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Morning. I would wake up to the same darkness that had put me to bed. The same routine — studies, chores, work, sleep. My life was made of shadows, repetition, and silence. Until one day, a flicker of light found its way in. Despite my reluctance to continue studying, I couldn't convince my parents to let me drop out. I did, however, manage to register for all online courses that semester. I didn't want to go back to a place where I didn't belong — to sit among people I feared might despise me. When the semester began, I would only look at myself and the professor on my screen. That's how small my world had become — a dark world where I felt lonely, yet safe. Then came a message — a beam of light cutting through that darkness like a tiny, burning star. I had just shared my story of enduring discrimination in class, uncertain whether anyone would care, afraid it might sound “lame.” And then, out of nowhere, a guy I didn't even know messaged me: “I really love listening to you when you speak. You are such a beautiful person. A smile looks very beautiful on you. Please smile more often.” That wasn't the only one. More messages followed — kind, supportive, and encouraging. I could barely read them all before the session ended. For the first time in years, the very people I had shut out — the ones I believed couldn't be trusted — showed me compassion, care, and cheer. I hadn't even noticed their presence, yet they were quietly rooting for me. Then, in another course, a guy entered my life. A bit tanned, with a wide forehead, big ears, and an impressive British accent. He was the first one to speak in class — a total nerd. He came into my world when I had no intention of letting anyone in. But little did I know, he would be the one to bring color back into my world. He probably doesn't even know this — but loving him brought me back to life. He didn't just give my life meaning. He became the meaning at that point. He might even wonder what he did to deserve that place in my story. The funny thing is — he didn't do anything. He simply existed beside me, exactly as he is. I remember the first time I saw him in person at a debate session. I couldn't take my eyes off his. I was stunned — not by his looks, but by what I felt. I had seen many eyes on me before, but I had never enjoyed looking back. Yet with him, I did. When he walked up to speak and we stood face to face, eyes locked — time froze. The world fell away. It was just him. Once, I deliberately went to the library to “terrorize” him, jokingly. But he found me first. When I told him it was my birthday, he gave me gum and drew a bow on the wrapper — making me realize how little is enough to make one happy. That day, I defined happiness as his gum gift. I redefined adoration as the look on his face when I said, “You inspire me.” For the first time in my life, I felt something I thought I could never do — love. Undoubtedly. Unconditionally. Endlessly. Even though I never knew where it could lead. I had lost hope in people, trying my best to isolate myself. However, it was humanity, in its sense of love, trust, care, support, empathy, that brought me back to loving life. It revived my dreams, giving me the warmth of feeling alive again. It taught me that I am capable of loving without fear, trusting in goodness, and reaching for what I desire without hesitation. Now, I have the strength to live in the moment without the limits of the past, worries of future, hesitation, or fear of failure. I started to enjoy my studies and made it to the Dean's List for the first time that semester. I participated in events that I used to call “lame”, made friends, and gathered up enough courage to finally make a career change toward my dream job. Now, I'm not afraid or embarrassed to take small steps toward my desired future — because I know that, one day, I will carry and spread that hope in humanity that I received. It has to keep existing. Because humanity — in its highest and purest form — is what is needed for humans to go on. It is what will save the worlds trapped in darkness, emptiness, and hate. I know it — because you, humanity, saved me.

Dear J, If you are reading this now, I didn't make it. I asked your mom to give you this letter whenever you face your first existential crisis as an adult. As I write this letter, I am looking at your ultrasound, and to be honest, I'm a little scared. Will I live long enough to see you fully grown? Will your mom and I be able to provide a solid life for you? Would we scar you with trauma too deep to heal from? Unfortunately, it's been a little more than two decades since I wrote this, and all I can do is hope that we were enough. However, I know for a fact that you are in your early twenties, armed with your mother's beauty, fierceness, and my curiosity. I also know that at this point, just like me, you are trying to figure out where you fit in life, and if you turned out anything like me, this will be all-consuming. But first, how are you? What are you up to these days? What are your dreams? Are you as passionate as fire and as welcoming as the waves? How is your mother? Does she talk about me? Did she find love again, or is that part of her heart locked away? I fear that these are answers I may never know, and I can only hope that the time we spent together was enough. However, that is enough of the questions and musings. Consider this letter a delayed inheritance, in which I bestow five things that will help you build the best life possible. The first thing I can give is love. I want you to know that no matter what your life looks like, I love you and I'm proud of you. When the world feels lonely and dark, remember there is love at home. I have loved you since the very first idea of you crossed my mind, and I hope you love yourself even more fiercely. The second thing I can give you is a sprinkle of confidence. I may not be with you physically, but in the words of your grandma, I have prayed for you, and your name was penned on the list of the greats. I know that you are smart and have all it takes to kick the heck out of life and make me proud. Whenever you are in doubt, remember how impressive your mother is and that you are no doubt an upgrade. My third gift is perception. Life is hard, but that is its blessing. You never know how far you can climb without mountains in front of you. You don't know how much you can stretch until pressure threatens to pull you apart. You do not know how much greatness resides in you until you choose not to cower in fear. When you feel cold, remember that there are many ways to keep warm. The way you frame your problems affects your ability to scale them. My fourth gift is pacing. Take your time, savour each moment, enjoy the small things, and try as much as you are interested in; don't worry about ten years from now. Take one day at a time. One foot and then another. Take moments to breathe. Work hard, but learn to unwind. Untangle yourself from unnecessary expectations and live freely. My last gift is community. Connect with people who show genuine interest in you. Open your heart responsibly. Life is meant to be shared, and some of my greatest moments have been shared with my greatest companions. You will be hurt, and you may be taken advantage of. You may be burned by people. But share love, grief, joy, and gifts. Life is worth sharing with others. Finally, I leave you with this truth. You are enough. You are capable, you are loved. And this season is just one of many designed to make you even better and stronger. I wish I could do more: hold your hands, share more wisdom, listen to your rants, and buy ice cream afterwards. But that's alright, I left money for ice cream with your mom; all you need to do is ask.

