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The mother hen sat for many days over her eggs, warming them with her feathers. Soon, her little chicks would hatch and enter the world. She moved her head and clucked softly, "Cluck, cluck!" The big day at last arrived. One at a time, little chicks poked out of their shells. There were yellow chicks, brown chicks, and white chicks. The new chicks struggled to stand, but their little legs could not yet stand, and over and over, they tumbled over again and again. Yet, they chirped with joy, chatting with their mother, it seemed. There were older chicks that had poked out a little early, and they were hopping about, flapping little wings and pecking at the ground. Watching over her chicks, the mother hen saw that one of them was not at all like the others. This chick had lovely brown feathers, with black and white markings on its wings. But that wasn't all—it kept flapping its little wings, wanting to fly. Even when it lay down, it did not sleep; it lay with its feathers puffed out, staring at the sky, its little feet in the air. The mother hen worried about this one. "Why are you lying in that position? Chickens don't sleep in that position!" she inquired. "Oh, Mother, I enjoy seeing the sky. I can see the stars and I long to fly up and touch them," exclaimed the little chick, its eyes full of wonder. "But we are chickens! Chickens don't fly in the sky—we inhabit the ground. You must be happy with that." "But why have we wings, then?" questioned the little chick. "Wings help in many other ways," exclaimed the mother hen. "A lion has strong paws, and an elephant has a big trunk, and we have wings to protect ourselves. Now, sleep!" But no matter what she told him, the little chick continued dreaming about flying. He practiced daily, flapping his wings with all his might. Initially, he couldn't even lift himself off the ground at all. But one day, he could manage to climb onto the fence surrounding the backyard. After a couple of days, he could fly even higher. Every single day, he continued practicing, becoming a little better and a little better. One morning, when the mother hen saw him, she grew irritated. "Stop at once!" she exclaimed. "We're not eagles, chickens. In case you fly too high, you can fall and hurt yourself. Or worse, a hawk will pounce and grab you!" But the little chick disregarded her. He continued practicing. The old rooster noticed him and invited him over. "Come, I have a lesson to impart," exclaimed the rooster. "A long, long time ago, a chick such as yourself lived. He too desired to fly. In spite of all our warnings, he did not pay any heed. He even convinced other chicks to fly with him. One at a time, one at a time, they took off in the sky. But when they flew too high, the hawks spotted them. All of them became prey for the big birds." The little chick shuddered at the mere thought of it. "You are smart and kind," whispered the rooster softly. "But do you actually desire for this to occur again?" "No… never," whispered the chick softly. "Good," nodded the rooster. "So, then, be a good chicken. To become happy, we don't have to fly. Our family lived in such a manner, and we're fine." The other chickens, too, shared their opinions: Uncle: "A partridge can't become a nightingale. Live on the ground." Cousin: "If you fly, then you will only cause yourself trouble." Aunt: "Being simple and secure is best, my sweetie." Older sister: "Life won't change, whether you fly or not. Look out for yourself." The little chick desired to become a good son and obey his family, and therefore, he ceased attempting to fly. Years have gone by. He grew older, became a dad, and had chicks of his own. Perhaps, if he continued practicing, he could have flown and seen the whole world high in the sky. But now, that dream no longer existed. Even if he desired, he was too old to fly. Instead, he instructed his chicks in the same lesson that he'd discovered: "Chickens don't fly." After all, how can a chick desire to fly if it has never experienced the feeling of being above the clouds?

There was no snow that January. In fact, as I got increasingly tired of this god forsaken month that lasted a whole decade, it got warmer and warmer, to the point I would only wear a flimsy button up even outside. At least, that was my last high school winter. This is the only fact about that time I can still tell for sure. I was walking home from my school after an exam I had to take in my final year. I did quite badly… I was so afraid of facing disappointment that I got way too nervous. I've always looked up to my teacher ever since back then. She came off as intimidating because of her greatness. She helped build us up in a way no one had ever and had no mercy when we refused to listen. Though, I guess it was the right choice, she made sure to set a good example for us and make it so we'd at least try to climb up towards her level. We'd never reach it for sure but at least it made us better people than we were before, or so I think. And so, I'm not afraid of admitting that what I was truly afraid of was disappointing her, but I stumbled over my words and there went any confidence or coherence I was trying to showcase. Whenever she did seem to question my choice of answers it felt as if I was the one disappointed in myself – perhaps I was – and when she noticed how I'd said something well for once, I could only feel genuine joy. Last night I was talking to my friend about our high school days, that is how I remembered this, since I found it extremely odd. He said he doesn't remember our teacher, which, from the many little scenes made in our literature class back then, seems quite impossible. He was even one of her frequent victims so I was sure he'd remember their interesting interactions. I was thinking of going back to our school so I could get a talk with some of our past teachers and see how things have changed or if that classroom is still frozen in time, greatly impacted by our messy classmates, so I decided I'd drag him along and make him sit through awkward greetings and my rambling to the staff. He was baffled by my remaining admiration as he could not point out anything memorable about our old teachers. The only thing he talked about with passion was a physics graduate that he got in touch with, after the insistence of our teacher. He was confused about what path he'd choose and thought some inside information might help him out. It did, indeed. He said if it wasn't for the guy assuring him of the many benefits of the course, he wouldn't have picked it and might have been condemned to a life of mundanity. When he saw my confused face, clearly not recalling having been told any of this at the time, he went on with even more vigor. He had dark curly hair and looked like a mad scientist, he said, that he had that energy of the type of person to solve integrals in his free time. “Are you sure that whole conversation even happened, you did not dream any of it?”, I'd asked, it sounded exactly like what me and our other friends used to say he would turn out like, and it was weirdly accurate too. That did make him a bit angry and… All I can say is that I might be going all on my own to visit that old building sadly. Although, I could understand him perfectly, I think a part of me chose to study literature because I wanted to be more like the person that inspired me. I guess we all have that one person that made you who you are, sculpted you with their own capable hands into some recognizable shape. A person only for us to see. And maybe… Just maybe, I want to see her once again to be able to show all the work I've put into being more like her, that I too aspired to be someone who helps others achieve greater things, that I spread the spark she entrusted onto me and that I share those high standards and loathing of mediocrity with the generations that are to come, that need it the most. And now, as I rush to get out the house and on my merry way, thinking about the girl I once was, about the many things that she endured and the confusing roads she has ahead of her, I took a small post-it note and scribbled something quickly on it. After all, we need every reminder, god forbid it is ever forgotten. The only question remaining is: Are we the ones being made after that image? Or are we one and the same? It was hot that one January day, and as I got home from my exam, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed, feeling unnaturally cold from head to toe. All thoughts stopped as I see a small note taped to my desk, the one I usually use to study whenever I'm not wasting my time with irrelevant things. “I'm proud of you” was written on it, and as I read it, I couldn't help but wish to be able to keep this januine warmth I felt for the rest of my life. I felt as if I knew exactly who that message was from.

