fter the Burning Sky

A Reflection on Children and Climate Change

No one remembers exactly when the skies stopped behaving. Some say it began during the Season of Ash, when floods swallowed neighborhoods and wildfires turned forests to bone. Others recall the silent years—when crops failed, the air grew hotter, and families broke under the weight of survival.

The grown-ups tried to hold on—to rules, to routine, to the way things were. But the storms came faster than their plans. Many were lost, displaced, or simply worn down. The children were left behind, trying to make sense of a broken world.

Then something changed.

A girl stood in the wind, and the clouds responded. A boy raised his hand and lightning cracked. Another moved through smoke like it was air. These weren’t miracles. They were instincts—new ways of being, born from necessity. The Earth had been shouting, but only the children were listening.

Some began to call them the Weatherborn—children shaped by the storm.

Danger still followed. Stray dogs. Desperate strangers. Those who had given up. But the children, isolated and often unseen, began to resist. Their strength wasn’t just power—it was memory. It was grief turned to force. A quiet answer to the world’s refusal to change.

These drawings reflect their struggle. Created in charcoal and torn paper, they capture children standing in landscapes scorched and flooded, carrying more than they should ever have to. I don’t draw them to imagine a future—I draw them to reveal what’s already here.

The climate crisis is not a distant threat. It is reshaping childhood now.

Rising heat, poisoned water, violent storms—these are not predictions. They’re the reality many children live today. The danger isn’t just environmental. It’s the result of inaction, neglect, and silence.

This is not a prophecy. It’s a warning. And the time to act is now.