Lauren always believed that friendships are long-lasting, she thought she would never meet new friends or either lose them, just she and her junior friends. How innocent she was, she just believed that friendships are neat with predictable roads, but she came to realize that friendships are far messier than any map. In all her connections, she felt the weirdness through every connection she'd ever made. It's not about how her friendships were good or bad, but it was about the strange, shifting nature of human bonds themselves. It all started when Lauren finished her final exams of grade 9. She celebrated with her friends and took photos but after that it all changed, Lauren moved to a new high boarding school, she left her friends, but She held onto them, sending occasional messages into the emptiness. They seldom started a conversation in return, she felt a hollow ache, a tightening knot, a sudden chill. The insidious chill of fading memories began to seep in. One day, Lauren found herself simply staring at her phone. The message bubbled five days ago. "Remember that time we...?" No 'read' receipt. A strange ache in her chest. She started to believe that they had forgotten about her. How did the ease of shared lunches morph into the uncomfortable quiet of unfamiliar faces, a tacit admission that they have never met. While Lauren was scrolling on her phone, she stared at Kezia's new haircut, the unfamiliar curve of her smile. The girl who was once a mirror, reflecting shared jokes and whispered secrets, now felt like a stranger dressed in a familiar face. One day she met up with her friend Ameli, Lauren sips her coffee, listening to Ameli talk about crypto and NFTs. Lauren nods, tries to look interested, but inside she just feels lost. They used to talk about comic books and new albums of TV girl. In summer holiday Lauren started learning German and after finishing her first A1 level, the academy published that they will hold a competition, when she arrived she was nervous, she didn't know any people there except her friend Jessy which in grade 12 and she recommended this academy to Lauren, the competition started and all participants were divided into teams, Lauren was the only girl in the team there were boys which in her current studying year and some in their twenties, Confusion morphed into friendship. On her team, Elvin, who was about her age, showed unexpected kindness, and their collaboration flowed effortlessly. They laughed and glided, winning a victory. By the end of the day, a happiness she hadn't experienced in a long time surged inside her, a deep intense appreciation for these passing people. However, the excitement faded rapidly, substituted by a profound insight. This strong connection was formed out of a single person's passion, mutual experience, a soft joke, a victorious high-five following their success, that meaningful look exchanged when something significant occurred. She only knew his name, no way to find him beyond this brief intersection. He would remain a vivid ghost, a perfectly crafted moment in time that would never expand, a beautiful 'what if' held in the fragile chamber of her memory. One day, Lauren received news that her friend Maisy, her old school friend, had passed away, Lauren stood, a cold wave washing over her. Maisy. A name, now a void. A surge of faded memories, sharp and painful, compelled her towards a dusty box in her closet, she started to read Maisy's letters, she read one letter that say “please come back and sit next to me don't sit in the first desk! Lauren started crying. She couldn't stop the drops falling from her eyes. Among them, a crudely drawn Barbie birthday invitation: 'Come to my birthday! I'll be glad if you came and stayed with me, don't worry, I will bake the cookies!' The words, childish and innocent, tore at her. Maisy, gone? They were playing together in the yard. She also started to scroll in their old chats. There were silly photos of their video call, some jokes and recipes of natural face mask. With Maisy gone, not only are new memories impossible, but the existing shared memories become strange. She feels the subtle shifts in her other friendships without Maisy as a common link like threads loosening or colors fading in the absence of a central dye. Lauren closed the dusty box, a quiet, desperate whisper escaping her lips " I wish you weren't going, I wish you would stay, stay forever” Friendships are weird. Lauren likes her friends, a few have come and gone. Some of the friendships felt a bit transactional, but a lot of them feel pretty real. She doesn't want to lose any of them, but she thinks at some point she will outgrow them. And they will outgrow her too. I guess when that happens, she will just find new friends, disconnected from the ones she used to have. She just hopes that if/when it does happen, it doesn't hurt too much.

