Dirk Niejmann slowly poured an energy drink into his wine cup, because today wasn't one to spend with dull senses.

  Outside, the sun's light was dimming with each passing hour, not because night was closing, but because the sun's life was coming to an end.

  Like a tired man after a long journey, the sun slowly closed its eyes and drifted to sleep, not knowing that along with it humanity would follow suit.

  Dirk wore special glasses designed to prevent the white, bluish light of the star from melting his eyes. Now, for some science phenomenon he no longer had the time to learn, the heat output exponentially increased before the shutdown. The dim light became fierce, almost blinding, and the layers of the dome protecting them from solar radiation peeled and burnt, and fell before his eyes like leaves of the world tree burning in the depths of hell. He extended his hand to grab one, but it burnt through his palm instead, continuing its fall. Looking through the newly gained hole in his hand,

  Dirk watched the world burn to a crisp, fires in each building dancing as they consumed life.

  He let his pierced hand fall to the side. Humanity had long transcended such petty things as 'pain receptors,' which now were but a form of entertainment for deviants and masochists. If he didn't feel any pain, was there really much to fear from the world's end?

  He sipped the energy drink, hoping that it would help him experience the day to the fullest. Tasting the overrated soda, he felt a distinct flavor.

  "Is it... Battery acid, perhaps?" He could imagine machines using "Devil's Speed" as electrolyte replacement. It would probably do them as much harm as it would do to him, should he drink this often.

  He got up from his seat and walked to the table, where a neat package awaited for him tightly shut. A label reading "government assistance" could be read on the side. He gulped the remainder of the soda, and indulged himself throwing the glass away, smashing it to bits like a punk rock star. It didn't make him feel good or rebellious whatsoever, just a nagging feeling that he should clean it tugging at his brain instead.

  Ignoring it, he opened the package. Inside it, he inspected a CD collection, with music ranging from dark wave to synth pop from around the 2000 era. He picked one from a band called "Depeche Mode" and extracted the odd disc with utmost care, softly putting it on the dated reproduction machine, somehow both sturdy and frail. He started dancing to the beats of the music, flailing his arms and kicking around, while a trashcan robot picked up the glass he'd broken before.

  "Ah, I really love old music. They don't make it like this anymore. I should really thank the government."

  The initiative was pretty simple, the population knew the end was coming, this time for good. It wasn't an ancient prediction, and there were no get out of jail free cards. No planet rotation boosters, no protecting domes, no lab-produced gas to counter the climate change. The activists couldn't do anything, and even the richest elite wouldn't be spared, there was nothing to do. So, they issued prescription pills to help calm the population and created the "last wish" initiative. Some asked for fancy food or sports cars, some wanted an interview with their personal hero. Some wanted strange stuff, such as sleeping on a bed of gold. He was humble instead, and just asked the world museum to let him play copies of old music records in his house.

  Dirk quickly ran out of breath and had to stop dancing, the light outside had stopped being eye-burning, so he removed his glasses. The sun seemed somewhat smaller, weaker. He breathed in a mouthful of air.

  "Ah, so fresh. Minty, even. It's a good thing the overheating burnt away all that nasty pollution."

  Dirk scratched his head while looking outside. The sun was still bright, it would be at least ten hours until the world ended. What to do until then?

  He sat down at his piano and began to play notes. Do, re, do, do, mi. Just like he had done hundreds of times before, every day since he became a musician. Concert pianist, to be precise. He composed his own songs, and just like the days before, a plump brown cat jumped onto the keyboard, locking ten different notes. Dirk smiled, as he liked to think that Buttercup was the real composer behind his works. She forced him to adapt, to improvise. As Dirk began rolling the notes on the piano, Buttercup fell asleep. He played for hours, until his fingers hurt, proud of having finished his latest piece. On top of the music sheet, he wrote "Serenade to the ending of the world" then he cocked his head and scratched it off.

