I usually don't like to talk about my life, but I’ll make an exception. It was the first time I decided to visit the place of origin of humans: Earth. That celestial body that once housed the life of various species, that world we called home, and which is no longer that for us.
When I landed on this place, I felt... strange. It was a mix of emotions standing there, breathing the air of what was once the home of my species. My parents told me that Earth was abandoned 300 years ago. No one in my family was lucky—or unlucky—enough to live there. Growing up listening to stories of a lost planet filled me with curiosity, but also with a deep sorrow.
As I arrived and observed the remains of what once was a city, I was overwhelmed with astonishment and confusion. Nature had reclaimed the space, covering the old structures with vegetation and ruins. What remained of humanity was being devoured by time and life that had thrived in our absence. The air was clean and fresh as I walked the streets of what was once a vibrant metropolis, though now there was nothing left but an echo of the bustle that must have characterized it.
Before this trip, I had prepared by reading everything I could about the planet. I researched every detail, every clue that could help me better understand this forgotten place. I even searched for coordinates where my language was spoken. Incredible, right? At one point, there were over 7,000 native languages on Earth. It’s a shame I never met anyone who didn’t speak Spanish. Every fragment of information I found fueled my fascination and my desire to see for myself what was left of this ancient world.
I explored an old city in the southern part of the American continent, called Buenos Aires, and what I saw there was as impressive as it was terrifying. Large means of transportation lay collided and destroyed. Rubble was scattered everywhere, and the most chilling sight: a pile of human skeletons in the streets. If anyone asked me the reason for all this, I wouldn’t know how to answer. The information I gathered was full of gaps, and each clue raised the same question: What happened? Why did we leave the planet in the first place? I decided to investigate on my own to try and find an answer.
I walked to a place where a structure caught my attention. According to the plaque there, it was an obelisk dedicated to a flag, or something like that. However, the text was illegible, and I couldn’t understand it clearly. The passage of time and deterioration had erased much of its message. Luckily, I arrived in the morning and not at night. The feeling in that place during the darkness would have been much more eerie, even more terrifying than the caves of Mars I had explored before.
On my journey, I reached a port. The water stretched to the horizon, undulating and alive, as if a latent spirit had reclaimed this place after centuries of abandonment. The sun’s glow danced on its surface, reflecting shades that ranged from deep brown to emerald green.
The air smelled of a mix of humidity and salt, with a faint touch of organic rot. The temptation to get closer was great; I even thought about touching the water. However, I restrained myself. I didn’t know if that liquid, no matter how clean it appeared at times, hid forgotten toxins, unknown microorganisms, or simply the memory of centuries of pollution.
The port was full of signs of the life that once thrived here: corroded cranes, ruined ships caught by the vegetation now claiming them, and a silence as vast as the water itself. It was beautiful and unsettling, a mix of nature reborn and the scars of humanity’s past.
As I explored, I found a partially destroyed building that seemed to have been a museum. The entrance was blocked by debris, but I managed to make my way through. Inside, I found broken display cases and scattered exhibits on the floor. There were remnants of what seemed to be works of art and everyday objects, silent witnesses of a civilization that had achieved great things before its fall. I stopped in front of a painting covered in dust. Its content was blurry, but the golden frame and visible brushstrokes spoke of a time of splendor. If they had mouths, they would tell fascinating stories, what a shame.
I continued exploring for several days, documenting everything I found. The remnants of an advanced civilization were everywhere, from the ruined skyscrapers to the rusted vehicles that once crossed the streets, and to think these things polluted the environment—could that have been what led us to ruin?
However, there was also beauty in the desolation. Nature had forcefully and gracefully reclaimed its place, transforming what had once been chaos into a landscape of rebirth.
At one point during my exploration, I found a diary. It was a small notebook, damaged by time, but still legible. It was incredible that it had survived in those conditions, surely thanks to the copper desk that had kept it shielded from the elements. Its pages contained the reflections of a girl who had lived through the last days before the exodus. Her words were a testament to the hope and fear experienced during that time. One sentence in particular stuck in my memory: "It is unlikely that this will be found in the future, but if it is, hello, and thank you for doing so. My family and I have been called. We were lucky. We are leaving Earth. I am sad and scared of it, but we caused this. I only hope that one day we can return and love it as we should."
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
As my journey continued, I began to reflect on what it meant to be human. Was it our ability to adapt, to create, and to destroy? Or was it something deeper, something that transcended our actions and mistakes? Earth was not just a planet; it was a reflection of who we were and who we could still be.
A wide avenue stretched before me. It was a place that must have once been full of movement: cars, bicycles, people rushing in a hurry. Now, only moss covered the asphalt and weeds grew between the cracks. I stopped by what was left of a store. The letters on the sign had worn away, but I could make out words like "sale" and "welcome." Inside, the shelves were empty, the cash registers open and rusted. All the essentials had been taken in the last days before the humans left.
