The air feels soft, the sky covered with gray clouds, it looks like it will rain anytime soon. But—why am I running so fast? And what is chasing me from almost all directions? shadowy shapeless beings, too many, closing in. Oh no! I need to find a shelter or some kind of hiding place. No wall, no roof, no tree in sight…..Papa? When and how did he appear, I don't know., I have no time to think. I have to quickly touch him. I put my hands in his pants pocket…where did they go? They just vanished. I couldn't understand it then, but now I know why. I had exams scheduled for the following week. Feeling anxious and stressed, I had a small argument with my younger brother over a pencil case. I was 13. It escalated to a point that my brother started crying. I saw him going to my father, getting hugged and consoled. A part of me quietly broke. Deep in my heart maybe I was also craving for that affection. My father called my name lovingly, “Fatima beta, come here”. I went to his room. Witnessing my brother still in his embrace, fired up my anger and I shouted, “ You only love him, You don't love me”. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I went straight back to my room, curled up like a baby with my face pressed into a pillow and cried. “Maybe he will console me too.” Thinking about this I went to sleep. The next day was a bit unusual. A heavy air surrounded yesterday's lively house. My father had his Sunday breakfast, read the newspaper, and watched political shows. Everything seemed normal except for the fact that he didn't smile once….he went SILENT. A few days later, as he came back from the office, I went to the front door to greet him. With a smile, I stretched my hand out to take his briefcase from his grip but he pulled away. The words he said next wrenched my heart,” learn some manners first, then talk to me.” He walked through the front towards the living room, leaving me standing there in shock at what I had heard. I spent the remaining day, choking back tears, questioning myself, “Have I hurt my father? Have I been so disrespectful?”. I pondered all night hoping to uncover the reason for his reaction to my outburst and how I can smooth things over. This is when I realized—I had to be careful with him. By the end of that week, I mustered up the courage and apologized. He accepted but a gap still remained, waiting to be bridged. I knew he loved me and so did I, without a doubt. So I started learning a new language, a language of his silence. A sweet from lunch money, a question about his day, a flower from a random bush—simple gestures that are hard to refuse, too notable to be ignored. Daily conversations with him made my day complete. “I went out with girls today, we had chocolate ice cream but I think strawberry one tastes better”, I murmured. “Hmm…right”. He brought strawberry ice cream the next day. I was happy not because of the ice cream, but the fact that he remembered “strawberry”. I felt satiated after seeing a subtle but gratified smile playing on his face. He did not reply mostly but I was starting to grasp HIS language. Like this, a year went by. Then, one evening, I heard something I was not expecting to hear this early. “I had a bad day today.” Tears swelled up in my eyes before I could gather my words. He opened his heart to me, not because I'd asked but because, for once, he wanted to. “Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay. You have me”. I opened my bag, took something out, reached my hand to him and slowly unclenched my fist, letting the toffee drop in my father's hand. He didn't say anything, just took it, as if it was a ritual for him. Now, I'm 26, coming back home from a tiring day at the office. The crowded bus is acting as a trigger for my burnout. My phone screen lights up with a text message on top, “Location Plz. Pulao for dinner.” The edges of my tiredness softened, no longer heavy, a feeling of languor washes over me, as if my body exhaled all the burden. I used to call him but now he calls me first, asks for my location whenever I go out on work trips. We converse for hours, sharing our recent purchase and how uncle Mubashir's cat broke his vintage vase. We laugh, share burdens and sometimes he covers me with a tapestry of his childhood days. After putting each fragment of his memory together, I unfold the story of his efforts, along with a fear of disappointing others. Till now I couldn't understand why the shapeless shadowy beings in my dream vanished. But now, I can vividly picture and sense my fathers warm pocket and why they couldn't harm me in his embrace. The language I learnt for his reticence, finally bore fruit. I'm glad, in the end, I was the one reaching out first.

Letter The room was small, just large enough for four young men. Moonlight slipped through the window, casting pale shadows across the desk. Three of them slept soundly. Only Ilyos remained awake. Bent over the desk, he wrote without pause. But something felt wrong. With a frustrated sigh, he crumpled the paper and threw it toward the wastebasket—already overflowing with discarded pages. He reached for another sheet. After two lines, he stopped and reread what he had written: Perhaps I'll never give you this letter... But my heart refuses to be still. If only these words could reach you... He nearly crumpled it too. But instead, he set his pen aside and picked up a charcoal pencil. For three years, only one face had occupied his heart. He closed his eyes. She appeared before him—her jet-black hair, her emerald-green eyes that he had never dared to hold for more than a moment. He began to draw. Stroke by stroke, the empty page came alive with her likeness. He worked through the night, unaware of the hours passing. When he finally stopped, the clock read five in the morning. He studied the portrait, then carefully slipped it between the pages of one of the library books on his desk. --- By dawn, Ilyos had barely slept. His roommates stirred. "Do you have to start this early?" he mumbled. "Get up. First class is soon. Aren't you going?" Ilyos glanced at his phone and sighed. "I'm not going. I barely slept." "Suit yourself." One by one, his roommates left. One of them grabbed the library books from the desk and returned them—Ilyos didn't even notice. It was nearly noon when he woke. He washed his face and saw dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair a mess. He hadn't eaten since the night before. He grabbed a quick meal, then hurried to his desk. The books were gone. He searched the drawers, the shelves, every corner of the room. Nothing. Panic set in. Just then, his roommates returned. "My God, what happened here?" one of them asked. "The library books!" Ilyos cried. "Where are they?" "I returned them this morning," his roommate said casually. The color drained from Ilyos's face. Without a word, he grabbed his jacket and rushed out. --- He burst into the library, breathless. The librarian pointed him toward the shelf where returned books waited. He hurried there, scanning one spine after another. Beside him, a girl selected a book from the same shelf. He found two of the three books. His trembling fingers flipped through their pages. Nothing. No drawing. No letter. The third book was missing. Then he froze. The young woman beside him was holding it. His eyes rose from the book to her face. Time stopped. It was her. The girl who had lived in his heart for three years. His heartbeat stumbled. He wanted to disappear—to pretend he'd come for any other reason. But it was too late. As she opened the book, a folded paper slipped to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it. And forgot to breathe. It was her portrait. Drawn with astonishing care—the faint freckles, the soft lips, the emerald eyes. For several moments, she simply stared. Then she read the lines above the drawing: Perhaps I'll never give you this letter... But what can I do? My heart refuses to be silent. If only you could know what I've carried all these years... A warm blush spread across her cheeks. Something tender stirred inside her chest. She lifted her eyes and saw the young man standing there. Pale. Frozen. Unable to look away. She folded the letter carefully and stepped toward him. "Are you looking for this?" she asked softly. Ilyos swallowed. "...Yes." His voice barely escaped. Then his eyes met hers. A shy smile appeared—filled with relief, embarrassment, and three years of silence. He lowered his gaze and whispered: "Yes... but I think it has already found the person it was meant for." Silence settled between them. Not awkward, but full—the kind that says everything words cannot. Outside the library windows, afternoon sunlight spilled across the campus.