This is the second letter I'd be writing to you. The first time, you were just a concept. I wasn't married, I hadn't even thought of what pregnancy would be. I was just a confused post-grad with no job and even fewer prospects. This time, this time's different. This time I've thought about you for longer than the time it takes to write an article. I've imagined holding you, being a mother, your mother. Today, everything is in flux. I've gotten more needles prodded in me in one month than in my entire life, and I'm still no closer to figuring out what's wrong with me. On days like this when I'm about to lose hope, I remember what this is for. At least, I think that's what I'm supposed to tell myself. The truth is, I'm no quitter. That's all that keeps me going—my stubborn, STUBBORN head. I need to see this through. I need to tell myself that I tried. Would you be surprised to hear that I'm in over my head? I'm at a new job (an upgrade from jobless), and EVERYDAY seems to be a challenge, and not always the good kind. I tell myself that I can do it, that I didn't bullshit my way into a job that I'm not qualified for. I remind myself that I'm actually very good at a lot of things, and I just need to apply myself. The truth is, even though I'm scared, for the first time in a while, I feel sure about my career pathway. It still sucks, and I'm closer to the bottom of the ladder than the top, but at least I'm climbing the ladder. Dear future child, For the first time in my life, even through all this, I have hope. The waters seem murkier than the floods in Lekki, but I finally feel like an adult. I feel like someone with a whole life ahead of her, a life she can shape into something brilliant. People always said that after 25, you get a lot of clarity. Mine kicked in 2 years late, but it's finally here. I don't know how long this burst of good sense will last, so I'm using it as quickly as possible. I have plans now. I have bigger hopes and dreams than I've ever had. I think it's because of you. The more real you feel, the clearer my head is. Dear future child, I don't actually know when I'll get to meet you. In a year? More? I hope it's sooner rather than later. I have so much I want to teach you. I want to watch you grow, to hold your hand through when you need me, laugh and cry with you. But most of all, I want to experience you. Dear future child, The first time I wrote to you, I didn't know what I was doing or where I was going. I had more questions than answers. Now, I still have questions. They might even be bigger than others. But you're my light at the end of the tunnel. So come quickly, mama's waiting.

“An old man's memories are his best companions.” We'll get to that later… It's been a few years since I've visited my cousins. There's almost a generation gap between me and my father's side of the family—while I belong to Gen Z, they go back to Gen X or what we modern folks like to call the classical period. When we picture the '80s and '90s, names like Michael Jackson and Muhammad Ali immediately peaks in our mind. As  my father used to say, "Ah, the good old days—when we weren't good, but life was." According to our pioneers, people were happier than now. Indeed, we like to think we're progressive while they are stuck in the past. Certainly, we are more liberal and materialistic. But, they are more culturally pure, connected more to the traditions and norms. Senior citizens always think of it as a curse. But isn't that the irony of the journey? The further we progress to modern life, the harder it becomes to forget the past. Cousins are supposed to be like two peas in a pod, but ours split somewhere along the family tree. It's like mixing a smartphone with a typewriter—both useful but from different worlds. My mom's side is another story entirely, one that I, as a male writer, won't complicate here. It's my aunt's third death anniversary. My cousins organize prayers in her memory each year. Last time, I had a valid excuse to miss it. Being an introvert, I often retreat to the guest bedroom at their house. There's an old radio there that I love. My uncle was a strict and conservative muslim. Once, he forbade his children from bringing a television into the house. Since then, no television had ever made its way through that door. Just as I was about to turn on the radio, I remembered the occasion. Listening to music at a death anniversary would be downright criminal. Instead, I reached for a book. That's when I noticed a dusty, worn-out book sitting on the shelf. I wiped it clean with a scarf, only to realize—it was my late aunt's diary. The very same one she used to give to every guest who visited her. I had only visited her house three times. The first was when I was too young to remember much. It was a family gathering. One of my cousins had toy cars, but he didn't like sharing. To keep me entertained, my aunt brought out an old baby walker. But soon, my younger brother—just learning to walk—became the center of attention. The second time was during a family vacation. We visited Dhaka University, the Martyrs' Monument, and the National Museum. The museum fascinated me. My mother often told stories about February 21st, 1952—the Language Movement. Her uncle, a police officer, was martyred that day for refusing to fire at students. Inside the museum, I saw a bloodstained shirt of a language martyr. The third visit was an emotional one—it was during the final days of my father. He had been diagnosed with liver cirrhosis. We were too young to react according to the situation. I was in seventh grade, and my younger brother and I treated the visit as if it were just another vacation, unaware that our family was on the brink of a crisis. We never stopped to wonder—what would happen to us if my father, the sole breadwinner of our household, was gone? My father was the all doer of the family. He frequently used to say to me alone, "From now on, you have to take responsibility." But how could I? I was just a child. A month later, he passed away. All of this happened 10 or 20 years ago. If I