Have you ever missed a train? I have. And not alone, but as a tour guide with a group of 23 tourists following me. I stood frozen, clutching all the tickets in my hand and looking at the departing train on one side and confusedly facing the tourists on the other. I thought I failed big, but it turned out to be a start to a better journey and a trip full of fun. How? Listen to my story. Around six years ago, one of my friends who runs a tour agency called to ask me if I could be a guide for a group of Afghan tourists who were visiting Uzbekistan on a USAID program. My friend didn't speak any foreign languages and didn't have extra budget to pay for tour guides, and that was the reason why he needed a helping hand. Working on a flexible schedule and remotely as a journalist, I agreed because it sounded like fun. We welcomed the tourists in Tashkent, the capital city, and placed them in two different hotels as we couldn't book enough rooms for such a large group in one hotel because of the tourist season. The next two days in Tashkent went smoothly with cultural nights, seminars, and morning trips. On the third day, we were to depart for Samarkand on a bus as per the schedule. However, the night before, the Afghans said they had never been on a high-speed train and asked us if we could adjust the program and book tickets for a train. Usually unavailable for not only the coming days, but for weeks because of high demand, there were over a hundred tickets available on the website of the carrier. So we agreed and changed the plan by canceling the bus ride and purchasing tickets for the high-speed train, not knowing what unexpected turn of events was waiting for us the next morning. As the guests were staying at two different hotels, my friend and I decided to split and take them from their accommodation to the train station separately. My friend, who felt he was in charge, believed he would reach the station earlier, took all the tickets with him, and left early at 6 a.m. I headed to the other hotel, woke the 12 Afghans, told them to hurry, and took them to the station. It was 7:45 when we reached there, and our train was due at 8:30. One of the Afghans, who was the group leader, said, smiling, “We will miss the train.” But I assured him there was no need to be pessimistic as we had 45 more minutes. However, he said calmly, “You will see, we will miss the train.” I didn't take him seriously because I had never missed a train and was confident we would be well in time. I called my friend and asked if they were coming, to which he replied, “Yes, we are,” but that was not true as I later realized. As his group contained mainly girls and women, they took longer to prepare, and by the time they arrived, it was 8:27! We rushed onto the platform with all the luggage and backpacks. Even the security staff let us in without checking our documents, understanding our situation. We reached the platform at 8:29, handed our tickets to the conductor, but he said we couldn't board as the train doors would close automatically at 8:30 and there was nothing he could do about it. As he said this, it did really happen – the doors of the train compartment closed and it started moving! And I was there, clutching the tickets and looking at the departing train, and the tourists were looking at me. Some were smiling, some were confused. Imagine being left on the platform with all eyes on you. My friend was silent. It was his first negative experience as well. We stood there for about a minute or two when the Afghan group leader came to me and said, “Don't worry, what seems bitter may be better.” He was right. I gathered myself together and told my friend to go to the ticket counter and ask if we were eligible for a refund. In the meantime, I told everyone to wait for me there while I went to get a bus. I found a comfortable bus and returned to take them from the train station. We boarded the bus and headed to Samarkand. The bus trip turned out to be much better than I expected it to be. We stopped several times at different locations on the way, had lunch by the mountainside, and got to know each other better. By the time we reached Samarkand, it was around 5:30 p.m. The bus ride took us much longer than the train journey, but it was worth it. That day I learned a lesson: not everything you think is bad for you is actually bad, and conversely, not everything you believe is good is actually good. We plan and God plans, and God's plan is always better than what we asked for. Today, even after six years, I still have great relationships with all those Afghans. Some of them moved to other countries because of their career choices or political reasons, but we still communicate like old friends. That trip on the bus was rewarding, for it gave us all long-lasting memories. And today, whenever I encounter a hurdle in my life, I remind myself: “What seems bitter may be better.”

A Poem from the Past Kia ora! As a migrant writer from Uzbekistan living in Aotearoa for over 12 years, I write to honour the invisible threads between places, languages, and lives. Written fifty years ago, this poem still carries the spirit of its time — a quiet resilience, a journey through tempests, and the laughter of birds in flight. Like the shuttle itself, it has travelled across decades to find a place of rest. Let it be a lighthouse for anyone still searching for their own safe harbour. Mā te rangi, mā te whenua, ka hoki ngā kupu. (Through sky and land, the words return — in Māori language). Wooden Shuttle Across the ocean's sleepy grin, A wooden shuttle spins within. Through storm and tempest, wind and wave, It sails in search of something brave. The sea, a frowning endless ring, Laughed at this wooden, fragile thing. But on it bobbed, the waves its dance— Its voyage owed not just to chance. Perched upon by birds in flight, They gathered 'round from left and right, Chirping tales from distant lands, Mocking waves as rivals to the sands. “Oh, gather round,” the seagulls yell, “We'll leave our mark, a tale to tell!” The shuttle sways, it moves along, Their quarrels humming through its song. By dawn their voices meet the light, Assured that all will be alright. The king of seas, the storm's grand rage— The shuttle bows and takes the stage. At night, the moon in muted grace, Gazes on through drifting lace. This journey now has lasted long, Endless waters, silent song. The lonely shuttle, old and wise, Bears its tales beneath the skies. One day, revealed, a cliff appears— A rocky face through salt and years. The winds conspire, pull away, But the cliff stands firm—“Not today!” Still on it floats through silver foam, A tiny island carving home. Adrift, like us, I might surmise, With hopes to reach the shore, the prize. Its rudder cuts the water's glass, Reflecting days long gone and past. The birds return—they know the plan: To spread the tale of this wide span. Despite the sea's loud, jealous roar, The shuttle lives to glide once more. It spins and laughs like life itself— A weathered book upon love's shelf. With hair of cloud and beard of mist, The sea now knows it can't resist— This wooden thrall, gypsy of gales, The sea's own bard with sailing tales. And so, it dances far away, It laughs, it sways, it has its say. A tale of wander, deep and wide— The wooden soul, the ocean's pride. Through laughter, quarrels, storms, and moon— The world's own waltz-bard sings its tune. A thousand verses won't suffice— This shuttle's song is beyond all price. May this little wooden soul whisper something true to you, too. Ngā mihi nui, thank you for reading.

