The night the world ended began with an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the distant chirp of a cricket. As the internet went down, an unnerving silence replaced the hiss of static from my ham radio. Then, a chilling, inhuman voice whispered nearby.

I ignored the media’s pre-war frenzy and the public’s stockpiling until now. My ham radio was my sanity’s anchor—until a night of terrifying sounds replaced the static.

My desire to flee the chaos likely spread to other global radio operators whom I contacted via radio. I didn’t know that my voice, carried by the invisible tendrils of electromagnetic waves, somehow reached the ears of beings far beyond this planet.

Fresh from the shower, I had one more contact to make with a friend down under. Little did I know that the contact that was about to happen would be ‘first contact.’

Midnight passed on the 13th. Yes, it is a cliche, but it was a Friday the 13th, and without warning, things stopped their usual course. The world seemed to pause, the air icy, the night silent except for the faint hum of my ham radio cutting through the darkness.

A nightmare sound, like a frog’s death rattle, startled me. I turned around to see them. Two gray lizard-like creatures with tentacles stared at me, their cold, reptilian eyes unnerving. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat as my breath hitched in my throat.

Like chips of cold obsidian, their eyes bored into me, unblinking and unreadable, sending a shiver down my spine. I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs were heavy, unresponsive, and rooted to the spot. When one of them spoke, the gravelly scrape of its voice against metal sent a jolt through me, threatening my sanity.

I couldn’t sit; my body wouldn’t cooperate. My legs gave way, and I missed the chair. I hit the floor hard, jarring my teeth and spine. The chair scooted away from me, hitting the wall with a thud, highlighting my awkward sprawl.

Still damp from the shower, my flimsy robe tore loose from the fall. I was surprised by the creatures’ stares as they attempted to figure out what happened.

Without warning, they spoke. The words they used were familiar, but the cadence, the rhythm, was strange. They knew my language. “Is that an earth custom?” One of them asked, their eyes narrowing in a way that suggested they were studying me, sizing me up for some unknowable purpose. Their voices were low and gravelly as if they were constantly on the verge of losing their breath, yet their words showed undeniable intelligence.

I shook my head as I tried to cover myself. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Why are you here?” I managed to get out.

Their heads tilted, eyes reflecting my terror and disbelief at my question. The scene before us seemed to blur the line between stroke-induced delusion, dream, and impossible reality. I tried to keep from screaming or peeing myself, my heart pounding like a drumbeat. I worked hard to wrap my head around the events.

“We have listened to your broadcasts,” the taller one said, its forked tongue flicking the air. “You speak of peace, of hope, when your kind clamors for war. You understand what is at stake. That is why we chose you.”

“Chose me? Chose me for what?”

Fastening my robe, I rose, recognizing this as reality and not some twist of fate from tainted food.

“One of your nations just launched a barrage of powerful weapons toward this place,” the creature hissed. “Your nation has responded in kind. Your world and its people will cease to exist in just a few moments. We believe you are the one to stop this from happening.” They paused as if to let the gravity of their words sink in. “In nine of your earth minutes, we need to remove you from this world and take you back in time so you can change the past.”

My heart leaped into my throat, and I felt sweat beading on my forehead. “Pack what you think you might need to convince them that the future must be changed in one small bag before the missiles arrive.”

My eyes widened in shock and disbelief. I saw a wrist device, which I guessed was a clock. I swore as I stood. Two aliens trailed behind me as I flew past a mirror, catching my near-naked reflection. The surreal scene prompted nervous laughter.

I could feel the cold floor on my feet. My knees ground into the carpet as I reached under the bed for my old bag I used in the military. I felt the cool breeze of the open window behind me, and I wanted to dress. I didn’t have time.

I started packing my bag: a fresh change of clothes, my trusty laptop, and all sorts of electronic gadgets. And, just in case, I grabbed some old newspapers that were yellowing at the edges, their pages filled with stories of a world gone haywire. The aliens stared, their cold, unblinking eyes fixated on my every move as I sprinted around the house, stuffing my bag to the brim.