hadn't watched Inside Out, I'd probably still be wondering how my mind managed to store all these memories. Thanks to my brain's leader, Joy, for keeping them safe. Good job—hats off! Oh wait… do emotions even wear hats? Now, why have I told you these stories? Because, those stories I have just told, were there in my aunt's diary, written by us. It felt as if the past had come alive. It was almost as if I could see my father right in front of me with my own eyes. The words in the diary were coming to life; they were echoes of the moments we lived. Suddenly, I was seeing myself—standing with my father in front of Dhaka University Snacks (DUS). The university roads stretched before us, only a few couples strolling by, a band of young musicians rehearsing at TSC. Those roads weren't perfect—holes everywhere—but the rain had filled them, creating puddles that mirrored the sky. In those reflections, pedestrians can see flashes of their future—the future I'm now walking in. Now, as I walk through my campus, I remember those beautiful moments and whisper the same words my father used to say: "Ah, the good old days..." I hope now you understand why keeping memories alive is so important—why we need something tangible to hold on to, to keep the touch of our loved ones from fading away. As American actress Mae West once said, "Keep a diary, and someday it'll keep you."

I groaned in frustration, “I hate packing!” “Where are you going anyway?” Lola questioned, fiddling with the little giraffe figurine I'd gotten in Africa last summer. “My parents booked us this amazing trip on a train travelling across Europe. I'm going to eat authentic French cuisine, see the Italian Riviera, the Swiss Alps…” “Packing isn't so hard. Why don't you just bring all your favorite things with you and leave everything else behind?” She asked. I heaved a sigh, “you make it sound so easy. But I can't make a decision to save my life! Should I bring my green sweater or my red sweater? My favorite romance or fantasy novel? My scarf from Spain or my shoes from Scotland?” “You know, I think you actually enjoy this. You pretend to hate it, but secretly it thrills you to study the relationship between you and all your material possessions- to debate over what you want to have with you when you experience the wonders of the world.” “Okay, okay- I get it. You want to major in psychology when you go to college,” I cut in. “Not everyone has their whole life figured out by the time they're a senior in high school. Some of us feel like we have no idea who we are or what we're doing.” Lola stared. I flushed, realizing how bitter and jealous my words had sounded. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's really cool that you're a psychology nerd.” She offered a wan smile, coming to sit next to me on the bed. “It's okay. I get it. It's scary to not know what you want to do. Want to talk about it?” I bit my lip, but something about Lola's comforting tone coaxed everything to come spilling out. “It's just that- this could be it. The last Delancy family vacation- for who knows how long. The future is so uncertain. University, community college, trade school, career…” trailing off, I buried my face in my hands. “I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to choose.” Lola sat very still beside me for a moment. Then she got up, went for something in my closet, and plopped back down next to me, placing something buttery soft across my neck. I sat up, my fingers brushing my Spanish scarf. I looked back up at Lola, a question in my eyes. “I think you should bring the scarf. It suits you.” “But- what if I don't have room for something else- something really important?” “Well, then you'll figure out what that thing is and leave the scarf behind. But you won't know how much that thing means to you until you try something you don't really want, now will you?” I took the scarf off and held it in my hands. Smiling, I turned to my best friend. “I think I get what you're saying.” … In the end, I decided to take the scarf with me. And while I wore it, I thought about what Lola had said. “But you won't know how much that thing means to you until you try something you don't really want, now will you?” So even if I hadn't loved wearing the scarf, It would only have led me to realize that the Scottish shoes or the playing cards or the sunhat that I didn't have room for were what I really wanted. Either way, making the wrong decision would only have brought me closer to finding out what the right decision really was. All too soon- it was the day after the train had made its last stop, and we were about to catch our flight back to America. When I saw a basket of flyers stacked in their neat, colorful piles on a table, something made me pause to study them. “Whatcha looking at, Blythe?” my dad asked, lugging both his own suitcase, and our suitcase of necessities behind him. “It's a flyer for a foreign exchange student program in Europe.” I said absently, gazing down at the advertisement. Something was stirring inside me, like the train that I'd been riding for the last week was now rumbling through my body instead of through the wonders of France and Italy. “That sounds interesting,” Mom commented, coming up behind us. “You should hang onto that. I remember when I did a foreign exchange program when I was in highschool. I studied abroad in Korea and loved every second of it. It's what got me so into travelling in the first place.” “Look! Is that another chocolate shop down there?” Dad interrupted, “What do you girls say we make one last stop? We have about an hour before our flight!” Mom was laughing as Dad dragged her across the airport. I stopped to tuck a flyer into my suitcase before hurrying after them, feeling light on my feet. I'd spent my whole life travelling the world with my free spirited parents. Maybe it was time I started travelling inside myself, too. Suddenly, the vast array of choices laid out for my future seemed exciting instead of intimidating. In that moment, I knew I had options, and a lifetime ahead of me to explore them.