The interplay of thunderstorm and lightning continued. It had been raining cats and dogs since the morning. Although the clock showed that it was just half past eleven in the morning, what seemed through the large glass of the only french window in the big room was a dark sky, filled with dark and monstrous clouds. Murky weather indeed. Raindrops trickled down the huge windowpane, occasionally making little thumping sounds in the background like "tip, tip, tip!" From the window, I could see the silhouette of the mountains, that were situated at a distance. Few mountains were blue in colour, few appeared black and the rest appeared greyish in colour. Then there were trees, clustered into what appeared as mini forests. Those mini forests were one large, dense forest if clubbed together. Picturesque indeed! Definitely a painter's delight. An easel, a paintbrush and some colours and you were ready to go. The room was exceptionally bright and well- lit. The four corners of the room had four beautiful aroma dispensers, dispensing what was sensed but the olfactory nerves as a rosy fragrance. The walls were tastefully decorated with paintings that represented various cultural aspects of different regions . Few were abstract in nature and few ethnic. From the centre of the ceiling, hung a medium- sized chandelier that radiated a yellowish- orange light. Such mesmerizing was the beauty of the chandelier, it seemed like the crystals were real diamonds, refracting and reflecting brilliance. A tall, golden flower vase in one corner and a few other exquisite showpieces adorned the room.In the middle of the room, was a large, royal looking sofa set, cushioned with peach and red coloured material that seemed extremely cozy. And there she was. Lying on one of the sofa chairs, with her legs dangling from one of the armrests, she was reading a book with utter concentration. It seemed like an old novel, that had a brown jacket, a bit tattered from the corners, giving an impression that it had been already read a number of times before. At one point it felt like she was staring at the book blankly. Then all of a sudden she came back to reality with a jerk and turned the page. Immediately, she sniffed the page, by bringing the book close to her face. But I wonder, did it smell like a newly printed book really? Even after having been read so many times before? Or was it just a habit? Occasionally, she picked up a cup that was placed on the table nearby and drank freshly brewed, hot coffee from it. She drank it in sips. It seemed like she was in a relaxed state of mind. The outer wall of the cup sustained lipstick stains on it, giving an impression that she had applied some makeup on her face. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the rosy fragrance filling in the atmosphere proved to be a deadly combination for anyone to fall for the ambience that had engulfed the room. The thunderstorm, heavy rainfall, dark clouds hovering over the sky, the ferocity of the nature outside represented the chaos. On the other hand the room in which I saw her spending some beautiful moments with herself was a definition of calm. So peaceful. So quiet. One could decipher it to be the calm in the chaos. She wore a red gown and wore her hair open. The honey- brown coloured locks of her hair enhanced her beauty even more. With legs dangling from the armrest, she looked ethereal. The calm in the chaos was enchanting indeed. It was then, when lightning struck, followed by a terrorising thunderbolt. I woke up from my deep slumber, shaking and looking around, trying to regain consciousness. Panic- stricken, I sat up and checked myself to see if I was still unharmed. With the grace of the Almighty, I was just fine. I saw the cup of coffee lying on the table so I picked it up and sipped coffee from it only to find that it had turned cold by then. The book that I was reading rested on my lap. It was still raining outside and I could see the silhouette of the mountains. The rosy scent had by now drenched the atmosphere in itself completely. The girl in the dream? It was me indeed! I was the girl in my dream and all that I was dreaming was actually true. The red dress, the book, the coffee and everything else happening around were real. It was just one of those days when it was raining and the ambience was simply conducive to spend a great time with myself. Actually I had always dreamt of living a dreamy life like this. But since I was not always capable of providing myself with such luxuries financially, growing up, I manifested earning this life for myself, on my own. I have worked hard to provide myself with such a splendid life. This is the power of manifestation. I manifested it! She manifested it!

