Log Entry 01: Day 402. The sky is a permanent shade of sterile white. The adults are gone. We are the leftovers. My name is Leo. I am fourteen. According to the medical texts in my father's office, I should be growing. I should be getting taller. My voice should be deepening. But I am not. None of us are.

Log Entry 112: Day 740. We have discovered the biological cost of the Silence. The radiation that killed the adults didn't just stop the heart; it locked the clock. Our telomeres have ceased to extend. We are biologically frozen at the age of thirteen and fourteen. We are a generation of eternal children.

At first, it felt like a gift. No taxes, no exams, no expectations. We lived in the ruins of Oslo, turning the museums into bedrooms and the libraries into playgrounds. But the novelty wore off when we realized the implication: we will never be adults. We will never have children of our own. We are the final page of the human book.

Log Entry 305: Day 1100. The 'Stagnation' has begun. It's not just the growth; it's the mind. We are starting to lose the ability to learn new things. Our brains are locked in a pre-adolescent state. We can remember the past, but we cannot conceptualize a future.

I spend my days in the clinic, watching my friends fade. Not physically—we still look like children—but mentally. They are reverting. Some have stopped speaking. Others have forgotten how to read. They are becoming infants in the bodies of teenagers.

I am the last one holding the pen. I can feel the fog creeping into my own mind. Yesterday, I forgot the word for 'hope.' Today, I spent three hours staring at a photograph of my mother, wondering why the woman in the picture looked so familiar.

Log Entry 410: Day 1400. The city is silent now. Most of the others have retreated into a catatonic state, curled up in fetal positions in the middle of the streets. They are waiting for a sleep that doesn't end.

I have decided to spend my final hours of lucidity writing this. I am not writing for a savior; there is no one left to save us. I am writing to prove that we existed. That for a brief moment, a group of children tried to understand the universe without the guidance of the people who broke it.

I can feel the last thread of my adult-like consciousness snapping. The words on this page are starting to look like strange, meaningless symbols.

I am tired. I want to go to sleep. I hope that whatever comes after us—the moss, the wolves, the new forests—finds our bones and wonders why we were so small.

Log Entry 411: (The rest of the page is filled with erratic, childish scribbles and a single, shaky drawing of a sun.)

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