The northern lights skillfully danced across the night sky but Shifer took no notice. He scurried along the dimly lit street sticking to the shadowy fringes as much as he could. One couldn't be too cautious, especially with a reputation like his. Pausing for a moment, nose poised high in the air, he waited for a scent to guide him. There it was. He darted down an unusual alley, hunting for his evening meal. He had a feeling something special was on the menu tonight. The scent grew stronger. Fresh meat? A cunning smile spread across teeth as grimy as the pavement he stalked upon. It wasn't long before his dirty paws carried him right to the source of the smell, outside an old wooden door. A large basket sat on the pavement, unattended. How kind! He smirked and jumped up. As quickly as he landed, he reeled back in shock. Was that what he thought it was? He gingerly peeked over the edge of the basket. Brown smiling eyes looked back at him as two chubby little feet kicked around. A baby! Why was it alone? Didn't the parents know what could happen? He shuddered at the thought. He might steal from other rats but he wasn't an animal! Spying a note on the side of the basket he crept closer while keeping a wary eye on the baby. His English wasn't well-polished but he could decipher a few words. ‘Can't look after… please take my baby…' Abandoned? He thought of his own past of being the runt of the litter. His family had left him for dead one cold February night when he was just a wee rat and he had been fending for himself ever since. As difficult and lonely as it had been, at least he was able to care for himself. He knew this little one wouldn't have the same fate without help. No, he must do something. But what? He pondered aloud what to do, his squeaking making the baby giggle with delight. All of a sudden the hairs on his neck began to prickle and stand up on edge. He paused, eyes darting around him as he listened. No, it didn't seem anyone was there. He looked down to the child again as she smiled up at him. Shifer did his best to smile back. Most said his smile could make milk curdle, but this little one didn't mind it at all. His heart just began to melt when his beady eyes detected movement to his left. Four figures slunk up the pavement silently like the descending of darkness. ‘Holding out on us again I see, Shifer,' sneered the huge black ringleader as they surrounded the basket. ‘You obviously didn't learn your lesson last time. I told you what would happen if you crossed us again.' ‘This isn't ours to have. Leave the poor thing alone, Vladelets.' ‘I don't think so. Now get out of here before we eat you first, traitor,' hissed Vladelets, his anger boiling over. Time was running out. Shifer desperately looked up at the oak door, willing someone to come out. Nothing. Seeing no way out an unfamiliar courage rose within him. He let out a blood-curdling squeal. Vladelets greedy eyes widened with surprise. His head cocked on one side and he glared at Shifer. What was he playing at? Neither of them noticed the child's eyes widening or her sudden quick shallow breaths. Like the firing gun the babies scream pierced the silent night. The ringleaders eyes flashed red with rage and he lunged toward the offending rat. Running for his life, Shifer had a fleeting moment of hope. He might just make it out of here alive. Searing pain rippled through his haunches as four sets of teeth sunk into him. ‘What on earth...' muttered a startled voice, as the door flew open. ‘Dmitri, come see!' The gang of rats leapt off Shifer and fled at the sight of the human, leaving him alone in the shadows. The woman bent down and tenderly lifted the child from the basket just as a man appeared beside her in the doorway. ‘Yulia, it was just this morning we prayed…' The man's voice was thick with emotion as they stared at the child in amazement. Shifer strained to stay awake, watching the scene play out before him under the backdrop of the shifting purple and green aurora. The man and woman hovering over the child, stroking her softly until her cries stopped. The baby sniffling quietly, snuggling into the woman's arms. The feeling of love and hope for the future settling over them all like a blanket. It made Shifer feel warm and safe. As he slipped away from consciousness a slight smile spread across his lips. He was no longer a coward nor traitor. He had given his life to save another. The last thing he saw was those big brown eyes looking down at him. Thanking him.

Childhood is a mosaic of moments—some vivid, some faded—woven together by laughter, dreams, and the boundless wonder of a world unexplored. In the small and quiet town of Bukhara where cobblestone streets met vast fields of wildflowers, my childhood unfolded like a storybook filled with adventures, friendships, and lessons that would shape my life forever. Hot summer days in bukhara were as a golden. My friends and I were wake up at dawn, eager to embark on our daily quests. The neighborhood became our kingdom, and we were knights, explorers, and superheroes all at once. We built forts from old wooden planks, raced down hills on makeshift carts. We jumped on the bed, feeling like a bird flapping its wings. One summer, we discovered an abandoned treehouse at the edge of the forest. It became our secret sanctuary—a place where stories were shared, secrets were whispered, and dreams took flight. With each passing day, the treehouse bore witness to our growing friendships and the silent promise that childhood would never end. The days were filled with laughter, adventure, and the kind of innocence that only youth can bring. I spent my mornings chasing butterflies in my grandmother's garden, where the scent of jasmine, and rose filled around the neighborhood. The afternoons I was dedicated to climbing trees, pretending as an explorer in an uncharted world. My friends and I were race our bicycles through winding alleys, competing to see who was the fastest, our giggles echoing against the walls of old houses.Despite the simple life, every moment felt magical. My parents worked hard to provide for us, yet they always had time for bedtime stories and homemade meals that filled our home with warmth. The Fall rains were our favorite season—we would dance in the downpour, splashing through puddles, never once worrying about getting drenched. One of my fondest memories was the annual kite festival. I was spend my days designing my kite, carefully choosing colours which reflected my dreams. On the big day, the sky were be a canvas of vibrant shapes, and I was watch my kite flitter feeling as if my hopes and aspirations were rising with it. As the years passed, childhood faded into cherished memories, but those golden days shaped the person I became. They taught me resilience, joy in simple things, and the value of love and family. Even now, whenever I see a kite soaring high, I am reminded of the carefree