a jasmine, a hug, a phone number, a plane ticket not fully paid yet, the smell of sponge cake, the petrichor of the morning, the softness of a pet, the perfume of mom, the legacy that was not.