July 2025. The sun scorched southern France mercilessly. In Marseille, the air felt thick with heat—thermometers soared above forty, and humidity was nearly absent. Residents sought refuge in the shade, on the coast, under air conditioning. But in the nearby mountains, disaster was looming. The fire began as a barely visible puff of smoke among the dry pines. Within hours, it had grown. A hurricane wind from the sea spread embers across kilometers. By evening, the blaze had engulfed hundreds of hectares of forest, cutting off roads and isolating villages. Marie Lafar, a 42-year-old paramedic, evacuated elderly people from a nursing home in Saint-Joseph. Her car weaved along narrow dirt roads, dodging falling burning branches. Over the radio came the voices of firefighters: 'The eastern point is lost. Wind has shifted. Preparing for a frontal spread!' Thousands fled. The sky was shrouded in smoke. Rescuers didn’t sleep for days. Military units arrived from Nice—with helicopters and heavy equipment. And not only France. In Thuringia, Germany, ancient spruce forests caught fire. Locals said they hadn’t seen such fires since the 1980s. In Austria, heat broke century-old records. Even in the UK, far from the southern climate, wildfires broke out in a Kent nature reserve. Experts were stunned: climate knew no borders anymore. Greece. Rhodes. Summer, vacation season, tourists. But beaches were deserted—smoke blanketed the horizon. Fires approached villas, hotels, ancient temples. Locals fought the blaze with firefighters, handing out water, blankets, food to those who lost their homes. In Sicily, Italy, the heat had lingered for weeks. Fields burned, vineyards withered. In the evenings, as a crimson sunset rose over Palermo, it reflected off smoke-filled clouds. People said it was a beautiful, yet terrifying, apocalyptic light. The fires weren’t an accident. This wasn’t just a “dry summer.” Scientists had warned: climate change was accelerating. Studies confirmed: heatwaves are now 5–10 times more likely. Forests have become fragile. Flames moved faster than ever. This was no longer a natural disaster—it was a systemic crisis. Across Europe, more than 2,300 people died—heat, smoke, stress. Elderly, children, the chronically ill. Billions in damages. Air pollution peaked. Worse was the sense of helplessness. People couldn’t believe it was real—not a disaster movie script. International organizations convened urgently. They spoke of upgrading firefighting systems, satellite monitoring, replanting resilient trees. But most importantly—cutting CO₂ emissions. Without that, neither water bombers nor bulldozers would save us. August was approaching. Europe was no longer breathing—it was burning.