Air raid sirens, designed to warn of an impending storm, wailed in the distance as if mocking my desperate scramble to survive. I stared back at the two silent invaders, their tentacles flicking impatiently. “We’ve got to leave now!” the shorter one hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without warning, the taller of the two beings reached for the bulging sack of treasures that held my most important belongings while its slender partner tightened its cold, squirming tentacle around my sweaty, nervous hand.

The aliens pressed buttons, and the room shattered like glass. Colors swirled, time folded in on itself, and my body felt like it was being pulled apart and stitched back together. Once the chaos subsided, I found myself in a bed redolent of dust and childhood recollections, gazing at legs that now belonged to a boy, not a man.

Here I was, wide awake and fully aware of my terrifying dreams, back in bed. The bed I had as a child, complete with Pookie Bear by the pillow.

A sudden gasp escaped my throat as the aliens exchanged a glance, then let out an eerie, synchronized chuckle – a sound that seemed more like a high-pitched cackle, as if the very idea of my discomfort amused them to no end. One of them – the taller one, its head a twisted mass of tentacles and glistening eyeballs stared at me. Then, it spoke with an unsettling, lilting tone that seemed to drip with both malevolence and glee. “We have had the pleasure of observing yet another timeline. If you cannot sway the minds of your world leaders, this particular timeline shall vanish, and your entire species will be no more.”

If that was a pep talk, it was the worst one ever said.

The creature’s words hit me like a physical blow, sending a shiver of pure dread through me. I gasped for breath, my chest constricted by the heavy weight of the unexpected responsibility. My heart pounded in my ears. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the two beings dissolved into the surrounding air, their chilling aura and the faint scent of ozone disappearing as quickly as they came.

“Holy Cow!”

My normally raspy voice was gone. The years of smoking hadn’t occurred, and my voice was several octaves higher, reminding me of that old show on TV with a kid nicknamed Beaver.

As the echoes of their final words lingered in the room, I struggled to sit up, my heart still pounding furiously as I stared at the remnants of my adult life piled at the foot of the bed. Instead of books, a high-end sound system, medals from different deployments, and a media room was a small bedroom with shelves holding models I had assembled.

I never knew what had happened with all these things, as they were gone when I returned home from my first tour in the Middle East. My beloved model rockets, dusty stacks of well-worn books, and a bulky old typewriter that had once seemed like the very pinnacle of modern technology were all there. Instantly, my mind raced to figure out how to explain the bizarre events that brought me back to this half-forgotten room, holding humanity’s survival key in my trembling hands.

My smartphone was worthless because of the lack of space technology and cell towers. My laptop contained a treasure of information, books from the future, and software that had yet to be invented. There was also music from people who were not yet living. Since it had not been invented, I realized that it had to stay hidden.

The other gadgets had glowing components and strange symbols, showcasing impossible technology. Today, the pinnacle of existing technology was the tube-type radio, its warm glow illuminating the room, and the black-and-white television, with its limited channels offering a grainy but captivating picture.

My first shortwave set, also created with tubes, was on my desk. How long had the aliens been listening to me? I wondered.

Had the aliens warned me and given me more time to prepare, I would have thought this through more carefully.

The change of clothes I brought hung on me, stiff and starched, flapping in the breeze like a scarecrow’s rags. Don’t even bother with underwear, pants, and the like. Nothing was appropriate. The horrifying reality hit me as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. While exploring my childhood dresser, I discovered sufficient clothing to look presentable while walking around my old home.

Pulling memories from my brain, I dressed and went downstairs to find my mother. My dead mother was very much alive and making breakfast.

I hadn’t cried since my wife passed from cancer; now, here at the breakfast table in 1962, my cheeks were damp. My mother didn’t know what was wrong with me as I hugged her, my face landing on her belly. She was pregnant with my little brother.

I tried to wrap my mind around the implications of this strange transformation. Could it be some cruel joke? A hallucination induced by PTSD from my days in the special forces. Or perhaps it was the work of some malevolent force that sought to play with my mind.

My life was a contradiction. Though my mind was that of a 53-year-old veteran of two wars, I was trapped in a child’s body.