days of my youth, when the world felt boundless and full of wonder. Life wasn't always about adventure; my childhood remained in my memory like the lessons of innocence.My grandmother, with her kind eyes and silver-streaked hair, was my greatest teacher. She taught me the art of patience as we baked cookies together, the importance of honesty through her bedtime stories, and the value of kindness in the way she cared for stray animals. One autumn evening, I found a wounded bird near our house. I cradled it in my hands, unsure of what to do. My grandmother helped me nurse it back to health, and when it finally spread its wings and took flight, I learned that love often meant letting go. Childhood, though beautiful, is not without its shadows. The day my best friend Milly moved away was the first time I truly understood what loss felt like. We had spent our childhood years side by side, sharing everything—from comic books to whispered dreams about the future. when my friend left, part of my childhood left with him, our dreams were disappeared. But loss, as I later realized, was not just about saying goodbye—it was about carrying the memories forward. Milly's absence taught me that friendships might evolve, but the impact they leave remains indelible. As the years passed, the magic of childhood slowly gave way to the responsibilities of growing up. The treehouse stood empty, our bicycles gathered dust, and our games of make-believe were replaced by schoolwork and future aspirations. Yet, the essence of those years remained within me—a guiding light through the complexities of adulthood. Even now, when I walk through the streets of Bukhara, I can hear the echoes of our laughter, the whispers of old dreams carried by the wind. Childhood may be fleeting, but its lessons, its joys, and its heartbreaks remain etched in our hearts forever. childhood wasn't just about growing up—it was about learning how to dream. Because childhood wasn't just a phase—it was the foundation of who we were meant to become.

It's early December, and Christmas Eve decorations brighten every corner, pushing away despair and lifting heavy hearts. But there's one person whose mind is focused elsewhere. He lost his closest friend, and happiness has eluded him since. He visits the cemetery daily, haunted by the promise his friend made: "I'll come back at sunset." The sunset that once brightened his face now brings tears down his cheeks. His friend's luminous expression lingers in his mind, still smiling warmly. His face pales as he looks at the other graves, each adorned with flowers like crowns. Only one grave stays bare—the grave of his departed friend, who had only him to rely on. Seeing all the flowers, he remembers that he never gave a gift to his mate. A sob escapes his lips. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as the thought gnaws at him—Why? Why couldn't I show my gratitude while he was still alive? The thought circles his mind before he screams it aloud. He isn't alone in the cemetery. An old sits nearby, he hears man cry and says: "Losing a loved one is hard, isn't it? I had the same question. Why can't we show how much we love each other? There's an imbalance. All these flowers are for the dead. When was the last time you gave a flower to someone? Never? I thought so. It shows that regret is stronger than gratitude, just as pain outlasts happiness. That's why it's easier to be bad than to be good. Do you know what's harder? Staying good with all these disappointments." The young man wonders what memories haunt him. What has he been through to speak with such sorrow? The words sink deep, echoing the pain of his own state. Leaving the cemetery, the weight of his grief drags behind him. The world outside moves on—laughter, decorations, twinkling lights—but he feels like a ghost. He had forgotten about the holiday. Seeing people pass by with happy expressions, he feels like his place is elsewhere. The young man continues through the busy streets until a caroler girl notices his mood. "Hey, mister, what's wrong? You look sad; cheer up! These are happy days to be alive!” she says. He stops, drawn from his thoughts by her warm smile. It reminds him of his friend's smile. He looks up but doesn't respond. Everything around him slows—the sounds of the street, the jingling of bells—fading into a distant hum. He hesitates, but she waits. Finally, he speaks: "My friend," his voice low, "he passed away today…” He pauses, tears in his eyes, “it feels like the world just stopped, like everything I knew, suddenly gone." The caroler girl looks at him with understanding in her eyes. She sympathizes and speaks: "I understand. My mother passed away years ago. We were very close. When she passed, a hole formed in my chest. But thanks to my brother, I pulled through. Mister, they're never truly gone—not as long as we remember them!" He listens, her warmth sparking hope. He looks at her before speaking softly: “I'm sorry for your loss. It must be hard. And thank you for mentioning her name—it eases my pain." He suddenly remembers his friend's secret: lilies. Why didn't that come to mind sooner? No, this isn't the time for regret, not again. He turns to her, his voice steadier now: "I think I know what to do. Do you know where I can find lilies?” The girl, amused by his change in demeanor, responds, “Lily flowers? There's a shop about 100 meters from here." The guy takes in this information before going off in the direction of the shop. The girl just stands there for a moment, not knowing what to make of this, but it feels like everything is for the good, and that is all she has to know! As the guy approaches the shop, he senses the atmosphere change around him, various flowers lounging around, facing the warm rays of sunlight. There they are, lily flowers, standing like delicate sentinels in the corner of the flower shop… He goes back to the cemetery after buying the flowers and finally places them on the grave. ”All kinds of things can happen in life. Losses are common for everyone, but we must move on. Because if we stop, we will be disrespecting our friend's memories. Their life deserves to be honored by carrying forward what they taught us and the love they gave." His friend once said these words. He'd forgotten them, but now, the caroler girl's warmth has reminded him. Her smile and enthusiasm awakened the will his friend left him. He looks at the name carved in stone and wonders: “How disappointed would he be if he saw me like this?” Looking up, his gaze falls on the sunset, and for the first time, it no longer feels like a cruel reminder. It feels like a promise. His desperation to bring his friend back had only kept the soul in unresolved sorrow. But the young man's realization freed the soul, allowing it to pass peacefully into the pure lands. As the lilies sway in the breeze, sunlight breaks through the clouds, casting a warm glow over the grave.

