In 2023, after years of struggle, hunger, and loneliness, Daniel and Sia, two orphans who grew up together in an orphanage, finally tied the knot. Their love was quiet, strong, and patient—rooted in years of shared pain and little moments that held the world.

Life in Palestine was never easy, but with each other, they made it feel like home.

Daniel would often smile at Sia while holding her hand on the rooftop, whispering,

“I don’t need paradise, Sia… your smile already feels like Jannah.”

Sia would blush and reply,

“Then promise me... if Jannah exists, we’ll find each other there too.”

Their apartment was small, their meals simple, but laughter filled the rooms. They often spent evenings with friends, drinking tea, talking about dreams, about kids they wanted, a future they knew might never come—but dared to imagine anyway.

But in 2024, just before the war, whispers of destruction came. Fear crawled in through every window.

One day, Sia heard the news and rushed home, pale and breathless.

“Daniel… they’re saying a war is coming. What will we do? Where will we go?”

Daniel took her into his arms, kissed her forehead gently.

“Shhh, my heart… don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to us. Allah is almighty. He will protect us.”

But his arms were trembling too.

Days later, Daniel came running into their home, breath ragged.

“Sia—pack everything. The war is confirmed. We leave tomorrow.”

Sia froze in shock. “What…? Where will we go?”

Daniel cupped her face, tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know… but I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve made some arrangements. Just trust me. And pray.”

They packed essentials—documents, food, ropes, jewelry, whatever they could carry.

That night, Sia cooked dinner, made breakfast for the next day in advance. They sat together, holding hands in silence. Sia laid her head on Daniel’s shoulder.

“If tomorrow never comes… just know that you made all my yesterdays beautiful.”

Daniel kissed her knuckles.

“Even if I’m born a thousand times… I’ll choose you every time.”

But that night, the sky broke open.

Sirens. Bombs. Screams.

Daniel grabbed the emergency bag, pulled Sia close, and they ran.

But before they could escape the building, an explosion shook the ground. Walls cracked. The building trembled.

Realizing it was about to collapse, Daniel shoved the bag into Sia’s arms and pushed her outside with all his strength—

“RUN!”

Sia fell. Everything went black.

When she woke, voices were distant. Someone was screaming her name.

“Sia… Sia… wake up! Please—wake up!”

She opened her eyes.

Daniel was there, calling her—his body trapped under fallen debris. Blood seeped through his pants. A steel rod pierced through his leg.

“Thank Allah… you’re okay,” he whispered, a painful smile on his lips.

Sia rushed to him, crying.

“What happened? Daniel—what happened to you!?”

“I’m okay. I’m just stuck. Try to move this slab.”

She tried. She pushed. Her hands bled. She screamed for help.

No one came.

Time passed. Hours slipped by like smoke.

Daniel began to feel cold. His sight blurred. He was losing blood fast.

“Sia… stop. I’m thirsty.”

She helped him drink from the bottle in their bag, brushing hair from his face with trembling fingers.

“Don’t close your eyes, please. Stay with me…”

“Sia… listen. In the bag, there’s contact info for my friend. Find him. There’s a refugee camp… go there. Leave the country…”

“No!” she cried, “Stop saying things like this! You’re coming with me! Don’t leave me, Daniel!”

“I… I’m losing feeling in my legs… it’s okay… maybe… maybe this is Qadr.”

She kept pushing. Kept shouting. Desperate.

Daniel gave a weak smile.

“If I don’t make it… just promise me one thing…”

“Don’t! Don’t say it!”

“Promise me… you’ll live. And… if I’m gone, you’ll keep helping people. Stay in this land. Bury me here… and tell our story.”

She finally found help.

“Please help! Please—my husband is trapped!”

A middle-aged man ran to her side, called for his family. They rushed with her.

“Daniel! Daniel, I brought help! You’ll be okay now, just stay awake—please!”

But when she got there… his hands were cold.

His eyes didn’t open.

The men looked down in silence.

“Daniel…? Daniel wake up… please… please don’t leave me…”

She screamed, cried, shook him—hoping for movement, for breath. But he was gone.

The man gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Daughter… he’s gone. May Allah grant him the highest place in Jannah.”

She begged them to help bury him. She offered them money, jewelry.

But the man refused.

“I had a daughter like you… she died with her children in this same war. You called me father. So let me honor him, not as a stranger, but as your family.”