Flummoxed? Yes I was. But how and why is the question. I have never met my maternal grandmother in my life. She had passed away or if I put it in a more eloquent manner, she had entered the gates of the beautiful heaven, much before I was born. But I have always heard stories of her from my mother fondly. So, one thing that I'm sure about is that she was a wonderful and an amazing woman and she continues to be with us through my mother. Nonetheless, the pain and sorrow of never being able to meet her physically will always be there. But a while ago, I happened to experience a dream at night that somehow felt very real even though it was not. I saw myself standing in an inexplicably bizarre, twisted, bedlam-like place. It was a big corridor, made of ancient stones, with hardly any source of light entering in there whatsoever. A creature resembling a man, with unshapely head and limbs was screaming continuously. Some other people were running helter- skelter. I was shook beyond imagination. In the very next second, I was inside a beautiful and spacious room that had the biggest window you could ever imagine. The presence of clouds just outside the window seemed to suggest that it was a tall building. As soon as I turned around, I saw an old woman standing in front of me. And oh! It was my maternal grandmother. Although it isn't an uncommon encounter for me to see people in my dreams, however seeing my grandmother was totally an unprecedented one, because till then I had only seen her in photos, lovingly preserved by my mother. Nonetheless, my heart was screaming in joy. She smiled at me as if she had known me since ages. I approached her with slow footsteps, and she said,"Finally we meet my sweetheart." What we talked about afterwards is not something that I can remember vividly. But I can remember one thing for sure - I wasn't willing to leave her anytime soon. Grandmother realised that I was getting incredibly emotionally attached to her.So she said,"You have to leave now, or you might never be able to leave my dear." With a heavy heart, I left the room, knowing very well that I would never meet her even in my dreams too again. Once I left her and went outside, I again saw those weird people running aimlessly and I thought of going back to my grandmother fearing how she would live here. But it was at that very moment that I realised what the dream signified- that even in the worst situations, one can choose to stay as calm as a lotus flower, like my grandmother did. I wish I can again meet her in my dreams!

The guilt, started off low as I made my way to yet another restaurant where my weekly facade would take place. The mere fact of lying to your own child, was as real as any physical pain I'd ever felt. I couldn't escape it though. Not when I was stuck like the hardened gum you'd find under each and every table in a restaurant. When the waiters only smiled and walked by, I knew that my presence could easily be replaced with a mannequin. My phone emerged from my pocket, as I prepared to make a call to my daughter. Just as quickly, the guilt entered my bloodstream like a toxin that was eating me alive. As it rang, my heart throbbed in the center of my chest. “Hey dad” I heard my sweet daughter say on the other end. How I longed to have her in my arms again just once. The one and only person who managed to add the first colours to my black and white life, after everybody I knew and loved started leaving me slowly but surely. Then in the end, she left too, as I passed her on to someone who swore he loved her greatly. At the end of the day, the love he spoke of could never accumulate to mine. “Hey sweetie, how are you” The ache of her absence hit hard, as my throat hurt from the repressed tears. I found such relief in the fact that everything in life was flourishing for her and her husband. She didn't stop talking for a while about her achievements, and the plans she had laid out for her future. “Where are you right now dad? Have you eaten anything?” She spoke lightly, then paused waiting for a response. Her questions never caught me off guard, because I knew well enough to prepare myself in advance. “Out with my mates. To your old favorite.” I spoke casually, as I fixated on the 4 empty chairs around me. It took me a while to change to a video call, but when I did, I turned the camera towards the cheerful and noisy people around me, shunning my own table. “Let me guess. Fries with steak, and a salad on the side?” There was nothing I knew about myself that she didn't know. I nodded in response, knowing full well that not even a plate, that was empty nor full, was facing me at the moment. Before I could say anything more, her husband's voice could be heard in the background, and as quickly as she answered, she had cut the call with a hurried, “See you dad, be happy”. Only I know that after she left, I never found that same happiness again. That's okay though. I never expected to. I sat only drowning in my own thoughts, in the hole that I dug for myself, until an unfamiliar voice broke my train of thoughts. “Winter Watkins” A female that looked right about daughters age, sat opposite me, placing her plate on the table simultaneously. She raised her hand, catching a waiters attention, and glanced back at me.' “What would you like to eat?” She asked as both, she and the waiter turned to look at me for a response. “Nothing at all, thanks. You should go.” Determined to make as little as eye contact as possible, in hopes that she would notice the wall I built around myself with society. My efforts were in vain as instead of leaving, my response was followed by her ordering for me. “Fries with steak, and a salad on the side please” She repeated my favourite meal, like we'd known each other for a while now. Persistent isn't she?. Seeing my confused expression, she smiled lightly and mouthed the word ‘daughter', reminding me of the previous lie I told. After the waiter left, we sat in awkward silence for a while, until she broke it. “So… Why did you lie to your daughter?” I glanced up at her, meeting a face that was filled with curiosity. She quickly added, “You don't need to tell me if you're not comfortable”, but I could see that she really wanted to know. I started from where life was what is known as “Sunshine and rainbows”, to how it became a tragic play that I couldn't escape. From my wife running away the day after our daughter was born, to all my friends abandoning me one by one when all I came to them to do was borrow cash. To top it off with a cherry on top, how the love of my life left for another continent with the love of her life. She was listening attentively, as I brought her a few insights about myself. I quickly diverted the topic off of myself to avoid seeing the pain that washed over her face, but the little conversation quickly turned into a therapy session for each one of us, as oceans fell from our eyes at the end. In the end I found out she too didn't have parents, and was barely holding on to the scraps of survival. When the food finally arrived, I regretted my earlier remark. It tasted like heaven had made its way down my oesophagus, and no matter how many times I thanked her, what I felt inside was way more than what I was letting out. I looked up mid bite of a piece of steak to find Winter already looking at me, grinning from ear to ear. “I genuinely feel like this is going to be the start of a good friendship” “It sure is”.

