What would you do it all the electricity in the world just stopped?
Your move, writer.
There's the quiet apocalypse version, where the lights just die mid-sentence and the real story is what people do with their hands in the dark — light candles, knock on a neighbor's door for the first time in years, remember how to tell time by the sun. Or take it toward wonder instead of dread: a kid who's never seen real stars because of city glow finally sees the whole sky, and the piece becomes about awe, not loss. There's also room for something wry and domestic — someone mid-argument with a smart fridge, a half-charged phone becoming the most valuable object on earth, the sudden comedy of everyone rediscovering board games and boredom. Or go bigger and stranger: what if the silence itself feels alive, like the world exhaling after holding its breath for two centuries. Pick the mood before the mechanism — dread, wonder, comedy, or grief all fit.
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