We’re Here / The Garden of Dust

We’ve come so far. Imelda’s vision, the road, the dust… all of it led us here, to this place. And yet, standing in the shadow of this so-called garden, I don’t know if I’m relieved or unsettled. The valley stretches before us, a landscape that promises so much yet feels hollow, like a dream you can almost remember, but not quite. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. The air smells… wrong, like the earth is still holding its breath.

Imelda, as always, is different. She doesn’t see what I see. Her eyes—those eyes that have seen the worst of what this world can offer—are calm. She walks through this place like she’s found something familiar, something she’s been searching for, even in the midst of all this desolation. I don’t know what she sees in this place, but there’s a part of me that wishes I could see it too, that I could feel what she feels.

The ground beneath our feet is soft, almost tender, as though it wants to welcome us, but I can feel it. The weight of history, the ghosts of old empires, their bones buried beneath the roots of these strange plants. The past is never far away, and in this garden, it’s buried so deep that it threatens to rise again. I can’t help but think of the ruins we’ve passed, the civilizations that thought they could tame the world, only to be swallowed by it.

And yet, Imelda moves with such certainty. Her hands, fragile but steady, touch the plants, the earth, as though she’s coaxing something to life, something that’s been long forgotten. Maybe I’m just too jaded to believe in this place, in her vision of what it could be. But I can’t shake the feeling that the garden, this paradise she’s promised, is too perfect. Too clean. There’s something beneath the surface, something we’re not seeing yet.

Imelda sees it, though. She feels it in the air, in the soil. I can see it in the way she pauses, listening to the whispers of the wind, like it’s telling her things I can’t hear. She’s the one who’s always believed, who’s always held on to the hope that life could be reborn from the ruins. I wish I could share that with her, wish I could believe in this place the way she does.

But there’s always a price. A price for paradise. The world has taught me that much. You don’t get something for nothing. And I don’t know if I’m ready to pay whatever price this place demands.

Still, we stand here, in the garden of dust, and I can’t help but wonder—could it be real? Could this really be the beginning of something new, something better? Or are we just chasing another ghost of a dream, one that’s doomed to fade when the sun rises again?

I look at Imelda, at her calm face, and I feel something stir inside me—something I thought I’d buried long ago. Maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Maybe this place is what the world needs. But I can’t let go of the fear that whatever grows here, whatever we hope to find, is already tainted by the past.

Imelda steps forward, her eyes bright with something I can’t name. And for a moment, I feel it too—the glimmer of hope. Maybe this is where it all changes. Maybe we’ve finally found the place where we can start over.

But then I remember—nothing in this world is ever as pure as it seems.

And I’ll wait, for now, to see if this garden can hold the weight of its promises.

We reached a valley whispered of in Imelda’s quiet dreams,
A place of silent beauty, where the sun on broken earth gleams.
No poison marred the water, no rot decayed the land,
Yet something in the air spoke of loss we’d never understand.
A garden promised paradise, a balm for our wounded hearts,
But beneath the surface shimmered secrets that would tear our hope apart.

The soil was soft and tender, but haunted by the past,
Each step a step on memories, each breath a hope recast.
Graveyards of old empires lay hidden in the green,
Reminders that even paradise is not as pure as it may seem.
Imelda’s eyes, however, held a light that would not fade,
A quiet, trembling certainty that even broken dreams could be remade.


Imelda, what do you see in this garden of dust?
Is it hope reborn, or just another lie we trust?
In the silence of the valley, the truth is hard to find—
A paradise for the lost, or the echoes of a troubled mind?

The wind whispered ancient secrets through the trees,
Carrying the weight of sorrow, the promise of new keys.