The Last Time I Held His Hand I ran through the hospital corridor without stopping, heading straight for Room 15. I was running so fast that it felt as though my soul had left my body. By the time I reached the room, I was out of breath, terrified, and unable to utter a word. As I slowly opened the door, I walked toward a frail but warm-hearted man lying on the hospital bed. The sharp smell of disinfectant filled the room, making everything feel even colder. Even in pain, his eyes still carried the same warmth that had comforted me since childhood. Despite his condition, he was trying to spend one last precious moment with a frightened, tearful boy—me. "Don't cry," my grandfather whispered, trying to comfort me. The last time I held his hand, I didn't know it would be the last. His fingers felt colder than usual, yet he still smiled at me. I smiled back, unaware that those few seconds would stay with me for the rest of my life. For a few moments, we talked about old memories—my first day at school, the day my ice cream slipped from my hands, and the time he protected me from an angry dog. Although my body was in that hospital room, my mind wandered through every memory we had shared. Every weekend, I visited my grandfather in his quiet village. I didn't go because my parents told me to—I went because he had lived alone since my grandmother passed away. His home was surrounded by flowers and fresh country air. "Here comes my little champion," he would say every time he saw me. After helping him water the flowers or pick vegetables, we would sit outside with cups of coffee, enjoying the peaceful silence far from the hustle and bustle of city life. He always told me, "One day, you'll become someone the world will be proud of." Those conversations meant everything to me. Suddenly, I was pulled back to reality. The steady beeping of the heart monitor turned into one long, terrifying sound. Doctors rushed into the room, desperately trying to save him. They performed CPR, shouting instructions while machines echoed throughout the room. They tried to lead me outside, but I couldn't move. I stood frozen in the corner, as if my feet had been rooted to the floor. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and I could hear my heartbeat louder than the machines. Only five minutes passed. Yet those five minutes felt like an eternity. Then my grandfather slowly turned his head toward me. Looking into my eyes, he whispered just four words... "Never forget your family." A gentle smile appeared on his face. Then he closed his eyes forever. At that moment, I couldn't tell whether I wanted to cry, scream, or simply stand there in silence. The following day, I returned to his house alone. This time, I wasn't carrying excitement—I was carrying regret. The garden was still there. The flowers were still blooming. The birds were still singing. But the chair where we used to drink coffee sat empty, and the coffee cups were gone. The silence spoke louder than words. Before leaving, I whispered, "Goodbye for now, Grandpa. I promise I'll come back as the person you always believed I could become." Time moved on, but my grandfather never truly left me. His words stayed with me every step, inspiring me to work toward my dream of becoming a diplomat. Every step toward my dream reminds me of the promise I made to him. Since then, I have treasured every moment with my family, never taking their presence for granted. I began spending more time with them, joining every family gathering, celebration, and simple moment that once seemed ordinary. I no longer rush through family dinners. Instead, I stay a little longer, listening to stories I once thought I would hear forever. One evening, while my parents were talking at the dinner table, I put my phone away and simply listened. For the first time, I realized those ordinary conversations were the moments I would one day miss the most. I still visit his home whenever I can. Sometimes, I sit in the same empty chair where we once shared cups of coffee. Sometimes, the wind gently moves the trees, and for a moment, it feels as though he is sitting beside me again. I tell him about the dreams I am still chasing, as if he were quietly listening with the same warm smile. Whenever I look at the stars, I remember that sleepless night and silently thank him for everything he gave me. To this day, I continue striving to become the person he believed I could be. Every step I take brings me closer to fulfilling the promise I made that day. Although I can no longer hold his hand, I still carry the lessons he placed in mine. Only after losing him did I truly understand that the greatest gift we can give the people we love is not expensive presents or perfect words—it is our time. Because we never truly know when an ordinary moment will become the last time we hold someone's hand.