She kissed my forehead, making sure I didn’t have a temperature. “Another bad dream?” she asked. I remembered the nightmares, and now I was living one. Nodding, I sat next to my little sister.

Finish your breakfast; you’ll be late for the bus.

Back in the bathroom, brushing my hair and teeth, I stared at myself in the mirror. As I stood there, a child once more, I realized something: it wasn’t just about stopping the war. It was about reminding humanity of what it could be—what it had to be. For all our flaws, we deserved a chance to prove we could rise above them.

While being careful about my words, the memory of Armageddon was still fresh in my mind. It dawned on me that nobody would listen to a seven-year-old boy. My bag’s contents would bewilder locals, possibly attracting military attention. Everything I brought with me needed to be stashed in my secret access to the attic.

For now, I needed to shed the anxieties of adulthood—the crushing weight of responsibilities and looming deadlines—and retreat into the more straightforward, innocent world of a carefree seven-year-old, where scraped knees healed quickly and imagination reigned supreme. Drawing on my experiences, I needed to assume a different persona, a new identity. My goal was to achieve a position of power in the business world and to become a successful and influential businessman.

The fate of humanity had been thrust upon me. Why me? Was it solely due to my voice being transmitted via invisible tendrils or radio waves into the ether?

Like the butterfly effect, I needed to know what triggered the chain reaction that caused the launch of nuclear weapons. Since I was unaware of what was happening, I ignored the news. I didn’t know who did what.

The day started with a formal greeting to my teacher. A child acting like a mature adult clearly upset her, but the change in my understanding of all things academic was fun at first.

History changed once more as I suddenly became gifted and talented. On the desk was some unfinished homework: third-grade fractions. Most of them were wrong. I erred initially; I quickly became a math expert in this strange new world. My grades went from average to straight A’s. The teacher corrected me when I said something about 50 states, as there were only 49 at the time.

My childhood prodigy status propelled me to an Ivy League college, a law career, and a surprising foray into the political arena just two years shy of my 53rd birthday; it was a fast-paced journey.

My metamorphosis from killer to lawyer showcased the butterfly effect.

Making sure to keep my hobby of Amateur Radio, I knew that somewhere out there, my words were being heard outside our solar system.

History was about to repeat as I sat in my house beside the radio. This time, I prepared, anticipating a reunion with past guests.

Wearing more than an old robe, I waited for those guests. I had many questions for them. Who were they? Where did they come from? Were they part of the Black Knight Satellite that appears from time to time? Were they stationed on the dark side of the moon? Would the sirens ring out? Did I manage to stave off the annihilation of mankind? The minutes passed. Well, after 1AM, I took a deep breath. The emergency seemed to be over. I had succeeded.

When I found my old bag from that other timeline, I saw an alien device I had missed the first time.

I pushed the red button, and with a click, the device’s many lights flickered on, accompanied by a soft hum.

“Congratulations,” the voice boomed, “unlike most of your shortsighted race, you chose to use your considerable intellect for the betterment of all, not just yourself.”

As I stood there, holding the alien device, its soft hum a reminder of the impossible journey I had undertaken, I couldn’t help but reflect on the strange twists of fate that had brought me to this moment. The choices I made—the words I wrote, the lives I touched, and the painful lessons I carried with me—had rippled outward, changing the very fabric of history.

Somewhere, in the vast expanse of the cosmos, those two alien beings were watching, their cryptic smiles a silent acknowledgment of their faith in me. The weight of their words—“If you are unable to sway the minds of your world leaders, your species will be no more”—still echoed in my mind. But now, standing on the other side of history, I understood something fundamental: it wasn’t just about preventing annihilation. It was about proving that humanity could rise above its flaws and that even in the face of destruction, we could choose cooperation over chaos.

The burden of saving the world had shaped me, but the hope for a better future defined me. As the alien device dimmed and fell silent, I smiled, knowing I had done what they asked. The butterfly had flapped its wings, and this time, the storm never came.

As I put the alien device back in the old duffle bag, I noticed something I hadn’t before—a second button, smaller, blinking faintly. A warning? Or a promise? I didn’t press it. Not yet.

