“Papa, I can’t whistle. You know I can’t.”

 

The girl sighed and tried to make herself comfortable on the cold, hard bed.

 

“Well, you’ll have to learn, Sky.” Her father looked tired and agitated. “Anyway, try to sleep. We leave in the morning. It’ll take us three days to get to Eden. You will need energy, and you will need your wits about you.”

 

“So will you, Papa.”

Her sad eyes watched him try to mend her only jacket. The wind was picking up, rattling the plastic windows and the rickety wooden door. In the distance, the rising and falling of the curfew sirens blasted eerily from the Red Guards’ patrol cars.

 

Papa looked up. “We will need to avoid being seen at night.”

 

“Yes, Papa.”

 

Sky fell asleep to the sound of the wind and the rattling and creaking of their tiny cabin.

 

The morning came too quickly, but with the familiar song repeating cheerily from the other end of the cabin. Her father whistled the five or six notes, with, as usual, a slight variation each time.

 

“Let’s go. Put this on, it’s food for the trip.”

 

He passed her a backpack and the repaired jacket. She closed the door behind them and locked the rusted padlock. With the rising sun just touching the scattering clouds, they set off for Eden in silence.

 

* * *

 

Father and daughter walked along the edge of what once had been a road. Weeds grew from the many cracks and potholes, and the wind cried mournfully through demolished buildings. The night was almost upon them, and the temperature was dropping as they entered an overgrown park.

 

Sky stopped abruptly. “Guards!”

She could hear the low hum of a Red Guards hover-car nearby. Neither of them could see it yet, but they took no chances and crouched under a bush. They waited until the car went by twenty feet above the ground, the distinctive red light glaring on its underside.

 

Whatever tech was left after the last days of the war was in the hands of the Red Guards. Fortunately for the thinly spread population, what remained was unreliable. Only three or four cars operated in this region, each with two Guards — armed, of course, with deadly blasters.

 

The curfew siren sounded, echoing around the deserted ruins. After making sure the patrol car was completely out of sight, they resumed their journey, constantly looking around for the telltale red light or listening for the buzzing sound of the lift motors. They came to the remains of a garage, part of its roof still intact. They went inside and decided to rest there until morning.

 

“What’s that, Papa?” Sky pointed at two yellow circles connected to a metal framework, partly covered by roof debris.

 

“It’s a bicycle, I think: a thing children used to sit on, and they would move it forward to carry them places."

Sky stared at it, not really understanding how it could work.

 

“We hardly ever see children, Papa.”

 

“I hear people are moving south, looking for a better life. We will do the same soon.” He smiled at her.

 

Through a hole in the wall, they could see a distant fire lighting up the grim, silent night.

 

“I wonder what’s happened.” Sky stared at the faraway flames.

 

“Probably a gang trying to intimidate the Guards. Hopefully, it’ll keep them away from us.”

 

* * *

 

“Eden.” Sky’s father nodded at a broken sign in front of a large, heavily damaged building. What had once been apartment balconies were being reclaimed by nature. Large weeds covered most of the seven stories of the partly collapsed building, which stretched along the equally green road.

 

They started to clamber over rubble to reach a stairwell. Sky’s father slipped and fell, banging his head on a large piece of concrete. He was knocked unconscious.

 

“Papa! Papa!”

Sky tried to revive him but couldn’t. She leaned over his face and, thankfully, felt his breath on her cheek, then sat so that her shadow protected him from the glaring sun.

 

Night slowly descended. Sky’s father awoke with a jolt.

 

“How long?”

 

“A few hours. Are you OK, Papa?”

 

“We need to get inside.”

 

He got up slowly, and they climbed the stairs to the sound of distant sirens. After a while, he signalled to go into one of the apartments. He lay on the floor, holding his head. Sky took off her jacket, rolled it up, and used it as a pillow for him.

 

“Your great-grandfather used to live here before the war.” He started to cough and closed his eyes. “He was a famous musician. He died, along with most people, in the bombing.” His voice was now a whisper. “His son survived and came back to this, their home, years later and heard the song. My mother brought me here so I could appreciate where it started.”

 

Sky looked at him, her face sad and questioning. It was a lot to take in.

 

“The pipes, Sky.”

 

Several pipes of different sizes were hanging from the ceiling.

 

“Yes, Papa?”

 

“Wait. Wait for the wind.”

 

An hour passed in silence, then a curious sound made her look around in wonder: it was the sound of the song. The wind had suddenly risen and was blowing through the pipes — the melody of the song filled the night. It was the same few notes her father regularly whistled.

“Papa! The song!”

 

“We must keep the memory alive, Sky: the memory of a better life, and a world that was filled with music. Never forget the song. It’s all we have from that time.”

 

“But, Papa, I can’t whistle.”

 

A tear came to her eye.

 

“Sing it, Sky.”

 

She hummed the haunting melody, over and over.