After the soil is split by lava, dark and heavy with burning earth, they will come. After the sky is darkened by plumes of ash and smoke, choking the air and blocking out the sun, they will come. After the oceans spill over their shores to carry waves far and wide before freezing into sheets ice, jagged and broken by the wind, they will come. After all is lost, forgotten amidst the chaos and passing of ages, they will come.
Hope remains always, of course, and they carry it like a torch when they come. The fixers, the survivors, the ones who refused to bow to the ravages of nature, they will rise from the frozen tundra of dust and ash and rebuild. It will not be what it had been before, but that doesn’t trouble their thoughts at all. There is no time for nostalgia. There is only work, the joy of creation, and the thrill of life. Sometimes it is harsh and ugly but it is always magical.