Lost Harvest
The girl looked back one last time. The farm, now silent, seemed to breathe slowly, as if it were dying. The machines stood still, the fields full of overripe grain, ready to rot. She didn’t cry. Crying was for those who had time.
The truck took her away, dust rising like smoke behind the wheels. No one saw her leave. No one saw her arrive.
Days later, the grain fell to the ground, heavy, damp. The machines rusted under a sky that couldn’t decide if it was day or night. The farm became a skeleton, bones of metal and earth that no longer remembered the smell of life.
Somewhere far away, the girl heard about a shortage. Bread disappearing from shelves. People murmuring about hunger. She said nothing.
The wind blew over the empty fields, carrying the scent of what could have been.
And you, reading this, feel a chill down your spine. Because you know the truck could come for you too. Tomorrow. Or the day after.
February 1st, 2025. The air smells like burning servers.
In Brasília, Ana deletes the last post. The screen flickers, dies. She holds the phone like a grenade. Outside, shouts echo. People run with signs: “Fediverse or death.” She looks at her son, asleep on the couch. “It's for him,” she whispers. But doubt consumes her. What if it's too late? What if he grows up in a worse world?
In Paris, Jean clicks the red button. The account vanishes. He laughs, but the sound is dry, cutting. His girlfriend left him the night before. “You're obsessed,” she said. He stares at the empty screen. “She doesn't get it,” he thinks. But he doesn't get why his spine feels cold. Freedom should be warm, right?
In New York, Maria deletes everything. The photos, the videos, the memories. The screen goes dark. She feels the weight of the past evaporate. But the future is a fog. She looks at the sky, where drones patrol. “They're scared,” someone yells. Maria smiles. For the first time in years, she feels in control. Or maybe it's just chaos disguised as hope.
The world takes a deep breath. The streets are full, but the silence is deafening. Someone lights a bonfire with circuit boards. Others dance around it, like in an ancient ritual. Ana, Jean, and Maria don't know each other, but they are connected. Not by algorithms, but by a choice.
The fediverse waits.
HER's
She didn’t delete the account. She didn’t disappear. She left a message.
The screen glowed in the dark, her face motionless, eyes locked on the camera. The most famous influencer in the world, the woman everyone followed, everyone hated, everyone loved. Short black hair, cut asymmetrically. Pale skin, almost translucent. A smile that wasn’t a smile, but a thin cut across her lips.
“Migrate,” she said. Her voice was soft but sharp. “Migrate now.”
She showed the links, the tutorials, the steps. Fediverse. Decentralized platforms. Freedom. The screen flickered, graphics overlapped, she explained everything with a calm that felt unreal.
“They will kill me,” she said, emotionless. “But it doesn’t matter. You already know what to do.”
The stream ended.
The next day, her body was found. Spread across the networks, the headlines, everyone’s screens. The influencer was dead. But her message wasn’t.
People migrated. By the millions. The old platforms crumbled. The Fediverse grew.
She knew. She knew she had to die for the world to change. And she made it a spectacle.