My Friend John My friend John is homeless, lives in a tent, and suffers everyday. He freezes in the winter, gets baked in the summer, gets soaked in the rain, and gets wet and cold when it snows. He almost died as he got extremely weak from heart failure, and he was about to faint and die. He was very fortunate to meet some medical professionals who operated on his heart and saved his life. Of course, they did the surgery pro bono and John did not have to pay anything. Last winter his feet were seriously injured by the cold and he narrowly avoided frost bite. He also suffers through long periods of boredom with nothing to do. John is suffering for a very minor offense, as he was late renewing his driver's license. This minor offense turned into a major problem. The Pennsylvania Department of Transportation (PennDOT) told him he needed a birth certificate to renew his license. When he tried to get his birth certificate he was told he needed his driver's license to get the birth certificate. He was totally frustrated by this Catch 22 situation. To his credit he did not give up and pressed on. He talked to several social workers who said they could not resolve the Catch 22 situation and get him a renewed license or an identification card. He even wrote to his State Representative Eddie Day Pashinski. As of this writing, he did not get a response. My Intervention I decided to do my best and help him. I also wrote to government officials. As of this writing, neither one has responded. I realized that I am not a public official or a professional social worker, but I am determined to help the less fortunate and the homeless. I remembered my background in political science and history, and I realized that research is the key to success. I went on the Internet and did several google searches. I found a gold mine as I found the Pennsylvania Homeless Photo Identification Card Fact Sheet. To their credit, the State of Pennsylvania has bent over backwards to make it very easy for homeless people to obtain an identification card. John needs only three documents to get his new identification card. John can get his birth certificate for free, a Social Security Card which he has, or can get a new one since he worked for most of his life in Pennsylvania. He will also need the shelter where he eats to agree to receive his mail for him. So, it will be very easy for John to get an Identification card and get on with his life. This policy of making it easy to obtain an identification card makes life much better and easier. It increases the independence and quality of life for the homeless. This new Identification card makes it possible for John to obtain his basic needs such as employment, food, safe housing, quality health care, and clean water. This program helps the homeless stabilize their lives and take care of themselves and their children. A Homeless Individual Can Apply For A Free Identification Card The applicant must visit the nearest Driver License Center and inform the counter staff that they are renewing or applying for their photo identification card and are requesting a free one due to their homelessness. For the initial issuance, the applicant must bring one acceptable proof of identification, a Social Security Card, or a Social Security Administration ineligibility letter and acceptable form/s of address verification. In the case of homeless individuals, PennDOT will accept a letter from a homeless shelter indicating that an individual is staying at the shelter or uses the shelter as an address of residency to pick up mail. Lessons Learned There are several life lessons to be learned from this case study. First and foremost is self-reliance. To his credit John did ask for help but he never received it as he did not understand the real issue. John was given false information by bureaucrats in the Pennsylvania State Government. John accepted this ridiculous, and false information as gospel truth. He should have questioned the advice he received and did his due diligence by researching the issue to discover if he had any better alternatives. The State of Pennsylvania was prepared to solve John's problem. Since John did not do his due diligence and research he had no idea there was a solution to the problem. It fell on me to do the research and solve the problem. Second, do not rely on the rich and powerful to solve the problem. As of this writing, Pennsylvania Representative Eddie Day Pashinski and Governor Josh Shapiro did not answer my emails. Finally, Pennsylvania has a very helpful and humane policy to give homeless people a proper identification card. If you are suffering from homelessness, do your homework, your research and find out what government programs are available to solve your problems. The State of Pennsylvania probably has the finest identification card program for homeless people in the county and other states should adopt this program.

Entering the village of Hasdate, Romania, you can see a seemingly modern village with new houses, yards well tended to and paved roads. The modern look presents a sharp contrast with the few old and time-worn houses that remain, with old, patchy roofs and dirt floors that linger as the physical manifestation of the memory of a village that existed over 70 years ago. Underneath the new coat of paint, every house in this village carries the memories of the communist era Hasdate village. My grandparents lived in this village during the regime and experienced the highs and lows of lives as simple farmers. The story my grandfather tells me begins in his childhood home, in this house. Sitting in his room, with the old rickety TV buzzing in the background, I feel like a small child listening to big stories made all the more real by my grandfather's vivid recollections. In one of his earliest memories he is only 11. While I remember being 11 and running around with friends, screaming, laughing, kicking a ball and cheering when it passed our made up football field boundaries, his reality was different. “I remember I just finished 4 grades and my parents wanted to send me to 5th grade but I didn't want to go. I never liked school. And since I didn't want to go they said fine, we need a child at home too. We had land, cows, sheep and anything we needed. That's how we lived, me, my parents, my siblings; parents and children in the countryside in general. We lived off of what we sold from our cows and sheep.” he says. Life was difficult but unpleasant. At the beginning of the communist period the village was a place filled with agricultural land and small farms and many families lived off of what they could grow and sell. This lifestyle was soon to change. In the autumn of 1959 they made the CAP or The Collective with the regional headquarters in Hasdate. When the communists came after the war, the land the people in the village owned, their animals and gardens, were all taken from them and made property of the state. They took everything from them, built the stables of the CAP for the animals and only allowed