Art is a staple in my family. Each afternoon, I walk past a portrait of my mother painted by my father on their one year wedding anniversary. Her legs fold elegantly behind her as she sits in a field of flowers. Every bloom and blade of grass turns to her, as if she is the sun. The painting is kept pressed into a large frame and hung on the east wall of the enterance. This was so my father could show every guest could see how beautiful she was on the outside before getting to know her on the inside.

Once you make yourself at home, you start to realize that the portrait welcoming you is the only real creation in this house.

Today, when I came home from college, it was replaced. A mountain landscape with the northern lights streaking the sky. I removed my shoes, and in that short time, the piece was no longer art. There were no visible strokes of a brush. Each surface was smooth and shiney, as if artificial.

“Hannah! You’re here!” My mother floated down the stairwell, the train of her black dress dragging behind her. After all her years on this Earth, her grace and elegance never stops highlighting every meticulous movement she makes. When she lets go and looks into my eyes, I cannot tell she’s in mourning. “I’ve missed my baby girl so

much.”

“Hey, mom.” I try to push down my fatigue, but my mother is understanding of my jet lag. “What’s with the new decor?”

“Your father and I bought another drawing made by artificial intelligence. It’s so much more cheaper than a real human drawing.”

“Where did you put the one dad made?”

“It’s in the attic. He wanted me to put it there. I tried to tell him it would look wonderful in the spare bedroom, but I couldn’t get him to compromise.” She wrung her hands together. Her eyes cast off to the side, drained of the joy she once held. Then they widened, back to life once more as she said, “Oh! I almost forgot! Before you head to your room, I would like to give you something.”

She fled back upstairs, rummaged through the hallway closet, and returned to me with a book in her hand. “This was your grandfather’s sketchbook. The last time I’d gone to the hospital to visit him, he told me he wanted you to have it.”

When I held the relic in my hands, my thumb brushed against his initials carved in the bottom right hand corner: J.M. “Out of all his grandchildren, why me? I didn’t exactly inherit the talent of artistry.”

My mother shrugged. “He wouldn’t tell me. He said you’re the only person who deserves to see his works.”

I ran my fingers against the frayed spine, then met my eyes with the artificial intelligence artwork. If there is a possibility this is the last man made thing on Earth, then I will guard it with my life. After I settle myself into the guest bedroom, I open the sketchbook.

The image of a strange creature takes me in awe. It’s body is long, like a hotdog, but soft like a fur coat. The ears were pointed and long i stead of short and rounds. The face wasn’t anything like a human’s, with a tiny, triangular nose and teeth sharp as needles. Twisted in an S shape is something labeled as a tail.

This creature was called a cat.

According to the small annotation next to it, cats are close to extinction, as everyone wants to sell them animal testing facilities or kill them for their fur rather than keep them as companions. In turn, this caused the population to rapidly decline. My grandfather describes his efforts to save them, and how they have inevitably failed.

It was only until I touched my wet cheek that I realized that the thought of these adorable creatures being ruthlessly killed off was making me cry.

I slipped the sketchbook under the bed and pulled myself under the covers, releasing my sadness quietly.

The beauty of the world was dying, and nobody did a thing. And now, my generation faces the consequences.