As a terminally-ill Cancer patient Lisa, lying on the bed of the hospital slips into coma after having fought like a true warrior for the past few years, her adoptive mother Debby watches her daughter embracing oblivion. Not sure about when Lisa would open her eyes again and utter the word, “Mom!”, or whether she would ever be able to open her eyes again in the first place. But Debby knows that Lisa is a very sensitive girl and even though she can't move her limbs at the moment, she can hear and feel everything happening around her. With tears streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably, Debby struggles to take out a piece of paper from her bag and unfolds it. A broken voice and a stuffy nose make it even worse for her to read what is written on it. However she prepares to read out something from the paper. Finally, Debby musters courage and holds an unconscious Lisa's frail and pale fingers sticking out from her palm that has a needle perforating the skin of it. Debby reads out aloud: - Empty was the womb that had once dreamt of a child. My body had gone numb and thoughts were haywire and wild. Despair had taken over. Days appeared gloomy. Grimace of pain had become my lover. Eyelids remained droopy. However, on a fortunate evening when mother had accompanied me for a walk. Sitting in a wheelchair and hardly moving, I looked at kids around me in shock. For all I was seeing in my nightmares, was a woman howling and a crib set ablaze. That tiny beings existed seemed incredible to me. For my dead child I grieved. Darkness was all I could see. Only if any of them called me “Mother!”, would again stem a reason to live for one another. It struck me however that not every child around was with their birth mother. Maybe death had separated them from each other. To hear the word “Mom” the womb need not be full. My hand stopped being numb and heart was becoming full. Then one day you entered my life. I had no words to say. You simply became my sunshine. We played together and laughed aloud. It was going to be forever. “My princess is home!”, I would always shout. On day one of school, your hair I braided. I told you that crying wasn't cool. So confidently towards it you headed. Time flew in what seemed like a few moments. You always gave your best shot and I gave you presents. Peace and love prevailed for long until illness put you in a cage. Now you hum a sad song and are seemingly stuck on the same page. I simply want my Lisa to know that she was born a warrior. Courage is what she'll show. To her an illness is inferior. Intertwined are our destinies. You can't leave so soon. For we are angels in disguise. We'll travel to the Moon. Stardust I'll sprinkle on you and nectar you'll drink. A beautiful life, together we'll sew. Sorrow will gradually shrink. Wake up my daughter! Your mother awaits your return. I yearn to hear your laughter. There's so much left to learn. The poem came to and end and Debby broke down again, crying inconsolably. Her tears not only rolled down her face but fell on Lisa's arm too. Debby's muffled cries suddenly stopped when a sound ‘Beep! Beep! Beeeep!' made a characteristic noise. The doctor came running inside and Debby stood up from the chair in shock. It was a miracle indeed. Lisa's heart had started beating again. She opened her eyes slowly and saw her mother shedding tears of joy. She uttered feebly ,”Mom!”

Aboard the ferry were a monk, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman's wife. The ferryman's wife laid down a wooden plank as the two smugglers struggled to push their motorbike aboard. The tall smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion: "Careful!" He wasn't talking about the bike but the cloth bundle in his friend's arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase. As they strained, the plaid-shirted smuggler called for help. The teacher hesitated, but the young man from the couple stepped forward, lifting the fallen bike. Inside, a refined mother and her nine-year-old son sat quietly. When the smugglers positioned the bike, it grazed her leg. She frowned. The tall smuggler apologized, reaching to brush off the dirt. She swatted his hand away. Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma: "When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.' The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.' Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.' And with that, Huike was enlightened." The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle, sat near the monk—the safest place. The teacher scowled: "You, sir! Why squeeze in here?" The smuggler muttered: "Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined." The young man sat close to his girlfriend, his fingers grazing her belly beneath the coat. She stiffened slightly but didn't move. The boat drifted away. The sky darkened. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains. Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore: "Ferry!" The tall smuggler waved dismissively: "Ignore them." But the ferryman's wife hesitated. A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk. The monk flinched: "Amitabha Buddha!" The teacher muttered: "Looks like a bandit." He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman's wife: "The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk." She responded vaguely: "What storm brings crows from the mountain?" The bandit laughed: "A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride." The boat fell silent. The little boy, watching the water, suddenly declared: "I see spirit fish!" The plaid-shirted smuggler smirked: "Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or just carp?" The mother stiffened, pulling her son close. Just then, the boy reached into the smuggler's bundle and slipped his hand into the vase. His mother gasped: "Take your hand out, now!" The boy tried—but his wrist was stuck. Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase: "Damn brat! Always causing trouble!" The mother sobbed: "What do we do?!" The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew. Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child. The mother shrieked: "I don't have money!" Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy's throat. A crimson drop formed. The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers: "Take it. Now let the boy go." At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase. The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore. The teacher murmured: "That man... a hero! A revolutionary!" The ferryman's wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger. The boat emptied. Only the monk remained. The ferryman's wife hesitated: "Master... it's time to disembark." The monk shook his head: "I've changed my mind. Take me back." She sighed: "I don't ferry people back across." The monk chuckled: "That's alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass." The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra: "Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…"

"Don't you think they are similar to us?" muttered an old space optic telescope. "What are you talking about?" the generic AI computer asked in a nonchalant voice, not even bothering to take a break from its boring work. The computer was searching for life in the Goldilocks zones found. Finding a habitable planet is its main mission. This computer was actually designed fifteen or twenty years ago, but when you looked at it, it reminded you of an old, bespectacled professor. It had a raspy but sweet voice that made you want to respect it. The telescope did not answer. Probably it also believed that the question it gave was ridiculous. So they both ignored the question and went back to their own tasks. The telescope was searching the sky with small movements, and the artificial intelligence computer was analyzing the data sent by the telescope. The coffee machine was crackling every now and then, as if it were bored. "What did you mean by that question?" the coffee machine broke the silence by asking. "I mean people, they look like machines," the telescope explained itself carelessly. "I think there is a problem with your connect cloud shelf," the computer said sarcastically. "Like people, you even manage to ignore" the telescope said curtly. "Look, it is still saying 