The last hope

The Last Hope

The sky had been red for weeks.

No birds sang anymore, and the rivers—once bright veins of life—had turned to dust. People no longer spoke of tomorrow. They only spoke of surviving the night.

In the middle of the dying city stood a single tree.

It wasn’t much to look at—thin, brittle branches and leaves that glowed faintly like embers—but it was the last living thing left. Scientists called it “Specimen 09.” Everyone else called it The Last Hope.

Lira had been its keeper since she was a child. Her mother had once told her, “As long as the tree stands, so do we.” But now, as the air thickened with ash and the world’s generators hummed their final breaths, even Lira wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.

Each morning she’d bring water from the old filtration tanks, pour it carefully at the roots, and whisper, “Hold on.”

The tree never replied. But sometimes, when she sat close enough, she swore she could hear a faint heartbeat under the bark—slow, steady, alive.

Then one night, the storm came.

It was no ordinary storm. The ground cracked open, fire poured from the sky, and the city’s lights died one by one. People fled, shouting that it was over—that the world had finally burned itself out.

But Lira ran toward the tree.

Through smoke and wind, she clutched the last flask of clean water left on Earth. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. But she pressed on.

When she reached the tree, it was already dying.

The bark peeled away, glowing red from within. Lira fell to her knees and poured the last drop of water she had over its roots.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Don’t let it end here.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, the wind stilled.

The earth beneath her hands grew warm—not with fire, but with light. Tiny green shoots burst from the cracked soil, wrapping around her fingers, her arms, her heart. The tree’s glow spread outward, a wave of living light rushing through the ruins, breathing color back into the world.

When the storm cleared, the sky was blue again.

The people who returned found a vast green forest growing where the city once stood. In the middle of it was a tall, radiant tree—and beneath it, a stone with words carved into it:

“Hope does not die. It only waits for someone brave enough to keep it alive.”

No one ever found Lira’s body.

But when the wind rustles through the forest, the leaves whisper her name—soft and steady, like a heartbeat.