As the neon, retro exterior buzzes gently against the night sky, the“I” in the DINER flickers softly. A rain-slicked asphalt reflects the warm honey-colored glow spilling through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the counter, a strip of long, gleaming stainless steel, is lined with chrome-legged swivel stools with cracked, cherry-red vinyl tops. Against the walls and windows are high-backed, alcoves with duct-taped seams; they sport a well-worn, yet deeply comfortable, look. The bell rings as a customer walks in, letting a cool draft of evening air. Squinting past the bright lights, he shows himself to his usual spot: right next to the glass cake display dome, with a quarter-sliced pecan pie, humming on the counter. His hands shake slightly as he pulls the chair out. He habitually brushes aside the glass shakers of salt and pepper to make room for his elbows, and does he bother reading the laminated, slightly sticky tri-fold menu resting on the stainless steel napkin dispenser. The customer's arrival alerts a waitress in her mid-twenties who's washing her hands. She dries her hands, plucks a notepad and pencil from her crisp red uniform apron, then crosses the distance to the elderly in quick steps. A bright smile emerges on her face as she prepares to take his order. “What'll it be today?” she asks politely. The senior fixes an intensifying gaze on her face, as though trying to place her features. After a moment's hesitation, he answers, “Would you happen to have…carrot cake?” “Of course, would that be all for today?” she prompts, “How about a glass of warm milk to go with your dessert?” His eyes light up for a brief second, and his smile warms, as though a silent understanding hangs in the air between them. Then he nods in agreement. The waitress's radiant smile falters for a fraction of a second before she tightens her cheeks to force it back in place. With the order fresh in her mind, she places the unused notepad and pencil back in her uniform and tasks herself with readying the order. A couple minutes pass, and the lady returns. On her right palm, she carries the comforting scent of sweet cinnamon, sharp nutmeg, and rich brown sugar. The slice has a dark amber crumb with vibrant orange shreds and pale yellow bites; its frosting is thick and snowy-white. On her left hand, she holds a heavy, tinted glass three-quarters full with steaming milk. A distinctly nutty scent of toasted-grain rises with the steam and blends with the dessert's velvety aroma. The man looks up eagerly, with the eyes of a delighted child. He lifts his hands toward the drink as it arrives, then his hands suddenly retreat into balled fists. “Oh my. I'm afraid I can't have milk.” He mutters softly, almost incoherently. As though expecting this reaction, the waitress places a consoling hand on the weathered, knobby knuckles. With a reassuring smile, she says, “Don't worry, it's oat milk. Dairy free.” His shoulders drop with a deflated sigh, and his fingers relax against the counter. He nods meekly, as though the waitress's words struck a chord of pure trust, then reaches back out towards the warm glass. As he lifts the glass with both hands, his fingers soak in the warmth of the beverage. With a cautious sip, the robust and creamy taste of oat milk washes over him in a familiar way. The wrinkles of panic on his forehead are replaced by ease. Looking up at the young waitress, his eyes seem to clear and glisten beneath his white eyebrows. He reaches across the counter, placing his frail, wrinkled hand over hers. “I was feeling a bit lost today, dear,” he spoke in a soft, yet steady tone. “Yet, being here now, makes me feel like I'm finally home.” The waitress felt a single tear, long held back, escape her eye; it traced a hot path down her cheek. Instead of wiping it away and forcing a professional smile, she gives his warm hand a sharp squeeze back. “You are home,” she whispered in reply, anchoring herself to his touch. “Take your time, dad.”

My mother was a small-town girl born with big-city lights in her eyes. Frederick, Wisconsin, where she grew up, was her evil kingdom. She ran from the farmers with their torn overalls and muddy work boots as fast as her platform shoes would carry her and never looked back. I spent my childhood in the shadow of high-rise buildings. My pastimes included sifting through the archaeology of half-empty cocktail glasses, forgotten cigarette lighters, and lost earrings, remains of my parents' frequent parties. For me, Frederick was magical. When my memory travels there, time stops. In summer, the trees that lined Grandma Ella's street embraced, forming a whispering, green canopy. Winter brought branches swaddled in blankets of pristine snow. My grandmother's domain was her kitchen, where the smell of deliciousness surrounded her. The comforting scents of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg were baked into her clothing. Every day she created a new treat—rhubarb pie, rye bread, spice cookies, chewy inside and topped with a brittle crust of sugar. My mother's favorites were molasses biscuits, hard enough to crack teeth. We visited Frederick rarely. So, my grandmother in her floral housedress, arms thrust deep into a bin of flour or sugar, became my icon. Her cast iron pan and oak rolling pin were holy relics. She was longed for, revered, and by virtue of her simplicity, incredibly mysterious. On the few occasions when she came to the city. It was deeply disturbing to see her black lace-up shoes cross our threshold. To me, she was a fragile alien who must be protected from a hostile environment. I worried that if she stayed too long, she would be transformed into one of the permed and girdled matrons who filled our apartment for Bridge Club. Although I didn't see her often, Grandma Ella was present throughout my childhood in a way that allowed her spirit to surround me while she remained safely cocooned in Frederick. Each holiday, a brown box tied with twine arrived in the mail. Opening the cardboard flaps released layers of confectionary perfume more heady than anything in the crystal bottles on my mother's dressing table. Meringue swirls, squares of fudge, sugar-iced Santas, Easter eggs or crimson Valentine hearts were lovingly tucked between sheets of colored tissue. As each layer was unwrapped, the image of my grandmother materialized more clearly. I imagined her leaning over the kitchen table, the wrinkled flesh on her upper arms swinging slightly as she bent into the rolling pin, her breath puffy with the effort. Under her hands, a mound of flour and butter transformed into a shining, yellow galaxy from which she cut and shaped wondrous creations. When the box was unpacked, the pastries displayed on china that once belonged to her, Grandma Ella's presence filled the room. As the cookies disappeared, her image faded, and Frederick grew as distant as the anemic, sickle moon suspended high above the city.