the people working for them to own 15 areas of land for every working CAP member. People called it The Collective because of that. They allowed them to only keep one cow and up to 5 sheep. This is all they had left to make a living from. Many people envision their youth as more than just work, they see fun and new experiences, not ears hurt from the noise of machines and a tired body to take to work the next day while still thinking about the land you must care for to be able to eat, but that was the truth of the regime. I see my grandfather as he is today, tired but fulfilled and I wonder if maybe his heart could offset the toll the struggle took on him. I see his kind eyes, and his will to find the best in everything. Working the land and taking care of a farm came with its own difficulties. Part of what the people could grow and sell had to be given to the CAP. Fighting back was never a choice but the people still tried to before signing the cheese contract so they could protect the product of their hard work and the food their families often relied on. “One time when we were gathering the sheep, someone from the city hall came there, he is still alive today, I think, and he, the chief accountant and the CAP president insisted we had to sign a cheese contract,” he says. The people didn't want to hand over the product of their hard work and tried to fight back but in the end they had no choice. Sign or lose your job. Ilie Buiga protested the most at the time. “ 'Sir,' I said, ‘If it's mandated by law, show us the law and we'll do it and that's it.' They went inside and talked and when they came out the CAP president said ‘Someone here is going to lose their job tomorrow'.” He fought for what he cared for though, as he always does. “The thing with the communists is that they made our country free of debt but they completely neglected their people” he tells me. Despite the struggles of living in the communist regime, my grandfather always says that one of the good things they did was make it so that all children, rich or poor could go to school. He had a big family, six siblings to send to school. Even though he chose to stay home to care for the land and the farm, another six children were not easy to support in their education for his parents. Nowadays we often hear about the communist period in black and white terms. Either a good thing for the people that benefited from it or a horrible thing for those who struggled. Ilie Buigas' perspective shows good and bad parts in a life filled with hard work as well as joy in the midst of struggle. There were years of struggle but also love, first for his family, then for his village and land, and then for his wife, children and grandchildren. This is his story, from the beginning of an era, to the start of another. „That's how 78 years went by.” he says.

Where it all began

In the small, rain-kissed town of Bellhollow -- where thunder spoke louder than people did, and time always seemed to walk instead of run -- there lived a boy named Elias who collected sounds. Not music. Not voices. Not even the usual sort of noises people notice. Elias collected moments: the pop of a soap bubble bursting, the hush of snow settling on a roof, the squeak of old library drawers. He caught them in glass jars -- clear, delicate ones -- and stored them in rows along his bedroom walls like stars in a private galaxy. To most, the jars looked empty. But Elias could hear what others couldn't. With a careful twist of a cork, he could summon the clink of a marble dropped in a tin can, or the fading echo of a bicycle bell turning the corner. "Odd little thing," the townsfolk would murmur, though never unkindly. Bellhollow was full of quiet people and quiet lives, and Elias's habit of chasing invisible sounds down alleyways and under staircases was just another oddity folded into the town's rhythm. He was content in his orbit -- until the boy arrived. It was on a fog-laced morning when the clouds sat heavy, as if listening. Elias had just captured the sound of dew slipping off a leaf when he saw him -- a boy no older than himself, standing by the old clock tower in a soaked sweater and bare feet. His name was Cael. He didn't speak. Not a word, not even a whisper. But his eyes said everything: storm-gray, curious, and ancient in a way that didn't make sense. Elias tried asking where he was from, what he needed, if he was lost -- but Cael only tilted his head, like he was listening to the questions rather than trying to answer them. So Elias brought him home. They didn't need to speak to understand each other. In Elias's room, Cael traced the shelves of jars like reading Braille. Elias uncorked one carefully, and the sound of a paper boat being folded whispered into the air. Cael smiled -- not with his mouth, but with the corners of his soul. Elias tried again. A cork popped. The low thump of a skipping stone across the lake echoed softly. Cael touched the jar, then pointed at Elias's chest. And for the first time, Elias understood: Cael wasn't just listening. He was searching. Over the next few days, they explored Bellhollow together -- collecting. They gathered sound like treasure hunters gather clues. The ping of wind chimes, the thud of a closed book, the slow whirr of a moth's wings. Cael followed Elias everywhere, his silence filled with wonder. But Elias noticed something strange. Every time Cael held a new jar, he'd shake it gently, listen, and then sigh. It was never quite right. Not yet. One evening, as dusk dyed the sky lavender and gold, Elias asked the question out loud: “What are you trying to hear?” Cael didn't answer. But he reached into his coat and pulled out a single jar. It was glowing. Elias stared as Cael handed it to him. Inside, there was a sound Elias didn't recognize -- soft and warm, like dawn stretched into a melody. It was… kind. It felt like fingers threading through tall grass, or the pause before someone says, I'm proud of you. He uncorked it. The sound of his laugh floated out -- not the laugh he used around others, but the unguarded one that escaped when he was truly, fully himself. It made his eyes sting, though he didn't understand why. “How did you -- ?” he began, but Cael was already nodding. That was the sound he had been looking for. The next morning, Cael was gone. No footprints. No jar. Only the faint scent of petrichor and the tiniest hum in the air, like a tuning fork settling into silence. But something had changed. Elias stepped outside, and Bellhollow felt different. Not louder -- but more alive. A woman on her porch was humming an old lullaby. A boy tossed a pebble into a drain just to hear the plunk. The postman whistled. The town had begun to listen. And Elias? He kept collecting -- but now he also shared. He left jars on windowsills, in school desks, on park benches. Sounds of laughter, of hope, of things people had forgotten how to hear. And sometimes, when the wind was right, people swore they heard a voice among the echoes, saying not a word, but a feeling. Thank you.

Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Rio. He and his family lived in a village. One day, just like any other ordinary day, he woke up early and prepared himself for school. When he was awake, he went off to the bathroom to wash his face and have a quick bath. After bath, he checked the other room to see if his sister Ria was there. Then he went downstairs to greet his parents and sister, as well as to have breakfast. After some time, Rio saw his mother come out from the kitchen and said, “Good morning, mom!” “Oh, good morning, son! Let's go to the dining room to have breakfast.” his mom said. “Sure. Ok. Oh, good morning, dad and little sis!” He said. “Good morning, dear! Come here and eat or else you'll be late for school. The school bus will be here soon.” his dad said. “Ok. Coming, dad!” he said. He headed towards a chair, sat down, thanked his parents for the meal, and started eating. After eating, he went off to the bathroom on the same floor to brush his teeth. Before he finishes brushing his teeth, the school bus has arrived. He quickly finished brushing teeth, got his bag, kissed his parents and sister, bade goodbye, and went off to the school bus. After a period of time, Rio and the other students arrived safely to their school. Rio thanked the bus driver and went off. Rio greeted every person he met on his way to the classroom. One day, his class adviser announced that the school will be having the “yearly sports fest week” next month. Although it will be held a month later, the adviser requested students to make their final decision the next day. According to his class adviser, the sports offered or available are basketball, badminton, swimming, baseball, football, as well as table tennis. Well, it is hard for Rio to choose. That is because Rio likes most of the sports that are offered at school. So he decided to ask his parents for advice. The school starts daily, except weekends, early in the morning and ends at noon. On the same day after Rio went off to the school bus after dismissal, he was excited to tell his parents about the sports fest. Sadly, when he arrived home, his parents were not there. His parents are still in the office, while his sister is in their relative's house. After several hours, his parents and Ria arrived home. “Hi mom, hi dad, hi sis! You're finally home!” he said. “Hi, Rio!” said his mom. “How was your day?” his dad continued. “It was cool. I have something to tell. Let's sit on the sofa.” he said. They changed their shoes into slippers and headed to the living room. Then Rio started to tell them details about the sports fest. Afterwards, he told his parents that he had a hard time choosing which sports he will be joining for the week. His parents asked him which sports he would like to join. He stated that he likes badminton and football, but he can only choose one. His parents suggested that he may wish to choose one sport that he likes the most this year, then the other sport next year. Without thinking further, he agreed to his parents' suggestion. His final decision was football. He likes sports because it's a challenging task. He likes challenges in school and in life. During summer vacation, he usually hangs out with his friends to play any type of ball (usually football because it's their favorite), going to the mall, or spending time anywhere together. The end.

On Sunday, I came to the conclusion that I'm a very shitty friend. I wish this was an exaggeration for narrative effect, and at the end of this, you would wonder why I even said that. But nope. I'm pretty sure I'm right. One of my closest friends offended me one too many times, and I made the executive and poorly thought-out decision to give them space without addressing what it was that they did to me. It worked for a while. I would see them in spaces with all my other friends and be cordial, but not too friendly. I would make my usual jokes, but none directed at this friend. At this point, I think we should call them "Chi". Chi and I have always had a sort of explosive friendship. We would laugh really hard and argue just as hard—long, often unending arguments that made every unfortunate observer wonder whether we would ever reach resolution. Sometimes we did, but sometimes, we would end our vocal sparring tired, breathless, and hungry—for food and the feeling of being right. I guess I should have known that there was a bigger problem when Chi didn't push back. Typically, when we fought like this and one party withdrew into their shell, the other would be right there trying to fix whatever issue there was. This time, however, there was radio silence. My decision crystallized into diamond, and I felt unshakeable in my conviction to end the friendship that "obviously" wasn't serving me well. I didn't budge, at least not at first, not even when our mutual friends tried to get me to. "You guys are making things weird", they would say. "I'm not even sure Chi knows what she did to you. At least tell her." Even with all the external pressure, change only came when I decided that I was done living with the heaviness in my chest. I felt like it would let up once I told Chi why I made the decision I made. So, on Sunday, after we had laughed about a slightly moronic thing I did, I sprung up the conversation. I'm not truly sure why I did. To be honest, until I started talking about it, I didn't know what I wanted to say. According to Chi, I ambushed her. I think my timing was providence. Because I didn't give any heads-up about a heavy conversation, there were no walls on Chi's end (or mine). You would think that this is the point where I'd tell you what Chi did to me, and you'd make your judgments as if this were a post on Reddit's AITA forum, but no. Not today, not in this post. I gave Chi my laundry list of tiny, insignificant things she did that piled up into this giant ball of hurt, and she mainly sat quietly, apologising intermittently, and arguing only where she felt like the facts were a little sketchy. By the end of my