Dahlia and the Garden of Light - Chapter 78: Chapter 78

Jungle Village – Five Months Later
The jungle breathed around them.
Theo had come to the outpost at the edge of the Chocó rainforest expecting hardship and heat — not music in the trees, or barefoot children who named fireflies after stars. The help center, built with bamboo and sun-dried clay, teetered on the edge of civilization and something wilder. The air was thick with hummingbird wings, fruit rot, and the scent of ginger blossoms after rain.
Theo stood over a hand-drawn map marked with faint trails and red dots — notes on illegal traps and vanishing birds. He had been up since sunrise, logging incidents from the last week. Around him, the jungle chattered and shifted.
“Theo!” a small voice called.
He turned to see two children peeking through the clinic shutters — Tico and Maya, mischievous siblings with tangled hair and no respect for shoes.
“¡Brujo de hojas!” Maya shouted with delight. “Haz magia!”
Theo raised an eyebrow, then flicked his wrist with the bracelet Dahlia gave him with a bit of her glow. A creeping vine on the windowsill began to grow, weaving a bright yellow bloom between their wide eyes.
They clapped and giggled. “¡Te dije! He’s a plant wizard!”
“Only when I’ve had coffee,” Theo grinned.
—
The Arrival
The peace was broken by shouts. Two volunteers stumbled through the gate, carrying a woman between them — muddy, scraped, and clutching her thigh. Theo rushed forward, helping lay her on a wooden cot beneath the clinic awning.
“She fell into a trap north of the hummingbird trail,” said Diego, panting. “Barbed wire. Hidden deep.”
“Poachers again,” muttered Ana, the local botanist. “Third one this month.”
Theo knelt beside the woman, checking her vitals. She looked up — dazed but alert — and gave him a faint smirk.
“Did I… lose a leg?”
“No,” he replied, already cutting away the makeshift bandage. “But you earned one hell of a scar. Very pirate-chic.”
She exhaled. “Good. Scars mean I still have stories left to tell.”
—
Clinic Tent – Later
Theo worked in silence, cleaning the wound, his fingers gentle but efficient adding a flower petal in the bandages. She hissed but didn’t flinch.
“Name?”
“Freja,” she said, eyes flickering open. “As in, yes — the Norse goddess.”
He grinned. “Theo. No mythology, but I make a good poultice.”
She studied him. “You’re the one with the glowing flower petals, right? The one who makes plants obey.”
He winked. “They don’t obey. We’re just… on speaking terms.” with my sister help he thinks.
“I like that,” she murmured. “I’m told I talk too much to wolves.”
“Well, wolves are excellent listeners.”
—
The Next Few Days
Freja healed quickly, thanks to a flower Dahlia once whispered into life. Theo kept it growing in a jar, its petals pulsing soft and green. She was restless by day three — climbing on crutches, refusing bed rest, and picking sparring matches with passing volunteers.
They trained in the clearing just beyond the medical tents. Machetes dulled, sweat soaked, limbs bruised.
“You’re cocky,” she said, parrying one of his strikes.
“I’m confident,” he corrected, twisting away. “You’re reckless.”
“I’m alive,” she shot back, lunging.
He caught her wrist mid-motion, pinning her gently. “So am I.”
Behind them, Ana muttered to another volunteer, “If they don’t kiss soon, I’m going to push them into the waterfall myself.”
—
Campfire – Evening
Volunteers circled a small fire in the heart of the compound. Music drifted from a handmade guitar. Tico and Maya ran between hammocks, barefoot and glowing with ash and laughter. Theo sat beside Freja on a makeshift bench made from a broken canoe.
“So,” she asked, watching the fire. “Why’re you really here?”
He paused, looking at the orange light flickering across her cheekbones.
“I used to fight with fists,” he said. “Now I fight with seeds.”
“Someone break you out of a cage?”
“Kind of. Her name was Dahlia. She made the world bloom with a whisper. Made me want to listen again.”
Freja tilted her head. “You talk like a poet.”
“You punch like a rhino,” he teased.
She grinned. “Balance, then.”
—
The Storm
Rain hammered the canopy. A scout had gone missing — a boy named Nico who hadn’t returned from trail clearing.
Theo and Freja moved quickly through the slick underbrush, machetes in hand. Thunder cracked above them. Insects buzzed in chaotic chorus.
“You scared of storms?” she asked, breath short.
“No. But I used to be scared of silence.”
She didn’t press him.
They found Nico beneath a fallen log, trapped and shivering. Theo bent low and whispered softly to the earth. Roots loosened. Freja wrapped the boy in her coat.
“You’re safe,” she said. “We’ve got you.”
—
Back at the Help Center
As Ana tended to Nico, Freja stood by the doorway, soaked, watching Theo ring water from his hair.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone softer. Kinder. Gentler.”
“I am those things,” he replied. “But I’ve also seen too much not to fight for beauty where I can.”
She stepped closer, brushing a leaf from his shoulder.
“You plant peace like it’s a weapon.”
He held her gaze. “Maybe because it is.”
And then — finally — their lips met. Fierce. Gentle. True.
—
That Night – Writing Home
Theo sat at the small wooden desk in his tent. Fireflies blinked along the roof, dancing in lazy spirals.
He dipped his pen and wrote:
Dahlia, Markus —
The petals are thriving. We’ve grown a second bloom field with the help of ypur bracelet, and the people here are starting to believe in the impossible.
I’ve also met someone — Freja. She’s like sunlight filtered through smoke. Sharp and luminous and full of stories.
We saved a boy today. It reminded me of you.
I’ll write again soon. Keep planting.
With jungle in my lungs and peace in my hands,
—Theo