They prepared the grave.

Sia bathed Daniel’s body with her own hands, whispering prayers through tears.

“You once told me even dust from my fingers was gold to you… now I return you to the dust, my love.”

She wrapped his shroud. She buried her heart that day.

On the road to the refugee camp, she heard crying.

A child, barely two, sat alone in the ruins.

“Where is your mother, sweetheart?”

The child pointed at rubble.

Sia’s heart broke all over again.

She fed him, held him, and carried him to the camp.

“It’s okay… I’ll protect you now. Like Daniel protected me.”

Months passed.

The war didn’t stop.

Sia stayed at the refugee camp, volunteering, comforting, surviving.

She never removed the scarf Daniel gave her. His friend found her, begged her to leave the country.

But she refused.

“If I leave, I leave him. I want to live and die in the land where he rests. I want to be a martyr like him. Maybe then… we’ll meet again at Heaven’s gate.”

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Then months.

Like rivers.

She no longer counted time—only bombs, dead children, and dreams buried too soon.

For Palestine

For every Sia.

For every Daniel.

For every child left crying in the rubble.

For every love story torn apart too soon.

May the world remember—Palestine is not just a place. It is a people. It is pain, and pride. It is resistance. And it is love.

Free Palestine.

May the martyrs be granted Jannat.

May the living find peace.

A Prayer for Palestine

May the world never forget that behind every rubble lies a story.

A love story. A child’s laughter. A mother’s lullaby. A prayer whispered in fear.

In Gaza, people do not just die — they leave behind legacies of resilience.

May Allah protect Palestine.

May the land one day breathe peace.

And may every martyr’s soul rise with honor.

Because even under the rubble… love survives.

Snow was falling in Kyiv when everything changed.

Alina remembered it clearly — the way her mother was brewing tea, the soft hum of the news playing on low volume, and her father’s voice saying, “It’s just threats. They won’t cross the line.” She was fifteen, in her room, sketching a sunflower. Her brother, Andriy, had just turned nineteen and was pacing the living room like he had somewhere else to be. Always restless. Always burning with something.

Their home was small, but full of life. Her father, Oleksandr, was a schoolteacher. Her mother, Iryna, worked at a local clinic. Andriy was preparing for university. Alina was still in school, dreaming of becoming an artist.

That morning, they had breakfast together. Toast, cheese, and warm laughter. The kind of ordinary day no one thinks to remember — until it’s gone forever.

By evening, the sirens began.

“They’ve invaded.”

It was Andriy who said it first, his eyes wide, face pale. The TV confirmed it moments later. Russia had begun a full-scale assault. Bombs were falling. Kyiv would not be safe.

Oleksandr turned to Iryna, his face hardening. “We need to leave. Now.”

But Andriy stood tall. “No. I’m staying. I’m joining the defense.”

Iryna screamed, “Are you out of your mind?!”

“I have to, Mama,” he said. “They’re killing civilians. Children.”

“I’ll go too,” Oleksandr added, more quietly.

Iryna’s knees gave out. “Both of you?!”

There was no argument loud enough to stop them. That night, Oleksandr packed his old military coat, and Andriy stuffed his school backpack with whatever gear he could find. At dawn, they hugged the girls tightly. Oleksandr kissed Iryna’s forehead. Andriy wrapped his arms around Alina, whispering, “You’re my sunflower, remember? Stay strong. We’ll see you soon.”

Then they were gone — swallowed by a city preparing for war.

The escape was chaos.

Iryna and Alina left with a neighbor, sneaking through half-empty roads and underground stations. Airstrikes echoed behind them. Alina clutched her sketchbook and a small backpack, filled only with essentials: a water bottle, a scarf Andriy had left behind, and the last photo of their family smiling in the sun.

They crossed the border into Romania after five days of walking, waiting, hiding. The refugee center was overcrowded, loud, and freezing. Iryna was quiet now — quieter than Alina had ever seen her.

Each night, they huddled in a corner of the shelter, surrounded by strangers. Children cried in their sleep. Mothers whispered prayers. Alina tried not to cry. She had to be strong. For her mother. For Andriy. For Papa.

They tried calling. Sending emails. Nothing came back.

Weeks passed.

Volunteers brought food, clothes, and updates. "Fighting near Donetsk," they said. "Heavy shelling in Kharkiv." No one ever mentioned names. No one could say who was alive and who was not.

