The Price of Paradise

There was a moment of uneasy calm—an interlude in the chaos—when the Kings of Nowhere, bloodied and defeated, retreated to lick their wounds. The clamour of battle faded into a heavy silence, and for a brief, surreal moment, the wasteland exhaled. I wandered through the ruins, my ears still ringing with echoes of gunfire and fury, when I found her.

Imelda was there, not on the front line but in a quiet corner of the shattered world. Her body bore the marks of the fight—wounds that we both knew would cost her everything—but her eyes were fixed on something unexpected. In the midst of the ruin, where her blood had seeped into the earth, a single flower was blooming. It stood in stark defiance of the decay, delicate yet determined, a vivid slash of color against the endless gray.

I approached her slowly, the weight of our losses heavy on my chest. She sat there, half in pain and half in awe, tracing the petals of that miraculous bloom as though it held all the secrets of rebirth. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. In that silence, I felt the truth settle over me like the first light of dawn. “I finally know what I must do” She whispered.

She understood then—more deeply than I ever had. In the quiet resurgence of life, where her own partial sacrifice had birthed something new, Imelda finally saw what must be done. The flower was not just a sign; it was a promise that even in the darkest of times, life finds a way. That every wound, every drop of blood shed in vain, could be the seed of a future yet to bloom.  She beckoned weakly to me with her remaining strength to join her.

I sat beside her, letting the reality of that moment wash over me. The lull in the fighting, the retreat of our enemies—it all seemed to converge into this singular, fragile instance of hope. The Kings of Nowhere had withdrawn, leaving us with the raw space to witness this transformation. And as I watched her eyes fill with both sorrow and resolve, I knew that her vision was coming into focus. She had been broken, cast aside, but now she saw the key: that sometimes, for paradise to be born, one must pay the ultimate price—and yet, in that payment, there is power to create something enduring.

This flower, growing from her sacrifice, whispered to us both: the future could rise from the ashes if we dared to believe. And in that quiet, hallowed moment, I made a silent vow—not just to fight for survival, but to nurture this fragile hope, to carry the promise of rebirth into the long, uncertain road ahead.

I cradled her, the weight of the world heavy on my heart. Her eyes, once alight with defiant hope, now stared vacantly at the broken sky. As she exhaled her final breath, time itself seemed to pause—each second stretching into an eternity. In that breath, I sensed a profound release, as if the very earth was waiting for her soul to pass into legend.

At the edge of that promised valley, where light danced on the ground,
Imelda turned and whispered softly, “There’s a price to be found.”
The garden called for something more—a heart’s blood, pure and free,
A sacrificial offering to awaken what the land could be.
She knelt upon the fertile earth, eyes locked with mine in a silent plea,
Knowing that for our future to be born, I must let her spirit be set free.


“Take my breath, take my bones,” she murmured with a tender grace,
Let the roots drink deep of my sorrow, let this soil embrace.
I felt the chill of destiny as her words etched into my soul,
A covenant between life and death, making broken spirits whole.
The dawn broke through the murk of war—a golden promise in the air,
And in that final, sacred moment, she surrendered all she’d ever cared.


Oh, take my hands, take my breath, let the earth rise anew,
For paradise demands a price—a life to start life’s breakthrough.
Her sacrifice, a tender curse, a bittersweet decree,
That from the ruin of her being, a new world might be free.

As the sun crowned the horizon with its warming, fatal light,
I cradled her memory in silence, watching her fade into the night.