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I first heard the stars when I was eight years old. It was a warm summer night when the air smelled like rain, and I could hear crickets outside my window. I was sitting by the old telescope my grandfather had given me, looking up at the night sky. It was an old, rusty telescope with cracks in the lenses, but I loved it. That night, something strange happened. The stars were no longer silent. They were singing. It was not any song I had ever heard. It was soft and far away, like whispers carried by the wind. At first, I thought it was just my imagination, but as I closed my eyes, it became clearer. Each star made its own sound, soft as if they were speaking to one another. I ran to tell my parents. “The stars are singing!” I said, feeling happy. My mom laughed. “It's probably the wind,” she said, gently touching my head. “You must be dreaming,” my dad said with a smile. But I knew I was not dreaming. That night onwards, I couldn't help but listen. Each night, I sat by my window, gazing out at the sky, letting the songs of the stars fill my ears. And over time, I noticed patterns: sounds that seemed to fit the movements of the stars. It felt as if they were trying to communicate with me and that no one else could hear it. At the age of twelve, I became obsessed with something. I drew stars in the air and tried to link them with music. I filled notebooks with strange shapes and sounds, trying to understand what they were. My friends started to think I was weird. Even my parents started feeling concerned. “You look out the window for too long,” my mom said one evening. “Why don't you go outside and play?” But how could I tell her that the stars were speaking to me? How could I say this to anyone? Then, one night, everything was different. It was after midnight, and the house was silent. I was in my usual place by the window when suddenly, the music from the stars got louder. It wasn't soft and far away anymore; it was strong, as if it was calling me. Then, I saw it. One star, brighter than the others, began to blink. Its light flashed with the music. My heart started beating fast. It felt like the star was alive, like it was trying to connect with me. I took my notebook and began to draw. I drew the star and the shapes it seemed to make in the sky. My hand moved quickly, as if it already knew what to do. When I finished, I looked at the page. It was not a drawing; it was a map. The following day, I couldn't think of anything else. I kept looking at the notebook in school, my fingers tracing the lines again and again, until it was time for school to end. By the time school was over, I had made up my mind. That night, with a flashlight and my notebook, I followed the map. It took me through the forest at the edge of town. The air smelled like damp leaves, and the trees were tall and dark, like quiet protectors. But I wasn't scared. The stars were leading me. I continued into the woods until I reached a clearing. In the middle of it was a big oak tree; its branches went way up in the air. At the bottom of it, though, I could see something very unusual. A door. It was small, just big enough for me to go through, and it was cut into the tree. All around the edges of the door were shining symbols, like the ones in my notebook. My hands were trembling as I opened the door. Inside, there was a staircase curving down into the earth. The music of the stars was very loud now, like it was pulling me in. I don't know how long I climbed. Was it minutes or hours? Time felt weird. When I got to the bottom, I found myself in a big, bright room. In the center of the room stood a figure. It wasn't a person—not really. It glowed like moonlight, and its body moved like smoke. Its eyes, if they were eyes, shined like little stars. “Welcome, Listener,” it said, its voice soft and echoing. “Who. who are you?” I asked, my voice shaking. “We are the Echo,” it answered. “The voice of the stars, the memory of the universe. You are one of the few who can hear us.” “Why me?” I asked. “Because you listen,” it said plainly. The Echo shared stories with me—about stars that were born and stars that died, about lost worlds and hidden secrets. It explained the music I had heard and the shapes I had made. “You are a Keeper now,” it said, putting a glowing hand on my heart. “Protect the stories of the stars and share them when the world is ready.” When I climbed back to the top, the first light of morning was shining through the trees. The stars had stopped singing, but I didn't feel sad. Their music was still with me, quietly humming in my heart. I never told anybody what happened that night. Not my parents, not my friends. But I kept listening, kept drawing, and kept writing. And sometimes, when it is really quiet, I hear the stars again. They remind me of the stories I was meant to keep.

