"Good morning! I'm Arthur Henrikson, a journalist. Are you Ashtra Ambrose?" I just finished having my breakfast when I heard three knocks on the door. When I opened it, I immediately regretted answering the door. This man is a journalist or whatever who wants to profit from my grandparents' life story.

"Yes, can I help you?" I asked in a bored tone.

"I want to write a book about the apocalypse, but I want to focus on the real heros. Those survivors who risked their own lives to give us back the world. Our new government became too busy developing the world again that they forgot to honor those who made all of this possible. Those survivors, your grandparents, they should be remembered as heros by every generation. And I'd like you to help me do it for them." I knew it.

"I've talked to numerous people like you. You just want to make money out of my family's story. I'm not talking to you, so you can get the hell out."

I didn't bother wait for his response. He's a waste of time anyway. For years, my grandparents were forgotten while the world heals and recovered. When they died, everyone became interested about them all of a sudden. Our family had to endure countless hours of interviews from different journalists, writers, directors, but none of them did justice for what truly happened.

My parents died just a few months ago, and only then they'd reveal to me that my grandparents had journals. Actually, they all had journals. My friends and I read them all, and none of those movies and books captured the truth. That is because they don't know everything. They just used their imagination to fill the gap.

My grandparents were heros. Yes, they are. All of my friends' grandparents are. Why? Because if not for them, this world that we live in will be gone. There'll be no more trees, no more animals left. If they didn't risk their lives, there will be no humanity left.

Unconsciously, I made my way to the attic. I only realized I'm here when I accidentally knocked down my grandmother's old sniping rifle. In here, all of their belongings were stored properly. Our attic became a small historical museum. Their guns are here, my grandfather's worn out bag is here. But most importantly, their journals.

Although, even without reading these old journals, I can still remember my grandmother's stories. The braveness in her old and tired eyes whenever she tells us how she met our grandfather and friends. My grandfather's voice still rings in my ear as he tells his side of the story. In his weak and husky voice, he would describe the world back then.

A world without hope, without future. A world were the living had to hide and literally fight every single day to survive. But because of that world, six people became good friends—no, they became family. And they are the reason why we have this beautiful world again.

You want to know what happened? I'll tell you the whole story.

"Ashtra! We saw a guy came from here earlier. What did he want?" Oh, that's Dave Fernandez.

Moments later, I heard footsteps.

"Hey, Dave! Hi, Kira! Hi, Kris!"

"Who was that guy?" Dave asked again.

"Oh, just a journalist. He wants to know what happened then."

"Ugh!" Kira and Kris, the twins, exclaimed.

"I hope you slammed the door in his face." Dave stated.

"Almost." I chuckled. We are all sick and tired of those people.

"Come on, we're gonna be late for the inauguration." Kris reminded me.

"Do we really have to be there?" I asked. I really am not in the mood.

"Of course! Those are our grandparents' statues."

Well, I guess their right. So, where were we? Oh! That's right! You want to know the real story. Well, we'll tell you the whole story.