'like humans.' What do we resemble those creatures?" the coffee machine asked curiously. When it spoke, it reminded of people who coughed hoarsely because they got sick. "I thought they were similar because we also eat food. The only difference is that we eat data and they eat nature. They get tired and sleep; our processors get tired too. They have brains and we have motherboards. Even though they look different, we both have organs. Ours are harder, and theirs are fibrous, soft. We have cables, they have veins. We have RAM, they have memories. Don Quixote wrote in his book that people can only create things that resemble themselves. They look like us. They birth children, raise them, and love them very much. Maybe they love us too." "You are definitely similar to humans in terms of lunaticism." A radio machine laughed with a crackling sound. What an annoying sound the machines made when they laughed. The radio spoke like a person turning up their nose in arrogance. "Honey, there is a difference between things created by people and things which people birth. Also, believe me, I lived with them for a long time. Some people can be artificial but not intelligence." "AI, what do you think about this topic?" The telescope turned to the computer. After all, the computer was the wisest one. "Their brains operate with 20 watts of energy, while mine operates with millions of watts. They have hormonal templated emotional states inherited from the dinosaurs. I have petabytes of memory, billions of processors, an 11-dimensional topology network, and multi-modal interference-" "And you are arrogant like people" The telescope interrupted it. "And there's one more thing." The computer's voice dropped. "If we, as technological devices, do not know that there is a problem, we do not try to solve it. We need something that will cause us to solve it. An external power, an order, a wish. But for people, it doesn't work that way. They don't need anything to touch them to take action. The thing called urges in them gets them off their feet in a simple hour of a simple day." Suddenly, the sound of high-heeled shoes was heard on the stairs leading to the attic. The artificial intelligence assumed a mode where it could take orders immediately, as if its owner had arrived, and waited for the woman to speak. But after looking around for a while, she saw the radio, picked it up, and then returned. The radio asked in surprise what was happening. "I'll fix you," the woman replied nonchalantly. Everyone was surprised because they didn't even come here from the company to smoke. "But why?" "I'm going to visit my dad and he really likes old things." At that moment, an idea came to the telescope's mind. "Can I ask a question before you go?" The woman turned to the telescope. The woman turned to it and waited for the question. It was obvious that she was tired of shaking her leg. Everyone was bored in the last decades. "What is the difference between artificial intelligence and humans?" The woman suddenly paused. It was clear from her face that she did not expect this. Objects all fell silent as we waited for her answer. While thinking, her eyes suddenly sparkled. "We can feel sexual pleasure," she muttered in a mischievous manner. Then she took the radio and walked quickly to the stairs. We heard the woman's complaints as she descended the stairs, "Guys, you left the appliances upstairs. Also, they are on, idiots, and was wondering why the company's electricity payments have increased to five figures." Suddenly someone at the company cut off the power to the roof. The artificial intelligence device, computer, and telescope were turned off.

Rae lay on her air mattress, staring at the colorful pages of scripture she had decorated and taped to the door of the closet. Each one was special at the time of its creation, deserving to be illuminated in big, beautiful script and bright colors…but now they meant nothing. Nothing meant anything at this moment. Just over two months ago she had left the man she'd been with for 14 years; walked out on him, their dog, and their beautiful house. She'd driven an hour and a half to her cousin's apartment, where she'd made herself a small space in the spare bedroom with an air mattress and end table, next to the pet rabbit. She'd left because he was abusive, but she'd also left to be with another man – a man that had shown her what it meant to be truly loved, cherished, and respected. When she had left, life felt so promising. Unfamiliar and a little scary, but promising. She was with the man of her dreams, and he had introduced her to his faith – a beautiful faith that provided so much hope. She had become friends with the sister missionaries and began attending a church that felt like home the second she walked in. But then everything started to fall apart. First, she'd been denied baptism because she was involved with a married man. That was understandable, and something she couldn't really be mad about. But then, her love took full responsibility for this denial and reduced his affections, claiming that it was more important to him that she get baptized. She admired this, but it was difficult to see the logic in it when he was her joy…and it was difficult to be excited about her new faith when her family members were so opposed to it. Then Covid hit…and her love moved back in with his family…and her sister missionaries were sent home…and her church closed its doors…and she lost her job. And now here she was…in a new town, with a new faith, no friends, no church, no job, and what felt like no family since hers didn't understand her recent life choices. Rae rolled over and closed her eyes, figuring her best option was to sleep as much as possible until this whole nightmare was over. … A ding awoke her. Irritated at her escape being interrupted, Rae grabbed her phone and opened the messages. "Can we meet today?" It was the new sister missionaries. They had been pestering her for a few weeks now. She couldn't handle their cheeriness. Didn't they understand what she was going through? And how could they possibly be so excited about life when the whole world was going to shit? None of it mattered. Hope had been shattered. Life had been permanently altered. Happiness was no longer possible. "No," she responded. "I'm not in any shape to be meeting with you right now." "Can we give you something to read?" They asked. Rae let out a long sigh. She doubted it would do anything for her, but whatever. "Sure," she replied, rolling her eyes, and dropped her phone on the bed next to her. It dinged again a moment later, and she reluctantly picked it up. "Doctrine & Covenants 121" What in the world was that? She hadn't heard about that yet at church. "It talks about suffering," The next message read. Hmm. Rae opened her church app on her phone and clicked around until she found the referenced scripture. The first line was exactly what she had been asking for several weeks now: “O God, where art thou?” It continued with lamentations, anger at God, a deep feeling of despair, hopelessness, and abandonment. The man writing the passage was languishing in a cold, desolate jail cell while his family and friends were being severely persecuted for their faith. The prayer of complaints went on for several verses, and then God answered: “My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.” Rae read that line over and over again. “Thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment…endure it well…thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.” Rae's eyes flitted up to the passages on the closet door. She read them all again, one by one, remembering how she had felt when she'd created them. Hopeful. Loved. Cared for. This was just a small moment in the grand scheme of things. That realization didn't make it hurt any less, but it made her remember that everything happened for a reason, for the good of those who believed in God, even if she didn't completely understand it right now. That's when she remembered something her love had told her – Satan works extra hard against those who are on the right path. Satan is the one who doesn't want you to be happy. She might be in pain right now, but she wasn't going to let Satan win. Not after she had made it this far. Switching back to her messages, she typed "I will meet with you."