“Ms. Henderson, this is Rachel from NASA. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we’ve expeditated your evacuation to this afternoon at 2 p.m. Please head to your designated launch station at this time. Shuttles will not wait for delayed passengers.”

She wasn’t finished talking, but I stopped listening. My evacuation was supposed to be weeks away. I hadn’t considered packing. All I’d done was spend time with friends, get drunk, and have sex with people I’d never see again.

The new orders hit me like an asteroid. My old life was becoming extinct. What a waste. What a wasted life.

Tears came fast and heavy, uncontrollable. The weight was too much for my mental to bear. For a while I just stared at the ceiling, crying. If I’d only had a few more days, maybe I could’ve done something meaningful. Said a few goodbyes. Said a few hellos. Now, it was all over, and I had nothing to show for it.

I was told I’d need to fit my entire 45-year existence into a single suitcase. The thought of doing so felt like carrying a boulder up a hill. So, I’d put it off, just like everything else.

Now, I’d run out of time. Where to even begin? Coffee. I knew how to drink coffee. Start with something easy.

On the bed lay the government issued suitcase, not big enough to fit my clothes for a 3-day vacation. I imagined my entire life being condensed into Tetris blocks, neatly falling into the space provided in perfect unison. This made me laugh. My life didn’t work like that. This was impossible.

After two cups of coffee, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Throwing things left and right, I ripped through my belongings. Clothes would be provided for us at our new space station, so the thousands of dollars hanging in my closet were worth nothing now. Still, I considered how dreadful it would be to dress in a white jumpsuit every day. Not me. I couldn’t do that. These clothes were a part of me. These were memories. This was my personality on display.

“What do you think, Mr. Suitcase?” I asked to the inanimate object, “Just one sweater?”

A favorite black and white wool piece caught my eye, with fuzz so soft, you’d want it as a blanket. This would keep me warm on lonely nights and remind me of my old couch, a warm fire, and a good book. It went in.

Scanning my room, I realized how meaningless half of this stuff was. All my knick-knacks and chochkas, store-bought paintings and inspirational quotes, and the big TV that hung up on the wall. None of this meant anything to me. How much time and money had I wasted on all this? Did I own anything meaningful?

I dug through the drawers until my heart skipped a beat. An old photo, buried away at the bottom. My mother and me, smiling out on the beach a few years before she passed. After she died, I took it down from my dresser, too upset to look at it anymore. I miss her. We had a wonderful relationship.

For some time, I sat and remembered, staring at the 4×6 snapshot. The tears came again, this time slower, as I remembered the breeze blowing kisses across the shoreline and the cool sand tucked between my toes. How fast that moment came and went. How badly I wished to go back.

Carefully, I tucked the photo into the suitcase.

“OK, Mr. Suitcase, I’m gonna need some help,” I said at last, wiping away the remaining tears, “What else will I need for the rest of my life?”

“Funny,” said Mr. Suitcase, which I imagined sounded like my father, passing on his infinite wisdom, “You’ve only been looking at your life as an adult. For nearly half your life, you were a kid. Why don’t you…” I ran away from the voice in my head.

Dashing down into the basement, I threw open several storage bins that held my childhood. Medals, awards, and plagues crashed upon the floor as I delved. They would mean nothing where I was going.

But my life, my whole life, would come with me, even in my old age. I’d need to remember. I’d need to remember the child within me; the little girl walking around in her diaper on a hot summer day, playing house with her stuffed animals, picking dandelions and daisies. I could see the smile on her face, her long, golden hair, living without care. I’d need that.

Then I found it. Raggedy and dusty, Mrs. Gentry.

She was a teddy bear with a long blonde wig and glasses. My favorite toy as a child. No, that’s not right. She was my first friend. I took her everywhere, or so my mother says. I remember sitting with her out in the summer sun reading books for hours, talking about princes and princesses, and imagining what life would be like when I got older. Seeing her made me feel young again, bringing me back to simpler times. She went in.