If I spoke about it, if I finally did, what would I tell you? Would I recount the time the sky turned gray? Or describe the market, fresh from the smell of dried fish? Or would I tell you about the little prince who spent his childhood among strangers? Perhaps I would just warn you. For this was not a fairy tale story. But rather a tale of love and loss. — Once upon a time, there was a 12-year-old boy named Ato. Every morning, at exactly six o'clock, Ato walked five miles to the public market. The weave of the bilao he carried bit into his small arms, leaving red marks in his tender skin. As soon as the unmistakable scent of dried fish hit him, the little prince wore his innocent smile and raised his voice for all the strangers to notice. “Banana cue! Turon!” he shouted until the coins dragged his pockets down, hopefully enough to feed his family for one more day. Ato returned home right before the clock struck 12. “How much did you earn today, anak?” his mother asked softly. “Around two hundred pesos, Ma. Enough for today's meal, I guess.” His mother nodded gently. “What about the allowance of your two older sisters?” Her hands trembled as she wiped the kitchen table, exhaustion worn on her face. “We'll make it work,” he said. But every night, the little prince would always cry himself to sleep, praying for some things to change. The next morning proved no different whatsoever. It was six o'clock again, so Ato began the five-mile walk to the market. Except that when he passed by the neighbourhood playground, his friends were there playing joyfully. “Ato! Come play a game of patintero with us!” they shouted at him. His eyes sparkled, and for a second, his feet moved on their own towards them. But his fingers tightened against the woven bilao on his arms. “Maybe next time, guys.” Ato forced a smile before walking away. That next time never came. Until one cloudy morning, at six o'clock, the loud shattering glass tore Ato from his sleep. His knees were trembling as he darted towards their living room. The closer he got, the clearer the smell of cheap gin became. “Where's the goddamn money?!” his father shouted, towering over his mother. Before his father's fist could find a target, Ato emptied his pockets and handed the crumpled bills he had earned the day before. “PUTANGINA!” His father snatched the money from Ato's tiny hands before aggressively slamming the door shut. Seven years passed and mornings remained the same for Ato who became 19. He earned admission to his dream university and thought that his fairy tale was about to begin. Until his mother sat beside him one evening. “We can't afford it,” she whispered to Ato. “Your two older sisters should finish college first.” Ato felt silly, what was he even thinking? He looked down on his arms, a little bigger than before, but still the same ones that were expected to carry bilao, and not notebooks. So instead of fantasizing those impossible dreams. The little prince just worked harder and harder until everything finally exploded on a perfectly ordinary morning. At six o'clock, his mother entered Ato's room with the same demand on her lips. “Anak, your sisters need their allowance.” These exact words hung in the air, slowly suffocating Ato. His throat began to tighten. And before Ato realized it, words were already coming out of his mouth. “I am the youngest, Ma. Why am I the one growing old so everyone else can live?!” Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was anger. Or maybe his resentment toward the family he carried since childhood can no longer be bottled up. “It's for the family, anak.” Ato looked down to the invisible red marks on his arms that suddenly felt piercing in his skin, in his once-gentle heart. “If I do this any longer, there will be nothing left for me.” Ato turned his back to hide the tears falling from his face. Because for the first time in his life, he chose himself before anyone else. Some months later, Ato began doing something that once felt impossible. He started saving his hard-earned money. Not all of it, but enough to remind him that he existed too. And when the alarm rang at six o'clock again, Ato would smile before opening his eyes. With a plain black bag on his back and a tidied university uniform brushing against his arms, Ato felt his chest lighten. Perhaps, this time around, he could love himself better. — If I told you about that little prince, what would I say? That he lost his childhood? Yes. That he believed in fairy tales? Possibly. But I would also tell you this: Even after life stole nearly everything away from him, it never managed to steal his hope. For dreams are patient and stubborn. And when his heart is finally ready to dream again. Perhaps, at long last, he lived happily ever after.

The tin was rusted at the seams, lighter than a slice of bread, and it was the only thing in our house that survived being sold twice. My father tried to trade it for kerosene the year the mines closed. My uncle tried to trade it for train fare the year he left for the city. Both times, my grandmother walked to wherever it had gone and walked back with it tucked under her cardigan, saying nothing, as if she'd only stepped out to check the mail. Inside were three hundred and twelve sunflower seeds — "small suns," my grandmother called them, waiting for permission to happen. I know because I counted them once, furious, certain she loved them more than she loved me. That was the winter the money changed its face twice and was worth less each time it did. We ate what we grew and grew less of it every year. I was nine, and I thought my grandmother was cruel for refusing to eat the seeds the week we lived on borrowed flour. "Why won't you just eat them?" I asked her, when hunger made me brave enough to accuse her outright. She didn't look up from her mending. "Because they are not seeds, Ana. They are next year." "Next year won't feed us tonight." "No," she agreed. "Tonight will have to feed itself." The neighbors thought grief had loosened something in her. My grandfather hadn't come back from the border two winters before, and grief does strange things to people, they said, twisting their dish towels tighter than they needed to. Mrs. Kovač told her plainly that a woman alone could not afford sentiment. My grandmother only smiled and offered her a cup of the tea that wasn't really tea — just hot water with a memory of mint in it. When the frost broke, she didn't plant potatoes like everyone else. She walked to the far end of our field, where the soil was too full of stones for anything sensible, and planted all three hundred and twelve seeds in a slow spiral, murmuring under her breath the whole time. I thought it was a song. It was her counting, so she wouldn't crowd them. Everyone else spent that summer arguing over turnip yields. Our spiral grew green, then rough, then taller than my shoulder, then taller than my father, rattling like paper in every wind that came down from the hills. I stopped being angry sometime in July, though I never said so. I told her the stalks were good windbreaks instead, which also happened to be true. By September we had forty sunflowers taller than the church door, heads heavy and dark, ringed in gold: a field of small suns, finally ready. My grandmother cut exactly enough seed for our own winter and set the rest aside in paper twists. Then, before light, she walked to Mrs. Kovač's gate and left one there without a note. I followed her, ten years old and outraged that we were giving away food when we lived on turnip peel ourselves. She left twists at six more gates before the village woke. At the seventh, I finally understood. This wasn't generosity. It was arithmetic. Years before I was born, a harvest had failed badly enough that half the village had eaten its own seed grain to survive, ours included. Every year since, my grandmother had been quietly replanting what fear had made people swallow — one gate at a time — so no single winter could ever again decide a whole spring. She never once called it that. She called it "tidying the field." A year later, six gardens bloomed sunflowers instead of turnips — small, uneven copies of ours. The year after that, eleven — including, at last, Mrs. Kovač's, who never mentioned the seeds and never needed to. By the time I was twenty, the whole valley turned gold every August, and almost no one remembered why. A few of us did the counting. My grandmother is gone now. The tin isn't. It sits on my windowsill in a city she never saw, and every August I fill it with three hundred and twelve seeds — no more, no less — though I don't yet know whose gate I'll leave them at. I only know that somewhere, hungry and proud and certain no one is watching, someone is deciding whether to eat their future. I'd like to be the reason they don't have to.

