Something tells me, there's no paradise. You can walk all the way to the ends of the Earth, but nothing's there. Never the less, why am I so driven to find it? I hear a voice it tells me 'Search. Search for Paradise.' I haven't lost anything. Not my friends or my pride as a wolf. I'll see them again, when we meet, in Paradise. The snow is slowly coating my fur. It's bloodstained and cold. But I welcome the cold. It'll all be over soon. I'm sure of it. I close my eyes and I dream, of endless rolling hills, the breeze in my fur, hunting with my friends and howling at the moon. I long for it to come. The cold consumes me. The wilted flower sits in front of me, and I breathe on any snow that dares to touch it. It is all that I have left. It's the last thing I will see, and I want it to stay alive, to grow again. If I could rise from the ice and heal, I would. But I can't. I have lost my friends. I feel lost. A single tear leaves my eye and freezes on my nose. Everything starts to go blurry and I drift into an eternal sleep.

The sun, it's blinding. I rise from the grass and look around. From the hill I am standing on I can see it all. This is it. I made it. This is Paradise.

You can walk all the way to the ends of the Earth but nothing's there. Never the less, why am I so driven to find it? I hear a voice. It tells me, 'Search. Search for Paradise.' I speak back. 'I made it. I am here. In Paradise'