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My grandfather loved horses. He loved them so deeply it drove him to create, though not in the way most might imagine. He never rode a horse; he wrote about them. The first Black journalist at the biggest racing course in the city. Imagine it: a Black man writing about horses in apartheid South Africa, a racist regime where such ambition was deemed absurd by many. Insane, even. But he did it. My grandfather was the kind of man who didn't believe in boundaries, only starting lines. I grew up around horses, not in stables or pastures, but on paper. Frozen mid-gallop, muscles taut, victory in their eyes. They were captured in the photographs that accompanied my grandfather's articles, framed and hung on the walls of his study. His byline glinted proudly beneath each one, a testament to his craft. These weren't just pictures or stories. They were bricks in the home he built from the ground up, one word at a time. Sunday afternoons were for stories, beginning after Sunday lunch. We'd gather around his armchair in the lounge, eager for the tales born from his imagination. Horses with names like Minor's Revenge, a sleek, gray thoroughbred with a white stripe down its back. In one tale, Minor's Revenge was a cautionary figure in a story about greed, teaching my brother and me lessons on gluttony and sharing. Or there was Greased Lightning, a horse that drank from a well during a thunderstorm and gained the power to run faster than the wind but only when it rained. These weren't just stories. They were folk tales, life lessons wrapped in humor and hooves. My grandfather had a gift for spinning tales that left us in stitches while planting seeds of wisdom we wouldn't fully appreciate until much later. He was a very funny man, my grandfather. He believed that a smile costs nothing but gives much. He had the warmest, most radiant smile, a smile I can see vividly in my mind whenever life gets me down and keep in my heart always. I miss his smile. He was witty and had jokes for days, capable of putting a grin on anyone's face. When I was sad, I never stayed sad for long. I've spent hours throughout my life on my granddad's lap, laughing and soaking in his hard-won wisdom. He had a way of making the extraordinary seem possible, of turning the ordinary into magic. With every story he wrote, he built his home. With every story he told, he built his family. Though he is gone, he will always be remembered for the man he was, the best man I've ever known. Today, I love horses. I ride them almost every day. When I'm in the saddle, I think of him and all his stories, his voice bringing horses to life in our imaginations. I'm the granddaughter of a man who loved horses, a man who wrote his way into history, who built a legacy one story at a time. And every time I ride, I carry his love with me, galloping into the horizon of dreams he made possible.

"What?! The lexicon has never sounded so heavy in my listening vessels before this day. It felt both interrogative and exclamatory at the same time - so loud that I still heard the echoes for some seconds after she said that to me. Kadijat, a petite, dark-skinned, 5'7" angel with long hair and four eyes. We had only recently started talking a semester ago, and we were getting along perfectly. So I thought, but I guess I was wrong in the long run. Kadijat didn't occur to me as someone I should cautiously be friends with initially. She seemed accommodating and full of vibes, so I felt free around her as time went on. We would meet at times and have interesting chit-chats about different stuff - school, life, and so on. Although this occurrence was not a regular routine, it still felt beautiful the few times we did have them. One of those beautiful moments was during our Friday cognitive projects. My group had a really tough one that week because, for some reason, the lecturer decided to give us the most tedious topic. I was occupied the entire week trying to fix it alongside Tommy and another girl; I don't recall her name, but she did excellently well on the project. We successfully finished our project before Thursday that week, and I couldn't feel more relieved. I was just going to take a stroll around school before heading home to rest when I saw Kadijat completely immersed in her notebook on the walkway. This was unusual; Kadijat wasn't one to be so serious about schoolwork. “Hello, K! Can you hear me?” I called out again. This time, I guess she heard me, as she turned her head slightly toward my direction. “Hi, dear! What's up?” she said with a weak yet spontaneous voice. She sounded like she was going to collapse at any moment. “I'm good, just taking a stroll,” I responded, still worried about her demeanor. “Are you okay? What's keeping you so busy?” “Oh, it's my project, dear. I'm just so tired right now. My other group members left me to sort it out as the group leader, and I can't help but feel so confused.” “Oh, sorry about that,” I said. “Projects can be so draining when you have the wrong set