She was ten years old the first time she understood that wanting something badly enough could make your hands shake. The acceptance letters didn't come like that. They came quietly, one after another, landing in her inbox like small answered prayers she hadn't dared say aloud. Twenty-three universities. Most of them said yes. She would read each one twice, then a third time, her lips moving slightly — making sure something was real. The Ohio State University said yes too. She printed that one. The visa eligibility letter arrived on an unremarkable Tuesday. She held it with both hands, edges creased where her fingers pressed too hard without realizing. For the first time in months, something in her chest unclenched. Then her father looked at her and said, quietly, almost gently: "If only you were a boy. Things would have been much easier." He was afraid. Any father would be — his daughter, alone, in a foreign country with no one beside her. But fear dressed as love still closes doors. She didn't drop the paper. She folded it instead, crease by crease, the way you fold something you don't know what to do with. Went to her room. Sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall until it blurred. Then she cried. Quietly. Girls who love their fathers learn early to cry that way — pressing the sound inward, keeping it small, not making it anyone else's problem. Her father had sold his car to fund the applications. Two thousand dollars. Gone — paid into fees and documents and the particular cost of chasing something enormous. She thought about that number for weeks afterward. Not with bitterness. With a grief that had no clean name. He had believed in her enough to sell something he loved. It still wasn't enough. Her teachers had been watching. Her friends had been waiting for the ending they expected. She'd been waiting too — had almost started packing in her mind. She had to unpick all of it. Watch people's faces rearrange into something careful and kind, which is its own particular grief. She sat for DTM instead. But she had spent her sharpest months chasing a different future, and the gaps showed up exactly where she needed them not to. She chose one university in the capital almost without thinking. Fate chose the capital. She packed anyway. She had always been the kind of person who packs anyway. The first morning there, she woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and lay still, listening. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. She had left a stable job — and been mocked for it. Left her best friends. Left her mother's kitchen, the specific smell of it. The friendships she'd left behind thinned slowly — message by message, until silence stretched long enough to mean something. She grew thin that year. Financially and otherwise. Some weeks she calculated meals the way she once calculated deadlines — carefully, no room for error. She was lonely the way only people who have always been surrounded can be lonely: acutely, constantly aware of the absence. Then she met her. A girl who didn't fix anything. Just sat with her in the difficulty like staying required no explanation. That kind of friendship doesn't announce itself. It just appears — and then you cannot imagine before it. She enrolled in accounting. Always wanted to. There was something in the order of it, the way numbers answered to logic, that steadied her. She built a routine. Then a life inside the routine. She called her mother more. That was the quiet revolution nobody saw. Distance did what proximity never could — made her reach, made her say what she'd kept folded up for years. Later had finally arrived. She is not the girl who held that letter anymore. That girl thought Ohio State was everything. This one knows it was a door — and when it closed, loudly, in a way she didn't deserve, she was pushed down a narrower path that led somewhere the wider one never would have. She found accounting. A friend who became home. Her mother, again. And slowly, without ceremony — herself. The version that existed before everyone else's expectations reshaped her. Some losses don't stay losses forever. What once felt like an ending slowly became something else—something I didn't have the words for at the time. My dream didn't disappear. It changed shape, and I learned how to live inside the new one.

It is hard to find a language more criticised, misunderstood, and occasionally mocked by speakers of other languages than English. Yet it is equally hard to imagine another language that has spread across the world and connected so many nations. English gradually became the language of business, families, distant lands, and increasingly, everyday life. People often complain about English. Too simple, too practical, too strange. The spelling makes little sense, the pronunciation seems to ignore logic, and half the world grumbles about it while still trying to learn it. I understand why. I did not begin learning English for love, literature, or travel. I began because I had no choice. At the time, I was running the Tashkent branch of ComputerLand, an American-Swedish computer training company. Every important programme seemed to speak English. Software manuals were in English. Business websites were in English. Computers, it appeared, had made their choice long before I had made mine. I already spoke several languages and assumed English would simply become one more. I was wrong. After Uzbek, the language of my childhood, Russian, rich and emotional, German, where words obediently sounded much as they looked, and French, soft and poetic, English felt oddly rebellious. The words were short, slippery, and impossible to trust. Letters refused to behave properly. Why write one thing and pronounce another? I tried grammar books. I memorised vocabulary. Progress felt painfully slow. Yet somewhere in the background, another teacher entered my life. Humour. At first, British humour made little sense to me. Nobody explained the joke. People smiled politely while I sat wondering whether something important had just happened. Then everything began to change. Humour began helping me learn. I started watching short comedy series in English. The characters misunderstood each other, mispronounced words, made mistakes, embarrassed themselves, and somehow survived. More than survived — they laughed. Slowly, I realised something liberating: saying things incorrectly could sometimes be funny, even charming. One imperfect sentence would not destroy the world. For the first time, I stopped being afraid of making mistakes. Then one day, someone told me a joke about eleven couples from different countries stranded on a desert island. Each nationality behaved exactly as expected. The Russians somehow found vodka. The Japanese began planning a factory. The Welsh broke into song. The Germans discussed the economy. The English, however, did nothing. Why? Because they had not been introduced. I laughed far too late, after everyone else. But something shifted in me. Suddenly, I understood that English was not simply a language. It carried a culture inside it. Restraint. Distance. Dry humour. Rules that nobody explained aloud. The joke taught me something grammar books never could. Language was not only vocabulary and verbs. It was personality. Years later, after moving to New Zealand, English continued to surprise me. I learned that “not bad” could actually mean excellent. That invitations were sometimes politeness rather than plans. That silence did not necessarily mean coldness. Little by little, English stopped being merely practical. It became the language in which I slowly rebuilt my life. It became the language that brought me to the people who would change my life and become my family. The language in which I dared to imagine new possibilities for myself. Back in Tashkent, I had a dear friend with a little grandson named Ilyashka. At the time, I was preparing to leave for New Zealand. My friend and I spent hours talking about visas, plans, fears, and this distant country where I was about to begin a completely new life. The boy listened. Then one day, he announced: “I want to go to New Desire too!” The adults burst out laughing. He had simply transformed a country he could not yet understand into something warmer and closer to his own imagination. Not New Zealand. New Desire. The name stayed with me. Because, over the years, that is exactly what New Zealand became. A land of new desires. A place where I began again. A place where I learned to write in English, publish stories, write novels, and slowly discover new parts of myself. Eventually, the child's little mistake became the name of my English-language website: New DesireLand, or Land of New Desires. It is more than a website. It is a small literary world I created in this beautiful language, where my stories, essays, travels, and dreams have found a home. Language gives us more than words. Through jokes, misunderstandings, and small accidents, it changes the direction of our lives.