Almost full now. Almost time to go. I imagined the next few hours in my head, arriving at the spaceport alongside couples and families, watching them comfort one another and stride bravely into their new life. Then there’s me, standing alone. I’d been lonely before, but there was always someone to fill the bed. This was different. A new kind of loneliness, like no one showing up to your funeral.

Sadness was replaced by a lightbulb. An old poem shot into my mind. Out into the living room I went. There I found on my coffee table, a collection of poems. I flipped to the appropriate page and read what I needed to hear.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

“And Still, I Rise by Maya Angelou.” The world Maya lived in would suddenly be turned to ash, but her words still rang true. I’d need to remember them, so the poems went in.

I filled the remaining space with odds and ends; my favorite pair of socks, a coffee mug with a print of my old dog, Spartacus, and my digital camera, something I’d hardly used. Up in space, maybe now I’ll have the time to give the hobby a real go.

Shutting the lid on the suitcase was like closing the top of a coffin. My old life was dead, and now, a chance to start fresh, with all the memories of the life I had before.

I’d miss all of this. Part of me wished I gave it the attention it deserved, gave it more of myself. But, for some reason, I wasn’t so sad anymore. Soon I’d have a new home, with new faces, and a chance to make right on all the mistakes I’d made down here.

Staring at that suitcase, filled with all I loved, I made a promise to myself, not to make the same mistake again.

I am an ordinary Chinese person, and here’s my perspective.

The previous tariff war sparked widespread concern among Chinese people. As shown in the image above, 24 hours before, on a Chinese website similar to Quora, I saw the topic of China-U.S. tariffs reached a popularity of 348 million, with 61.07 million people were discussing related issues.

This level of attention is unprecedented in my memory—truly never seen before.

But today, with the news of a 90-day tariff suspension for 75 other countries, everyone breathed a sigh of relief: this time, we won.

Chinese merchants reacted incredibly quickly. As shown in the image, they’ve already produced enamel mugs modeled after the “Victory in the Korean War” memorabilia, priced between 20 and 40 yuan (about 2.85 to 5.7 USD).

Back in 1950, China was very poor, so the commemorative item for soldiers who fought in the war was typically an enamel mug—a highly treasured “possession” at the time.

This replica bears the inscription: “Commemorating Participation in the Reciprocal Tariff War, April 2025.”

(I’ll buy one eventually, but the price is too high right now. I think a reasonable price would be 1 to 1.5 USD.)

To be honest, this tariff war triggered the Chinese people’s PTSD from the “Century of Humiliation,” so from what I can see, almost the entire nation supported the government.

Many people said they would rather go bankrupt to support the government. So this mug is now selling very well.

And from my perspective, China has indeed come out victorious this time.

Imposing a 10% tariff on other countries and delaying it by 90 days is essentially meaningless—it’s just a return to the old path of the 2018 tariff war against China.

China can still circumvent tariffs through transshipment trade.

Now everyone’s saying that the Pacific Ocean has turned into “Yangcheng Lake.”

Let me explain.

Chinese people love eating crabs, and the most famous and expensive ones come from Yangcheng Lake. But that lake is only 120 square kilometers, while China consumes 7 billion crabs annually.

(Yangcheng Lake wetlands, China’s most famous crab-producing area)

So, many merchants load up trucks with crabs, drive them to Yangcheng Lake, toss them into the water in net, and drag them out— voilà, “bathed” crabs, now labeled as originating from Yangcheng Lake!

In other words, the U.S.’s 124% tariff targeting China alone is pointless. Chinese products get shipped to Vietnam, Mexico, or wherever else, slapped with a “Made in Vietnam” label or the like, slightly marked up in price, and then enter the U.S. without issue.

From what I know, some products don’t even need relabeling—they’re already labeled in China beforehand.

(A satirical image from the Chinese internet: a children’s geography map, but with the Pacific Ocean relabeled as “Yangcheng Lake”)

U.S. Customs lets them through too—no one’s going to fight against money.

After Chinese products get “bathed” in this Yangcheng Lake-style process, the middlemen handling the transshipment profit—after all, they earn money without doing much; American consumers benefit because domestic goods are too expensive; and Customs officials, from top to bottom, likely pocket some gray income.

