Sister Octavia

Sister Octavia, her bronze skin etched with the wisdom of a hundred cycles around the sun, gripped my hand, her calloused fingers strong and sure. “This ain’t our home no more, child,” she rumbled, her voice a melody of past storms and vast experience.
“They done pumped all the soul out of Earth, leaving a hollow shell.”
We stood at the precipice of the exodus pod, a vessel crammed with hopes, fears and tears.

Below, the once fertile fields stretched barren, monuments to a greed that choked the land. My breath hitched, a tangle of fear and determination in my throat. Sister Octavia squeezed my hand. “But where there’s a seed,” she said, her eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand suns, “there’s a way to grow.”