Night slipped into the city quietly, almost unnoticed. The streets filled with the thin breath of cold, wrapping everything in silence. It felt as if the city had held its breath and paused for a moment. Only a small café on the corner stood apart from that stillness. Inside, soft yellow lights spread warmth across the walls, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee invited anyone in. Everyone there was lost in their own world — some staring at their phones, some drifting in their thoughts, others simply passing time. I was one of them. Just an ordinary night. Just an ordinary person. Until he walked in. The door opened slowly. A wave of cold air cut through the warmth. Behind it stood a man. It felt as if he had brought the cold in with him. A thin coat hung loosely on his shoulders, his worn-out shoes carried the dust of long roads, and the exhaustion on his face was deep enough to make one's heart ache. He did not belong here. As if this warmth was not meant for him. He paused by the door for a moment, looking around, as though unsure whether he even had the right to stay. Then, slowly, he stepped toward the counter. “Just a cup of hot water, please…” he said in a low voice. The words were simple. But the need behind them was impossible to ignore. The barista hesitated for a second, then silently handed him a paper cup. The man thanked her and moved to a corner. He held the cup with both hands — not as if to drink it, but as if searching for life within it. I found myself watching him. Suddenly, the coffee I was drinking felt strange. Its taste had changed. It even felt unnecessary. Something stirred inside me. I stood up. “Another coffee,” I told the barista, then lowered my voice. “For him.” She looked at me, a quiet understanding in her eyes. She nodded, prepared the coffee, and placed it in front of the man. “This has been paid for,” she said softly. The man froze. “For me?..” he asked, as if afraid to believe it. She nodded. He didn't drink it right away. He held the cup gently in his hands, feeling its warmth. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if this was not just coffee, but a feeling he had long forgotten. Inside, I felt a sense of relief. “I did something good,” I thought. But life was not done teaching me yet. A few minutes later, the man stood up and headed toward the door. But just before leaving, he stopped. He hesitated for a moment, then turned back. He walked up to the counter again. From his pocket, he took out a few small coins. He rolled them in his palm. They were so few that even their sound seemed shy. “May I have another cup of hot water?..” he asked quietly. The barista looked slightly surprised, but said nothing. She nodded. The man carefully placed the coins on the counter, as if they were all he had. Then he took the cup and walked outside. I don't know why. But I couldn't take my eyes off him. Outside the café, on the cold stone steps, sat a small boy. He had pulled his knees close, making himself as small as possible. He was trembling — not only from the cold, but from loneliness. The man walked up to him. Slowly, he knelt down. And placed the cup into the boy's hands. “It's warm…” he said gently. “Hold it tight.” The boy lifted his head. His eyes widened. Not from the warmth. But from being seen. The man smiled — a quiet, simple smile. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned away and disappeared into the cold. No one noticed. No one stopped. No one thought. Only me. I sat there, frozen. The coffee in my hand suddenly felt heavy. As if it was no longer just coffee. As if it had become something unnecessary. I had given from what I could spare. He had given what he himself needed. And in that moment, deep within the silence, a truth awakened in the deepest part of my heart— Kindness does not begin with wealth. Kindness is not born from comfort. Kindness is when, even in the cold, you are still able to give warmth to someone else.

She woke up earlier than the rest and prepared to be torn apart by circumstances. Bound by the hope of getting the best, she would spare no chances. That wealth was the only light was what she believed. The lack of pride and might never made her heart feel relieved. So she weaved unreal dreams with an imaginary thread of light. Luxury came with ease, she thought in her fictitious world. During one such sunset trudging as she was to home, A sudden splash of water made her wet. From a carriage, which had caused this, stepped out a young man handsome. Discomfort and apologies followed then. He offered a ride back home. Time? He didn't know it flew when. Admiring her beauty, his eyes simply shone. Unabashedly, to her he proposed, leaving her awestruck. How could she then remain calm or composed? Was it really beauty or sheer luck? A grand festival in the name of love, attended by the whole town. Where perfection existed in every line and curve. Immaculate were her jewellery and wedding gown. For someone who had slept on splintered floors, and a hut where dawn slipped in without asking twice, she was suddenly met with Ivory doors, chandeliers, perfumes and everything nice. But now the huge walls intimidated her. They swallowed her laughter every now and then. Her smiles were measured and movements choreographed. Luxury had become a merciless cage. Where the size of a morsel held more value than someone's hunger. Disappearing while being in the room was seemingly the norm. An invisible crown weighed her down. The diamond necklace was beginning to tighten around her neck. Now the gold and glitter made her frown. Was she losing it? No one would ever check. One dawn, she woke up earlier than the rest, and left the mansion forever. She had finally set out to meet the best. On cracked roads she ran, and breathed in open air. Where days and nights asked nothing of her. The Sun burned her body, but judged anyone never, is where she found her solace. Where pain and sweat felt like hers. A once despised lifestyle, she accepted once again. No longer was she attached to riches. She would remain scarred but awake. In that tiny house, she found heavenly joy, where it didn't matter if she was extroverted or coy.