Then one day, a phone rang. A blocked number. Iryna answered with shaking hands.

“...Mama?” came a crackling voice.

“ANDRIY?!” she screamed.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Papa’s okay. We’re tired, but holding the line.”

Alina snatched the phone. “Come back. Please, come back.”

“I will,” he promised. “As soon as I can. I love you, sunflow—”

The line cut off.

They never heard his voice again.

Winter came.

Iryna grew ill. Too much cold, too little food, too much grief. She coughed often, slept little, and spoke even less. Alina tried to stay hopeful. She drew pictures for the children in the shelter, helped volunteers, and kept a journal where she wrote to Andriy every night.

“Today I taught a little girl how to draw a cat. You’d be proud. Come back soon.”

But inside, something was cracking.

Then one morning, Iryna didn’t wake up.

Alina screamed for help. Doctors came. It was pneumonia. Too late. Too much damage. Her mother passed quietly, fingers curled around the scarf that once belonged to Andriy.

Alina was alone.

She was sixteen now. She lived in a foster center in Bucharest. The other children called her "the quiet one" — always drawing, always staring out windows.

One day, a man from the Ukrainian Red Cross arrived.

“Are you Alina Horodetska?”

She nodded.

“We’ve confirmed something about your father.”

Her breath stopped.

“Oleksandr Horodetskyi died defending a village near Chernihiv. We’re sorry.”

Alina felt nothing at first. Just emptiness. Then anger. And then a crushing silence.

“What about Andriy?”

He hesitated. “He was with your father. He went missing. We searched. A body was never recovered. But it’s been months.”

“...So he's dead too?”

He said nothing.

That was her answer.

Alina walked out of the building that night with the weight of the world inside her chest. She carried the dog tags they found on Oleksandr’s body. She wore Andriy’s scarf. In her hand, she clutched a sealed envelope the Red Cross man gave her.

“Your brother wrote this. We found it in your father’s pocket.”

She sat beneath a tree, knees pulled to her chest, and opened it with shaking fingers.

“To my sunflower,

If you’re reading this, something went wrong. But don’t cry. I fought because I had to — for you, for Mama, for our home. I don’t regret it.

I remember when you used to draw little stars on my arms and laugh when I pretended they were real tattoos. You believed art could save people. You were right.

I want you to live. Not just survive — live. Tell our story. Grow up. Be free. And when the war ends — it will end — go plant sunflowers back home. Like I promised.

I love you forever.

Your annoying brother,

Andriy”*

She couldn’t breathe.

She sobbed under the open sky until the stars blurred.

Years passed.

Alina returned to Ukraine as a journalist. The war had shifted, the world moved on, but her mission never changed.

She visited the village near Chernihiv where her father died. It was quiet now — no gunfire, just wind and memories.

There, in the field where his last stand was made, she planted a row of sunflowers.

Bright. Unafraid. Beautiful.

Just like he promised.

And though the war had taken everything — her father, her brother, her mother, her home — it couldn’t take her will to remember.

Because one survived.

And she would carry them all in every word she wrote.

Forever.

The scent of roses still lingered in the hallway, mingling with the faint traces of perfume and laughter from a night that felt like yesterday. Just seven days ago, the apartment was filled with music, clinking glasses, the rustle of silk, and warm blessings whispered into the ears of two souls ready to build a lifetime together.

Anya stood barefoot on the cool wooden floor, her fingers gently tracing the edges of her wedding veil as it hung beside the mirror. She hadn’t moved it. She couldn’t. As if shifting it would erase the memory of Aleksandr twirling her under the fairy lights, whispering, "My wife," like it was a word made only for her.

They had married in late autumn. The leaves were just beginning to fall like blessings from the trees. Anya was radiant in ivory, Aleksandr beaming in his crisp suit. Their families had cried, danced, and blessed them until midnight. They were the kind of couple people dreamed of becoming.

The night of the wedding, they had sat on the balcony, fingers interlocked, speaking of their future.

"We'll go to Crimea for our honeymoon," Aleksandr said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Rent a tiny cabin by the sea. Just you, me, and the waves."

"No work, no phones, no clocks," Anya added.

"Only love."

She had kissed him, her heart full, never imagining the world could be any different than it was in that moment.

But it changed. Fast.

Three days later, war was declared.