list, I decided it was her turn to speak. She was quiet for a while. "I'm not sure what you want me to say", she said. "I don't have a prepared list like you do". I told her it didn't matter, and that all I wanted was resolution. Steadily, like rocks in an avalanche, the truth tumbled out. Somewhere amid the time when I decided to start pulling away, Chi's dad died. It was not a peaceful one, and she watched the light fade from his eyes as she held him in her arms. Immediately after, she had to travel to bury him, making the arrangements and taking the occasional 5 minutes to mourn the man she lost. In the time after this, I called her three times, and she bawled on the phone most of the time. I wasn't sure how to comfort her, and somewhere deep down, I didn't think it was my job anymore. Chi lives a 10-minute walk away from my home. I never visited, not even after she returned from burying her dad, not even when I saw her social media littered with dirges. She picked up her broken pieces and put them together by herself, and decided that the only people who mattered were the ones who stayed with her during the worst times of her life. By the time she was done speaking, I was silent and ashamed. Before I started speaking, I thought I had righteous anger, a valid reason for my stupid decision. But by the end, I knew I had done irreparable damage to someone I once professed to love. I couldn't cry. How did I dare mourn a relationship I brought to ruin with my bare hands? How could I find a way back to her heart when I razed the bridge so thoroughly? Chi had mourned already, both her dad and me, and this conversation was like picking at the scabs of a wound that she had tried so desperately to heal. Chi is a much better person than I am. "I can't promise you that we'll be better instantly", she said in the wake of my incessant and insufficient apologies. "I can only tell you that I left the door slightly ajar for you, and to walk through it, you'd have to do all the work". Chi, if you're reading this, you know that I'm clearly not very good at the work. However, I promise that I will try, and I will fight, until you're ready to fully let me back in. I love you. Thank you.

There are seasons of the soul that feel like eternal winter, where time collapses into a cold grey blur, and breathing becomes less of an instinct and more of a chore. In 2023, I found myself buried in that season. Not beneath snow, but beneath silence. Beneath pain so loud it numbed me. I was in a hole so dark, I forgot what light looked like. So dense, I questioned if it had ever existed. It wasn't that I wanted to die. It was that living became unbearable, an uphill drag with no summit in sight. I was not tired of life. I was tired in life. And so, in a moment that felt both ridiculous and holy, I made a deal with the universe: “If I'm meant to be here, if I'm meant to have joy, love, and everything I ache for, then I'm going to survive this. If not, let me go.” The truth is, I woke up. Not gracefully, not peacefully. I woke up heaving and shaking and vomiting, not from divine deliverance, but from a body refusing to surrender. And in that mess, in that ragged breath I didn't ask for, I found a strange kind of clarity. The universe may be broken. But so am I, and we're both still here. This survival was not a miracle in the traditional sense. There was no beam of heavenly light, no choir of angels. Just a girl, a stomach full of regret, and a life stubborn enough not to end. But here's the thing about being shattered: it makes you porous. And in being porous, you let the light in. That moment of survival became a turning point. I decided that if I could wake up from that, if I could find breath after begging for silence, then I could find joy too. Not all at once. Not without clawing and scraping and crying again. But I could find it. And I did. Now I carry a truth so heavy and so sacred, it demands to be shared: You will get everything you want from this life. But first, you have to survive it. There is a specific kind of courage that blooms in the depths. A choice that cannot be made when everything is fine. It is the choice of someone who has seen the edge, tasted the bitterness of despair, and still says, “I will try again.” I see this bravery not just in me, but in so many others. People I love. People I've held as they sobbed. People who have buried mothers, carried the weight of identity in an unkind world, fought addiction, held hands through heartbreak, or just quietly waged war against their own minds. Survival is not glamorous. It's often silent. But it's holy. To anyone reading this, to the version of me who needed to read this, I beg you: Choose life. Not just for the promise of happiness or success. Choose life because you are a soul that the universe allowed to borrow flesh, to step onto Earth and feel everything. The joy and the despair. The heartbreak and the euphoria. The hunger and the fullness. You are not here by accident. And even if you are, even if you are an insignificant speck in an ever-expanding cosmos, then doesn't that make this even more magnificent? That from dust and stardust and mystery, you got to be here? Your life may feel small. But it's yours. And within it, you can do anything. That's not motivational fluff. That's metaphysical fact. You are a flame wrapped in skin. You are a thunderstorm pretending to be ordinary. You are temporary, yes. But that just means the moments matter more. So make it worth it. Make your existence a rebellion against the void. Laugh loudly. Cry openly. Make art that no one understands. Love hard, even if you get hurt. Rest. Rage. Dream. Begin again. And again. Because if the universe is broken, then you get to be the glue. And if you are still here, it means your story is not done. There is more. More you. More life. More love. Choose to see the light, not just at the end of the tunnel, but within yourself. You are not alone. You are not done. You are the unlikely bloom in the deep, dark soil. And you are growing.