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  "Too long..." He muttered. As the cold began to settle, he shivered and turned on the heater. The breeze had him thinking of the paper of every music sheet, crystallizing and shattering. He contemplated that, perhaps, no. Just like when cremating a body, there is a point when it's perfectly cooked, surely, his piece would be the only piece left in the world at some point, even if for a few seconds.

  He scribbled: "Last Serenade" and nodded to himself. Perhaps it was a commonplace, a cliché. Perhaps it wasn't even that impressive, he thought while chuckling. It's not like the sun dying suddenly turned him into a musical mastermind overnight.

  He searched in the fridge for some food, and it seemed like the whole "world is coming to an end" thing made him forget to do the groceries. Sighing, he grabbed a pack of dry pasta and boiled it for a few minutes while chopping garlic and parsley. He often forgot to shop, so he had a good stash of these. His mother had taught him that the dish was called "Aglio e Olio" but to this day he didn't quite understand how the plate could have anything to do with that. He mindlessly chewed while imagining that, maybe, if it had chicken...

  It was so cold now that he couldn't even finish the dish before the fork got stuck to it like a piece of ice.

  He tried to turn the heater to full blast, but power had gone out. His eyes lowered to Buttercup, that seemed fast asleep. He kissed her cold head, thinking that perhaps going out sleeping was the best choice.

  He lay on the sofa, thinking of some last words to say. He imagined having a sin-eating priest next to him, who mentally commanded him to tell him his gravest wrongs so that he would carry them in his stead, but nothing came to mind.

  "I haven't been as good as I could've been. I got angry too often, now it seems so silly. Oh, that time I stole 40 dollars from my uncle..." He stuttered, and different images flashed through his eyes.

  The homeless man he ignored, the girlfriend he cheated on, the boss whose coffee he spat in... It all seemed so petty, so trivial. Not a saint but not a devil either. He wished for a moment to have been more evil, if only to have something to confess, but he didn't enjoy wronging people, mostly keeping to himself anyways. Dirk's mind became numb with the cold, as he contemplated that there was a minimum of wickedness to be absolved, which he didn't have. To be condemned for not being bad enough, what an interesting thought.

  On the right side of the frozen couch, he imagined a friend. Not the ones from the bar, nor the coworkers from before he got into piano, who only feigned interest, a real friend. Someone who cared about him, about his thoughts, a kindred soul, so to speak. The image was blurry, like the figure of a policeman that detains the drunkard who stumbles on his way home, out of focus, shifting shapes so fast that it was hard to pin. He opened his mouth, trying to say... Something, something important, the meaning of his life. But no words came from his parted, cracked lips. His tongue had been frozen, and couldn't speak words.

  The figure became dissolved and revealed Buttercup behind, her body covered in snow (or was it ashes?)

  Dirk Niejmann then realized that he had been living every day as his last, always running to leave a mark, a new piece better than his last before the ending of the day. Always rushing, like the world was about to end. He found meaning in the journey, of holding hands with his cat and sharing dinner with a meaningful person, even if they couldn't truly get him. He actually realized that he had always been on the quiet side, leaving others to speak their mind. He wished that he could make the ending of the world a day more meaningful, that he could've produced some sort of fire-spewing monster truck and played some badass metal song while shooting at the skies, rebelling against his fate and the cruelty of the Gods.

  The music had also stopped, and he didn't know if it was the ice that broke the machine, or if the CD was over. He had a vague notion in his foggy mind that it had been good. His life, that is. Simple, a bit monotone, not worthy of a film or a book, but meaningful to him, to Buttercup. Isn't meaning leaving a mark on your loved one's heart?

  A viola clef plays softly for one's happiness, its middle line like a crystal bridge that shatters when walked over too fast, and sorrow writes with bass clef, deep, low, grave. G is also Sol, and isn't Sol also Sun?

  Sleepiness began to overtake him as the skies turned black, and the fire in the sun began to die, not like a black hole, but like an ember in the midst of muddy charcoal. The fire had been put out by the snow, winter had come, and in Dirk's mind the last notes rang... The notes of the Last Serenade