My thoughts wandered back to that pile of corpses I had seen, leaving me with a question: Did they fight to stay, or to leave? Both are terrifying and hopeless.
I walked past a park overtaken by weeds. The swings creaked softly with the wind. I remember seeing pictures of it—parks and squares where children once played, similar to the ones we have on Mars.
In the center, there was a fountain that had stopped working long ago. Yet, the sound of water dripping from a broken pipe persisted, a distant echo of what had once been a place of laughter and joy. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it: children running, parents watching from the benches, a ball rolling across the grass. But my memories were not enough to fill the emptiness; it must have been incredible and nostalgic.
As I continued walking, I found a library. The main door was wide open, and inside, the shelves wobbled under the weight of books no one had touched in centuries. I picked one at random. The paper was yellowed and brittle, but the words were still there, unchanged. It was a science fiction novel, ironically about a bright and utopian future. I chuckled silently, the sound strangely echoing in the space.
“How many stories like this were written?” I murmured to myself. Stories of hope, of a better world, of solutions to problems that seemed insurmountable. And yet, here I was, walking through the ruins of those dreams.
I left the book in its place and made my way upstairs. From there, I could see much of the city. The horizon was marked by crumbling buildings and dense vegetation that had begun to reclaim what was once its own. I wondered how long it would take for nature to erase every trace of humanity. Would it be better this way? A blank canvas for a new beginning?
Sitting on the edge of a broken window, I let the breeze touch my face. There was an unsettling calm in this abandoned world. No noise, no conflict, but also no life. It was as though Earth were holding its breath, waiting for something.
My steps led me to a hospital. The beds were still there, some covered by white sheets that had now turned gray. Medical records scattered across the floor, names and diagnoses that no longer meant anything. In one room, I found a forgotten teddy bear on a chair. I picked it up and noticed one of its ears was torn. Which child had it belonged to? What story did this small object hold? I decided to take it with me; it wasn’t in such bad condition, to be honest.
On the hospital’s ceiling, I saw a faded painting. It was a mural depicting a group of people holding up the planet, their faces filled with hope and determination. I stopped to study it, trying to understand the message the artists had wanted to convey. Had they managed to save something before leaving? Or had they simply prolonged the inevitable?
As night fell, I found refuge in what had once been an apartment. The walls were covered in graffiti, some with farewell messages, others with simple drawings of flowers and suns. A broken bed in the corner and a dusty table completed the scene. I lit a candle I had found in the library and sat down to write in my journal. The words flowed easily, as though this place were telling its story and I was just an intermediary. In fact, I’m sure that when I read this again, I’ll want to travel back once more, but for now, nothing. I hope.
I wasn’t lying when I said the night would be terrifying. It truly was. There was no light except for the stars. I’m not sure if it’s the loneliness or the nature of the ruins, but I feel watched, and I hear noises. I try to convince myself that it’s just the wind. I’ll try to sleep a little; tomorrow, I’ll leave.
When I finally closed my eyes, an unsettling dream overwhelmed me. I was walking through a vibrant version of the city, full of life and colors. People greeted me, laughter filled the air, and music echoed on the corners. But as I went further, the streets emptied, the colors faded, and silence returned. In the end, I was alone again, standing before a mirror that reflected not my image, but a prosperous and thriving Earth. It was the first time in years I had dreamed of something like that, and what’s more striking, I remembered it.
I woke up with a feeling of loss, but also of purpose. Perhaps there was no one else, perhaps humanity had left this planet for good. But as long as I was here, I could remember. I could walk among the ruins, listen to the stories the walls whispered, and make sure the echo of what we were didn’t fade completely.
The next day, as I left the apartment with the morning light painting the streets in golden hues, I felt a strange peace. The empty city no longer felt so desolate, or at least, that’s what I thought I felt. It was a constant reminder of what we had created and destroyed, but also of what could be. Maybe, just maybe, this place wasn’t truly dead. Maybe it was waiting, just like me, for a new story to be told. I felt that the city I was standing in was eagerly waiting for the return of humans. This was what we built, this was what we achieved. I wish we had these skyscrapers on Mars, I wish we had a sky as beautiful and colorful as this one on Mars, but, well... one can only dream.
Finally, the time came to leave. As I ascended into the atmosphere, I looked down for the last time. Earth looked beautiful from space, a blue and green globe floating in the vastness of the cosmos. I promised myself I would share what I had learned, that I would always remember the lessons that this journey had taught me. It’s still too soon to return, but if we manage to live on Mars, maybe we could live on Earth again.
Perhaps, one day, humans could return. But this time, with respect and gratitude, recognizing the gift we had received and had taken for granted. Until then, Earth will remain a memory, a warning, and a dream of redemption.