The sun was dipping low when their sandals rested in the warm sand. Seren and Theo laughed as they ran along the empty shoreline barefoot, laughter rising like music. It was their honeymoon — ten days away from noise, from deadlines, from the world. The island had been their escape. Seren ran towards the cliff, her heart pounding louder than the waves below. She turned to Theo, laughter in her voice, “Catch me, Theo!” Theo chased after her, their joy rising above the waves as they reached the edge of the cliff. For a moment, it felt like the world belonged to them until they noticed five masked men behind the rocks closing in from the dark shadows. “Phones, Jewelry, Wallets. Hand everything!” one of them yelled. They obeyed. They handed everything over, trembling. The gun fired. The only sound. One flash. Seren fell off the cliff with the wound on her shoulder, the water catching her like an open mouth in a single violent breath. Theo reached out — too late. She was gone…The waves carried her through cold water and darkness to an unknown, untouched island approximately fifty kilometers away. Seren opened her eyes to blinding sunlight. The air smelled of salt. For a long time, she didn't move. No voices. No sign of life. But it was the quietness that frightened her most. She glanced down at the wound where the bullet had brushed past her shoulder. Seren tore a strip from her dress and tied it tight around the bleeding spot. She was still alive —waiting and listening. She felt misplaced, a fish out of water, lost in a world that didn't belong to her. Night came slowly, wrapping the world in darkness. The stars above were countless, distant, and utterly cold. She pretended she wasn't scared but her eyes told a different story. Hours passed. Hungry and weak, she scanned the silent island. Just when hope began to fade, she saw fruit trees, as if the island offered her mercy. Coast guards, divers and Theo searched for her for 3 days. No body. No trace. The sound of that single gunshot haunted him. On the fourth morning, a coast guard claimed “ Movement spotted near a small uninhabited island. Approximately fifty kilometers west.” Theo's heart stopped. He immediately rushed towards the rescue boat before anyone could stop him. “ Please…” he whispered, staring at the horizon. “Let her be here.” As the boat drew closer, he saw movement near the shore — a small figure sitting in the sand. “That's her,” he breathed. Before the others could drop anchor, he jumped into the water. “Seren!” he screamed, running toward her. When Theo reached her, he hugged her so tightly that she gasped. She pulled herself back gently. She looked up at him with confusion. Her lips parted, “ I … know you?” Theo froze. “Seren,” he breathed. “It is me, Theo. Your husband.” “I don't think I know you,” Seren said quietly, as though apologizing for it. Theo's throat tightened. The guards arrived — voices shouting, wrapping her in warm blankets, guiding her gently toward the rescue boat. At the hospital, doctors moved quickly, whispering to one another as they examined her. After hours of waiting, a doctor approached Theo. “She's suffering from memory loss, possibly caused by stress, shock, or the near-death experience. She doesn't remember much of anything.” Theo froze. “But… she'll remember, right? In time?” The doctor whispered. “Sometimes memories return. Sometimes they don't.” Morning came. Theo brought coffee to her room, whispering her name softly before stepping inside. The bed was empty. Blankets folded. Seren was gone. The window open. Panic struck like lightning but there was no trace — no footprints, no note, nothing.

Introduction Every particle in the universe has its place, and every event has its order. Creation began with the very first "script." Every invention and emotion takes shape as thoughts before they touch paper. We are made of writing—from DNA codes to the lines of destiny. Man is the most intricate masterpiece in the library of the universe. Every breath is a comma, every decision a new sentence. We are born to write, leaving indelible lines for the future. I. The Inequality of the "Starting Line" The book of life doesn't begin on the same page for everyone. Some start at point "100" with ready-made wealth; others start at "0" without even a pen. Is this a predefined "System" or a test of resilience? What matters isn't where the book began, but what is written within. Writing an epic of heroism from zero is more sublime than leaving blank pages from a hundred. We cannot choose our starting line, but what we write on that field is our own will. II. Human Nature: The Unchangeable "Code" Human nature is our internal law. I believe it is unchangeable. We don't learn goodness; we are born with it—the "signature" of the Creator. This world balances light and dark. Even "monsters" are characters in a script designed to test our virtue. The greatest art is to remain an "innate good person," regardless of the world's destruction. If our nature is gold, it remains gold even in mud. A writer must not change their style, no matter how much the world tries to edit them. III. Destruction and the Technological Trap Humanity is both creator and destroyer. In a world of "mega" and "premium," we lose our time and the meaning of life. Technology was meant to lighten burdens, but it has made us busier and distanced us from one another. We complete "tasks" but forget to "live." To reach spiritual maturity, we must slow down. If greed continues to prioritize profit over the soul, the world will end before our spiritual eyes truly open. True progress is returning to the value of human connection. IV. The Philosophy of Distance Society is a system of mutual benefit, but for spiritual survival, distance is essential. Helping others is a debt, but maintaining distance is mental security. Like letters on a page, meaning only emerges when there is a space (a gap) between them. Human relationships are the same: only those with healthy distance remain meaningful. We cannot abandon people, but we must ensure their chaos does not infect our nature. Solitude is the workshop where our script is refined. V. Destiny and Responsibility Being born a writer is a mission. It is about perceiving life with depth. My destiny is to witness injustice, remain human among "monsters," and leave these experiences as a "script" for future generations. We leave behind the "path of life" we have written. Others should read our scripts to learn how to remain good in a difficult world. We are the guardians of meaning. Conclusion Humanity may end before reaching maturity, but this is just a transition to the "next level." If we live worthily and keep our "writing" pure, we fulfill our duty. The Creator is the Supreme Reader waiting for the conclusion of a great work. We are the pen, life is the paper, and every step is a letter. Until the final page, let us compose every line with humanity, patience, and wisdom. Only what we have written—love and truth—will remain forever.