The news hit like a punch. The Russian president had authorized military action against Ukraine, citing threats, security, land disputes. But to Anya, the words were just noise. All she saw was her husband going pale as the draft notice arrived.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no. You’re not a soldier, Sasha. You teach music. You don’t fight."

"I don’t want to fight," he whispered back. "But I have to go. It’s mandatory."

Her arms wrapped around him like roots around a tree. "We just got married. You promised me time. You said we’d see the sea."

"I still promise you," he said, his voice cracking. "I’ll come back. I swear it, Anya."

The night before he left, they didn’t sleep. They lay tangled in each other, breath and tears and silence their only language.

At dawn, as he packed his duffel, Anya watched from the doorway, clutching the mug he always used. Her brother Dmitri helped Aleksandr tighten his boots; Dmitri had also received the order. Anya's mother stood in the background, hands clasped, praying under her breath.

Aleksandr turned to her one last time before leaving.

"I’ll call you. Every time I can."

"And write."

"And write."

"You come home, Aleksandr Ivanovich."

He smiled, a smile laced with fear and aching hope. "To you. Always to you."

The calls came at first.

The first week, he called every two days. His voice was tired but warm. He spoke of the cold, the bad food, the boys who didn’t know how to load rifles. But mostly, he spoke of her.

"I play that little tune on my harmonica every night. Remember the one I wrote for our first anniversary of dating?"

"I do," Anya whispered, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "I sing it in my head to fall asleep."

Week two, the calls came less.

"They moved us," Aleksandr said. "Closer to the front. It’s louder here. Sometimes I can't sleep."

"I want to send you something," she said. "A sweater. Or chocolates. Or your cologne."

"Send your prayers. That’s lighter to carry."

Week three, there were no calls. Only a letter, handwritten, the ink smudged from travel.

My dearest Anya,

Forgive me for the silence. We’re deeper in now. Days bleed together. But I close my eyes and think of you brushing your hair in front of the mirror, humming off-key. It makes the mud disappear for a moment.

Dmitri is brave. He watches my back. We talk about you often.

I still dream of Crimea. One day, my love. I promise.

And then, nothing.

For almost a month.

Anya called hotlines, asked neighbors, even contacted local officers. No one knew anything. Her in-laws avoided her gaze. Her own mother wept quietly at night.

She stared at the door, waiting for him to return. Every time the doorbell rang, her heart leapt like a prisoner reaching for freedom. Every time it was someone else, her soul cracked a little deeper.

One night, she screamed.

She smashed the wedding photo frame against the wall, the glass shattering like her hope. "Why?! Why him?! Why any of them?!"

Her father-in-law placed a trembling hand on her shoulder. "We were all promised peace. But promises mean nothing in politics."

Then, on a frost-covered afternoon, a car pulled into the driveway. Anya looked out, and her knees gave way.

Dmitri stepped out, limping heavily, leaning on a crutch. One leg was gone below the knee.

She ran out barefoot into the snow. "Dmitri!"

He collapsed into her arms. He was thinner, greyer, no longer the cheerful boy who made jokes during her wedding toast.

Behind him were two more soldiers from the village. All silent. All broken.

Dmitri handed her a folded letter, the edges stained dark.

"He saved me," he said. "A drone struck our post. He pushed me into the trench. Took the blast. We couldn’t save him. We couldn’t even carry him out. We buried him in the forest. I marked the spot."

Anya opened the letter with trembling fingers.

My love,

If you're reading this, then I failed my promise. I’m sorry. I tried. I wanted a thousand days with you, not these few stolen ones. But know this — you were my home.

I dreamed of you every night. I saw us old, laughing, arguing about curtains. I saw children. I saw the sea.

Forgive me for not coming back. But remember me in the waves. In the music. In the stars.

Yours, in this life and beyond,

Aleksandr.

She held the letter to her chest and let out a cry so raw it froze the wind.

She screamed until her voice broke, until snowflakes settled on her bare arms, until every memory of Aleksandr felt like it was cutting through her skin.

And then she looked up at the grey, merciless sky and yelled, voice shaking with fury:

“They said it was for the land — but what do I see? Empty chairs at dinner, folded flags on coffins, names carved into cold stone! Tell me — was any of this really worth it?!”

The sky, like the world, remained silent.

Only the wind answered, howling through the trees like a requiem for the promises that war always breaks.

The End.