of people on your team, you know.” I slowly reached for the project topic, which was already written on the paper in her hands. “Is this your topic?” “Hm, you're lucky, you know. I have done a personal project on this before.” “Really?” she asked, her eyes opening wide as if she had just woken up from a nap. “Yeah,” I responded. “Maybe we could sort it out together with my work and then make changes where necessary.” She felt relieved to hear this, as though I had lifted a huge burden off her shoulders. We spent time sorting through the project. It was quite time-consuming, but I didn't notice the time passing as we had both fun and beautiful conversations while working on it. A few hours later, I was seeing her off to her street, from where I would later turn back to reach my own house. I felt tired, but it was worth it. I didn't get to socialize with people every day, so the few times I did were so beautiful to me. Kadijat was absent from school for a while, or let's say she stayed away from school. I noticed that after a friend called my attention to it. So I decided to reach out to her via a phone call. I was eager to know why she was away, and at the same time, excited to share all the school gist I had with her. That was when I heard the word, "What?!" I couldn't respond for a second, still trying to process from where such a cold response emanated. I mean, I had the right person on the line - Kadijat. Yes, she was the one I had, so why this hostility in response? I tried to make excuses for her in my head. Maybe she wasn't in a good mood, I said, but nothing prepared me for the next sentence. "Why are you calling me?" she added. It was at this point I realized she was serious about her tone. I simply told her my reasons for calling, and she felt touched. Me reaching out to check on her was so sweet to hear. But I could barely continue the call; I was lost in thoughts. So I bid her goodbye and ended it. I didn't do that without asking the reason for her tone, though. She based it on the fact that my number wasn't saved initially, so she didn't know it was me, which was even crazier. I had a really busy day at school earlier, but this night was more stressful than the entire day. I had just learnt something invaluable: to stop assuming your place in people's lives. Yeah, you heard me. You never really know what you mean to them until they show you. This was someone I thought of as a friend, it turned out we weren't even acquaintances, lol. Now I have to listen to "Sincerely Benson "so "What?!" do not keep ringing in my head.

It was a warm summer evening. Ethan strolled along the Seine River in Paris, the gentle breeze playing with his hair and carrying the scents of freshly baked pastries from nearby cafés, mingled with the fragrance of blooming trees. The moon reflected on the dark, glassy surface of the river, while across the promenade, muffled laughter of tourists blended with the melody of a street musician playing the accordion. Ethan walked leisurely, watching the city lights that seemed to melt into the golden glow of the twilight sky. He cherished these walks. Paris, which once felt foreign and distant, had become his home, yet it still held onto an air of romantic mystery. Ethan valued these rare moments of solitude when thoughts of the past and future would come unbidden, mingling with the hum of the evening city. Ethan was a grown man now, with many victories and failures behind him. Life had taught him to be a realist, sometimes even a skeptic, giving him the air of someone distant from the world around him. Over time, his contact with his family had grown less frequent. He had moved to Paris long ago, chasing new horizons, but deep down, he sometimes longed for the warmth of his childhood in Marseille. His family still lived there—his mother, father, and, of course, his grandmother, who had always been his source of comfort and kindness. Ethan often tried to keep memories of the past at bay, but tonight, they washed over him with unexpected force. At some point, his steps slowed. He caught a faint, familiar scent of warm pastries wafting from a small nearby bakery. Ethan stopped in his tracks. The aroma was like a bridge to the past. It reminded him of his grandmother's pies—golden, with a crisp crust and a luscious filling. She used to say her pies were "the cure for all troubles." He remembered how, as a child, whenever he felt sad or upset, his grandmother would meet him in the kitchen with a plate of steaming pies. "Eat, and everything will be fine," she'd say with her warm smile. He recalled one particular day when he came home in tears after a fight with a neighborhood boy. His grandmother wiped his tear-streaked face with her apron before handing him a cherry-filled pie. In that moment, the world seemed bright and joyful again. Her pies were more than just food—they were her love, her care, her warmth. Lost in these memories, Ethan almost unconsciously turned toward the bakery from which the familiar aroma wafted. He purchased a small box of warm pastries and stepped back onto the street, pausing at the corner as he gazed at the glowing lights of nighttime Paris. He pulled out his phone, the screen displaying a list of contacts he rarely called. His finger hovered over one name before confidently pressing the call button. The phone rang for what felt like an eternity, and then he heard it—a voice, surprised yet so familiar and warm, just as it had been in his childhood. “Hi?” Ethan smiled, watching the calm flow of the Seine. “Hi, Granny…”

