"Paradise for Them"

Amora Kisl’s life was a tapestry of light, woven by Beila, his wife, whose laughter lit his world. 

At fifty-eight, he stood by their cliffside home, the sea’s salt mingling with her scent lavender and warmth. 

Their world was unnatural, governed by a system as old as the floating islands above: at sixty, one chose death or evolution. 

To evolve meant dissolving into a cocoon, emerging after twenty months younger, stronger, with two shimmering wings. 

These wings carried the “new begins” to a floating island, a paradise no one knew, only reachable by flight. 

No one returned to tell its secrets. Beila, two years older, faced the choice first. At sixty, her dark hair streaked with silver, she stood with Amora under the cliff’s moonlight, her hand gripping his, her eyes fierce with love. 

“Amora, let’s meet again in the new world,” she whispered, her voice a melody over the waves. 

“We will be together again and forever.” Her fingers, calloused from years of sketching their dreams homes they’d never build, seas they’d never sail slipped from his. 

She stepped into the evolution chamber, her body dissolving into a cocoon of light. Amora watched, heart splintering, as her promise hung in the air. 

He clung to her scarf, red and frayed, sketching her face in his journal that night, her smile a beacon he’d follow.

Two years crawled by, each day a gray ache without her. Amora, now sixty, faced his choice. 

Death was easy quiet, final. Evolution was a gamble, a flight to an unknown island where Beila waited. 

He saw her in every sunset, her promise pulling him like a tide. He chose evolution, stepping into the chamber, the world fading to black. 

Inside the cocoon, a voice warm, soft, sweet whispered, “Don’t fail.” It wasn’t Beila’s, but it carried her warmth, urging him forward. 

His body dissolved, pain and light weaving into something new. Twenty months later, Amora emerged, his skin smooth, his hair dark again, his back heavy with wings that shimmered like dawn. 

The air was sharp, the cliff’s edge calling. He clutched Beila’s scarf, tied it to his wrist, and leaped, wings catching the wind. 

The floating island loomed above, a speck in the endless sky, promising her embrace. 

But the journey was brutal. Winds howled, clawing at his wings, their force like hands trying to drag him down. 

Below, on jagged rocks floating like debris, he saw others new begins with broken wings, their faces hollow, eyes desperate. 

They shouted, “Turn back!” One lunged, grabbing his ankle, their fingers tearing at his feathers. “Don’t go!” they rasped, voice raw with warning.

Amora’s wings faltered, pain searing his back. He nearly fell, the rocks below hungry for his failure. 

But Beila’s voice echoed, her promise a song in his mind “Through the skies, where dreams abide,

Find me where the stars collide.”He fought free, wings straining, her words a spark against the wind. The island grew closer, its glow warm, heartwarming, scented with jasmine and hope. 

He landed, breathless, on soft earth, surrounded by green hills and streams that shimmered under a golden sky. 

People milled, young and winged, their laughter bright. Amora’s heart soared he’d made it. Beila was here.

He scanned the crowd, her red scarf a beacon in his mind. There a flash of red. Beila stood by a stream, her face younger but unmistakable, her eyes still fierce. 

“Beila!” he called, running, his wings trembling. She turned, but her gaze was blank, no recognition in her smile. 

Before he could speak, she moved fast, brutal grabbing a man nearby, her hands tearing at his wings. 

He screamed, feathers scattering like snow. Amora froze, horror rooting him. The crowd erupted, wings flashing, hands ripping, blood staining the grass. 

This was no paradise it was a slaughter, a chaos of new begins tearing each other apart.

From a cliff above, crimson creatures watched, their long wings folded, eyes glinting with cruel delight. 

Their laughter was a hiss, the island their stage, the violence their entertainment. Amora stumbled back, Beila’s scarf slipping from his wrist. 

He saw her fall, a stranger’s hands snapping her wings, her body crumpling. “Beila!” he screamed, but she was gone, her blood pooling in the grass. 

The voice in his cocoon “Don’t fail” rang again, its meaning twisting. It wasn’t about reaching her. It was about escaping this hell.

He ran, wings beating, aiming for the island’s edge. Hands grabbed him, claws tearing, but he fought, Beila’s song in his head. 

He reached the cliff, ready to leap, but a crimson creature swooped, its grip iron. “You stay,” it hissed, eyes gleaming. 

Amora struggled, the rocks below calling, where broken-winged figures had tried to warn him. They weren’t stopping him they were saving him. 

Now, caught, he saw Beila’s scarf drift away, a red speck against the sky, her promise broken.

He’d failed, trapped in a paradise that was anything but, wondering if escape was ever possible.