Flowers on the Pavement

The van jerks to a sudden halt, throwing my shackled body forward — my forehead smacks the metal wall.
No apology. No pause. Just silence… except for the shallow breathing of the others inside.

A beam of light slices through a rusted crack in the door, brushing my face like a whisper from a world I once belonged to.

Outside, the air shimmers with heat and dust.
Faded graffiti bleeds down concrete walls. Stray dogs dig through heaps of forgotten lives.

Then — movement.

A girl.
Kneeling by the roadside.

She can’t be older than ten. A dirty pink dress. Scraped knees. Eyes that have seen too much.
She’s planting something. Between cracks in the broken pavement.
A single flower.

Bright. Whole. Alive.

She cups the fragile stem with both hands, shielding it from the ugliness around her. Then pours water from a battered plastic bottle — just enough. Just enough.

She doesn’t see us. Doesn’t know her quiet defiance has been witnessed.

But I see her.
And I will not forget.

This is the street they bring the condemned down.
Where shadows are longer than lives.
Where names are erased before voices fade.

And yet — she plants.

Not in ignorance.
But in defiance.
A flower not meant to grow here.
The van shudders back into motion. Chains rattle. Dust rises. But I don’t look away.
Not until she — and her small rebellion — disappear behind rusted metal.

I lean my head back.
A tear rolls down my cheek, warm against the cold wall.
That flower wasn’t for decoration.
It was a rebellion. A funeral. A prayer.
Maybe even a promise.

I close my eyes and hold onto it.
I don’t know how much time I have left.
But I know now:
If she still believes life can bloom here — maybe so can I.