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I'll never forget the day my daughter's spine betrayed her. She was 12 years old, and her body was a puzzle of awkward angles and gangly limbs. But it was the X-ray that revealed the truth: her spine was curved, a sinister S-shape that seemed to mock us both. As a single mother, I felt a wave of fear wash over me. How would I take care of my daughter on my own? How would I provide for her medical needs, her emotional needs, and her everyday needs? But as I looked at my daughter, I saw a spark of determination in her eyes. She was scared, but she was also strong. And I knew that I had to be strong for her, too. My son, Jack, who was 10 years old at the time, was also by our side. He was a sweet and gentle soul, always looking out for his big sister. As we navigated the challenges of my daughter's scoliosis, Jack was a constant source of comfort and support. At first, the doctor recommended that my daughter wear a brace for 23 hours everyday. We were perplexed but hopeful that it would help correct the curvature of her spine. But as time went on, it became clear that the brace wasn't enough. The curvature was worsening, and the doctor told us that surgery was the best option. I was terrified. The thought of my daughter undergoing major surgery was overwhelming. I remember the night before the surgery, my daughter came into my room, her eyes shining with tears. "Mom, I'm scared." she whispered. I held her close, feeling my own tears fall. "I'm scared too, baby," I said. "But we'll face this together, okay?" The next morning, as we prepared to leave for the hospital, Jack gave his sister a big hug. "You got this, sis." he said, trying to sound brave. My daughter smiled, her eyes shining with tears. The surgery was a blur of waiting and worrying. Jack and I paced the hospital waiting room, our hearts heavy with anxiety. But finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor came out to tell us that everything had gone perfectly. My daughter spent hours in recovery, and when she finally woke up, she was groggy and disoriented from anaesthesia. But as soon as she saw me and Jack, her face lit up with a smile. "Mom," she whispered, her voice weak but full of love. "I'm okay." The road to recovery was long and challenging. My daughter had to learn to walk again, to move again, to be careful not to hurt herself. But she was determined. She worked hard every day, pushing herself to get stronger, to get better. And Jack was right there with her, cheering her on, supporting her, and loving her every step of the way. He helped her with her physical therapy, he brought her favorite foods, and he sat with her for hours, watching movies and playing games. As the months went by, our little family grew closer and closer. We faced challenges together, we supported each other, and we loved each other with all our hearts. One day, as we were sitting on the couch together, my daughter turned to me and smiled. "I'm so glad I had the surgery," she said. "I feel like myself again." I hugged her tightly, feeling a sense of pride and gratitude. We had faced a tough journey together, but we had come out stronger on the other side. As we sat there, wrapped in each other's arms, I knew that our little family was unbreakable. We had been through the fire and had come out the other side, scarred but stronger. And as I looked at my two children, I knew that I was the luckiest mom in the world. I had two kids who loved each other, who supported each other, and who made me proud every single day The experience had taught us to appreciate the little things, to never take our health or our relationships for granted. And it had taught us to face challenges head-on, to be brave, and to support each other every step of the way As we sat there, basking in the warmth of our little family, I knew that we would always be okay. We would face whatever came next, together, as a team. Years have passed since then, and my daughter is now a strong, confident young woman. She still has scars from the surgery, but they're a reminder of her strength and how far she's come. Jack is still her rock, her confidant, and her best friend. He's a reminder that even in the toughest times, there's always hope, always love, and always a reason to keep going. As I look back on that journey, I'm filled with a sense of pride, gratitude, and love. We faced a tough road, but we faced it together. And in the end, that's all that really matters

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