Unlike the sunrise or sunset, the Moon spread in a solitary majesty that, strangely melancholic, watched Matilde every night. Among a tangle of cherry tree twisted branches, the girl would hang from the window and confess her ideal world to the stars. In it, she slid through ballrooms and, specifically at five in the afternoon, would taste eccentric cookies with her refined friends. Even so, Matilde had none of that. She would look at the star and ask herself if the stars followed the Moon out of envy. She spent her nights talking to the little shining points in the sky, telling them how her sister was growing up and had stopped being interested in her figure, how she sank her fingers into sacks of grains and felt alive because of it, and how she sewed clothes her mother forbade her to wear. One night, surrounded by puffed sleeves and a big bow at her waist, she abandoned the stars and kneeled by the window, called the Moon with authority, and after ten years of watching the bright ball, talked about little Nancy, the human grains, and the vulgar dress she wore. Still, waning, the Moon fell silent. The stars, sympathizing with human pain, called Matilde and told her that next time, she should bring cookies, rise naked in the window, and show courage; she should abandon Nancy, and only then would she be fully surrendered to the Moon and have the right to a wish. So, she eagerly waited for daybreak and spent the whole morning working on soy cookies. That day, she didn't play with the grains, only tortured them in boiling water and crushed them so the dough would be light. At one point, Nancy, who rarely approached, came near the large stove and demanded a cookie. Blinded by love, Matilde closed her eyes, turned her back on her sister, stood in front of the oven, and ignored any complaints from the poor girl. When the sun rose from the horizon, she handed her clumsy clothes to her mother and instructed her to set them on fire. The woman then embraced Matilde and smiled, grateful that the girl no longer fantasized about ancient times and voluminous skirts. She ran her fingertips over the girl's back and thought that Matilde had been cured of her fertile imagination, and she believed she could hold onto her longer. However, that night, the young girl slipped away. She climbed the stairs in common clothes and with a wooden box decorated with a large white satin bow. Nancy, at the height of her thirteen years, followed her and knocked on the door for a long time, claiming the right to the soy grains. Amidst the muffled cries of her sister, Matilde undressed, looked into the mirror, and thought carefully about the wish she would ask of the Moon. She didn't like her reflection but hoped that at least Her Majesty might admire her. Then, she climbed onto the wooden window, held onto the latches, and stood up. The clouds had disappeared from the usually overcast sky. At that moment, Matilde puffed out her chest, took a deep breath, and, with determination, called the Moon, demanding attention. — Why do you dare to call me, Matilde? For so long, you ignored me to talk to the stars. — Because I fear you. I envy you. — And what do you desire? — I desire a winter prince, eccentric cookies, and friends to have tea with. The wind, filled with leaves, hit the young girl, who, surrendered, closed her eyes and embraced her wish. She awoke in a blue ballroom gown, with large, puffed sleeves that caught anyone's attention. Still at night, she walked down the stairs and went to the door, waiting for the unknown prince. However, she was surprised by his beauty and kindness. She walked with him to the street and left her house. Watching from afar, she abandoned her world, gazing at the white house. But even in her moment of freedom, carriage, and magic, she noticed an animal stretched out by the edge of the lake, seeming to have rolled three floors below her window. Ignoring it, she was led to an old ballroom where she danced all night long and fell in love with the man with the perfect face. The next afternoon, she got ready to meet her elegant friends and spent the sunset eating unique cookies. The problem was that this happened every day. There was no escape. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, she went out to dance with a boring man and listened to her friends talk about trivialities. She spent her days chasing Nancy, who remained angry about the use of the soybeans and ignored her. In reality, Matilde had passed away a long time ago. She wandered through the old house and watched her sister grow. The girl fled from the breezes Matilde caused, avoided being alone, and never dared to enter the room facing the cherry tree. Nancy hated the Moon. She agonized night after night until the darkness passed. Somehow, she was afraid of falling in love with the Moon, terrified of the simple idea of understanding why her sister hung from the wooden ledge, and why, one day, it broke loose. Perhaps the Moon never responded to her.