That’s roughly the situation.

As for 90 days from now, I think Trump’s die-hard supporters will have long forgotten about this, just like the promises of ending the Russia-Ukraine conflict in a day, securing $500 billion worth of Ukrainian minerals for the U.S., or dealing with the Houthis—all forgotten.

In fact, a conspiracy theory is now trending on the Chinese internet: Trump is doing this to manipulate stock prices on a massive scale and profit from trading.

Some even say this round of maneuvers could rake in hundreds of billions of dollars!

I find that hard to believe, but a lot of people genuinely think so.

TikTok Ban Backfires: Chinese App XiaoHongshu is America’s Surprising TikTok Replacement

Xi will not call Trump. Even if Trump calls Xi, Xi will only read the content of the call but will not reply. 😁

Trump’s favorite thing to do is to exert extreme pressure and blackmail anytime and anywhere. If the blackmail succeeds, he will make money. If the blackmail fails, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, there is no cost, and he can continue to blackmail the next country.

Trump said his purpose twice before and after the tariff war with China:

• First, if China agrees to sell TIKTOK to the United States, I may consider lowering tariffs;
• Second, if China agrees to my conditions on issues such as fentanyl, I may consider lowering tariffs;

Then Trump provoked the tariff war and waited for the Chinese government to negotiate with him.

He never expected that the Chinese government would not give him a chance to negotiate, but would directly retaliate by increasing tariffs by 34% on all American goods, giving him a taste of what a tariff war is. (Latest news: China increases tariffs by 84% on all US goods) 😁

Trump was shocked and wrote on the social platform:

China played it wrong, they panicked – the one thing they cannot afford to do!

Most people dont realize, only 8% of China’s exports are to the U.S, China can completely cut U.S off and still survive. But U.S Cost of living would sky rocket by 100% lol. MATH

What China imports from the United States are not necessities of life, and there are many countries that provide alternatives. However, if you want to know where the daily necessities in American supermarkets come from, you can go to the supermarket.

Chinese companies such as Huawei and TikTok would rather withdraw from the US market than succumb to the United States.

The final battle of the tariff war is about the resilience of the people and businesses of the two countries. Who can endure more hardships and withstand more pressure?

Democracy versus autocracy. In terms of tariff wars and national will, I am afraid that “autocracy” has a natural advantage! 😂😂😂

China has a complete manufacturing chain, a vast domestic demand market, and a planned economy, and the whole country can be unified.

The United States cannot win. It imports from all over the world and has a large trade deficit, which proves its dependence on other countries.

Yes they will and this is not a theory.

This is the USS Gravely a guided missile destroyer. It’s a fairly new ship by USN standards. Construction began in 2007 and was finished in 2009.

The USS Gravely was involved in this conflict.

The USS Gravely had an incoming missile get within 1 mile (US source).

https://www.navytimes.com/news/your-navy/2024/02/01/a-houthi-missile-got-within-a-nautical-mile-of-uss-gravely-on-tuesday/

Ansar Allah doesn’t exactly have the best technology, yet they were able to defeat the two outer rings of the AEGIS equipped missile destroyer.

But wait. USS Gravely is part of the USS Eisenhower group!

Where was the flat top? Oh it was in the Mediterranean sea for much of the conflict. Why was the carrier so far away if the Houthis posed no threat with their old weapons?

It was far away because the Houthis proved to be a threat! Remember Yemen isn’t a huge economy. It’s been in a civil war for a decade. They have limited production capacity. Yet they posed a significant threat.

Next comes the argument you can’t find a carrier!

It’s an old argument based on the sea is big.

Except in 2020 using Jilin-1 a low earth orbit satellite this happened

What’s that? Jilin-1 the prototype satellite tracked an F-22. It tracked it for a few minutes. It couldn’t track it for a long time because there was only one satellite. Its orbit moved out of position. The theory is the satellite took a photo, beamed the image down to a ground based AI and the AI told the satellite where to look. The Jilin constellation of satellites was completed a few months ago.

An F-22 is a lot smaller than a carrier.

Exploring the Martian Frontier | English Full Movie