They say the asteroid will hit Earth in 24 hours.

Not this world. Not us here on Mars. Not Luna, Europa, or the orbiting cities. Just Earth. Blue and distant and doomed. The only place that ever really felt like home.

By the time the feed confirms it, it’s already too late. The asteroid is massive. Unstoppable. There are no heroic launch sequences. No press conferences. Just a headline, and then silence.

Earth has twenty-four hours left.

And all we can do is watch.

**

People react the way you’d expect. Some scream. Some pray. A few get drunk and shout into the sky like it's listening. But mostly, we queue.

We queue outside the transmission centre.

It starts with one or two. Then dozens. Then hundreds. The line loops around the outer ring of the colony. It’s orderly. No guards, no fences. Just people who need to send something, anything, before the connection fails forever.

Messages. Memories. Names. Some speak. Some sing. Some just cry into the mic. It doesn’t matter. Everything is stored. Everything is transmitted.

I join the queue six hours after the news. Not because I’m afraid or need answers. Just because I’d rather be with people than be in silence.

Ahead of me, a woman cradles a digital recorder like it's a child. Behind me, a boy scrolls frantically through old photos on a cracked screen, whispering names I don’t recognise.

The man next to me offers a strip of ration chocolate.

"Last of my stash," he says. "Thought it might help."

"Thanks," I say, and pocket it without eating. Somehow it feels sacred now.

He doesn’t ask who I lost. I don’t ask either. That’s the unspoken rule here. The queue isn’t about mourning. It’s about memory. Presence. A way to mark time with strangers who suddenly felt like family.

Funny really. The world was ending and we were queuing like it was a bank holiday weekend.

**

By hour ten, the queue barely moves. Each person takes longer than the last. No one complains. No one pushes. We’ve all got time, and no time at all.

The woman in front of me turns.

“You think they’ll hear them?” she asks.

“Some,” I say.

She nods, like she already knew that. Like she just needed someone else to say it out loud.

“They’ll be dust by the time the signal gets there,” she adds. “But maybe dust still listens.”

**

Someone passes out tea. Someone else plays music from an old datachip. It’s Earth music. Gritty, messy, full of breath. The kind you can’t fake in a cleanroom.

People sing quietly. Some hum. Others stare at the stars where Earth would be, if we could see it.

At hour fifteen, a technician walks the line with a handheld recorder.

“For those who can’t wait,” he says. “I’ll upload it personally.”

A woman grabs his sleeve. “Will it be safe?”

He hesitates.

“As safe as we can make it.”

She whispers something. He nods, then moves on.

**

At hour eighteen, the transmission centre doors open again.

A girl stumbles out, eyes red, clutching a locket. Someone asks her what she said.

She shrugs.

“Didn’t matter. I just needed it to go.”

I don’t ask what she meant. I understand too well.

**

Around hour twenty, people begin to leave the line. Not because they’re done, but because they can’t do it.

Too much.

Too late.

One by one, they drift into the viewing halls. Everyone wants to see it, even if we know what’s coming. Even if we don't.

I stay.

The man with the chocolate is still beside me.

"You going to send a message?" I ask.

He shakes his head. “No one left.”

"You?"

I nod. “My brother. He stayed.”

There’s a long silence.

“He was stubborn,” I add.

“They usually are,” he says. “The ones who stay.”

**

At hour twenty-three, the queue moves faster. People stop recording full messages. They just name names. Upload photos. Hold out personal objects to be scanned.

A child's drawing. A wedding ring. A seashell.

Some just stare into the lens and whisper, “I remember you.”

The woman with the digital recorder finally reaches the front. She speaks into it for ten minutes, then presses her forehead to the mic and cries.

No one hurries her. No one looks away.

We’re beyond time now.

**

My turn comes with seventeen minutes left.

I step inside the booth. The walls hum. A soft light blinks. I have sixty seconds.

I don’t rehearse.

I just speak.

“Danny, it’s me. I don’t know if you’re still there, or if you stayed in Boston like you said. I hope you didn’t. But if you did… if you’re still there, then I just want you to know…”

I pause.

The timer blinks: 39 seconds.

“I’m sorry. For leaving. For not calling when I should’ve. For acting like it didn’t matter when it did.”

I reach into my pocket. Take out the ration chocolate. Hold it up.

“You kept sneaking these into my bag when I first left. Said Mars food was probably sand and guilt. You were mostly right.”

A tear slips down my cheek.

“If you hear this… just know I never forgot. I never stopped being your sister. I love you.”

Beep. Time’s up.

The booth powers down.

I step back into the corridor, strangely calm, like I’ve done what I came here to do.

The man with the chocolate nods at me as I return to the crowd.

"You did it."

"Yeah," I say. "Too late, maybe, but yeah."

**

The countdown begins at hour twenty-four.

Everyone in the colony gathers at the observatory deck. No one speaks.

On screen, the Earth glows. Half-lit, half-shadow, suspended in black.

Then, a flash.

White. Then gold. Then nothing.

A planet disappears.

The room doesn’t erupt. Doesn’t scream. Just breathes in and forgets how to let go.

Someone falls to their knees.

Someone prays.

Someone throws a chocolate bar against the wall and bursts into tears.

**

Later, people trickle back into the queue.

Not to record. Not anymore.

Just to stand there.

To remember what it meant to wait.

To try.