No human lives a picture-perfect life. Everyone always thought I did, somehow. It wasn't until they found out I lost my mom to drug and alcohol addiction that I was finally like the people who thought my life was better than theirs, and they were wrong. Society doesn't know what it's like to be a child of an addict, but I do. No one ever knew what I was going through because I looked so happy. The truth is, it's easy to hide from everyone and put on a face when you are dealing with a lot. Being a child of only having half a parent to yourself entails more than you would ever know, and so does being an addict. When I was a kid, I wasn't my mom's top priority. Her priority was a bottle smaller than me, and somehow, it still mattered more. I learned early what it felt like to not be chosen. I never understood how someone can have children, then turn around and go be interested in a temporary feeling rather than their own blood. The feeling of not being loved by your own mom, who was put here on this earth to raise you, is something you can never forget. It's a feeling that constantly eats at you. IT's a feeling of not being wanted, loved, and nurtured, and feeling like you're living a life, constantly drowning. Since I was old enough to notice, she's broken every single promise, and I've done nothing but repeat myself, wishing she would finally understand how I felt. I, your oldest child, am trying to help, but you continue to preach how you need to get better for yourself because god knows you couldn't do it for me. I've held hope for so long, but she's lost sight of what's right and wrong. And for the rest of her time, she stayed locked away and hidden in her room, smoking her life away. I never took into consideration why she didn't care; now I do. Now I wish I had taken more time to care then. I was just 12 years old when she was out of my life. At that age, looking into the future is a frequent thought. For all I could see, my mom was not seeing me get my license, or me getting a job, getting into high school, or graduating. Our relationship has been diminished into nothing but debris, and she was an unfamiliar figure who stood before me. What once was warm and comforting has become something much more malicious. At the age of 16, this has made me the person I am today. What once felt like the biggest storms of my life now fit in the small space of a birthday party, a reminder of her, of me, and of what I chose to carry. Life doesn't wait for you to be ready. It's taught me to be strong, remain positive, and always smile. There will always be a longing sadness, but I will remain strong. Two years ago, if you had asked me what my biggest fear is, I would've said repeating the cycle, not being enough for my future kids. Now, my fear isn't repeating the cycle. It's not growing from my past. It's letting it define me instead of shaping me. She always called me her "Birthday present" because he was born May 23rd and I was born May 25th. I miss my mom on my birthday, on hers, and every little moment in between. I look in the mirror and see her. She will always be a part of me. She is never someone I could become, but when push comes to shove, I will always yearn for her love. I wish it didn't come to this, but her mind will be gone for good, andI'lll have to leave with it. Time was cruel to her, but she let it take her away from her children. Her addiction shaped my childhood, but it will never shape my future.

There is a moment in late November when the town of Oakhaven stops breathing. The sun slips below the northern ridges, leaving a twilight the color of bruised plums, and the old cast-iron streetlamps cast warm pools of amber light onto the cobblestones. Julian Vance sat behind his workbench at Vance & Sons Horology. At fifty-eight, his hair was the silver of polished pewter, and his thick fingers moved with quiet precision. Beside him lay an open-face Hamilton pocket watch that had not run in forty years. Scratched onto its back were three simple letters: L.M.V.—Lily Mae Vance, his sister, who had died long ago while Julian was miles away, consumed by business. He had never fixed her watch; looking at it meant facing his own past regrets. The bell above the shop door chimed. Shaking snow from her woolen coat, a young woman stepped inside. She clutched a heavy object wrapped in a faded green blanket. "We are closed," Julian said softly. "I know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please. They said you were the only one left who still works on real mechanical clocks." She laid the bundle on the glass counter and unwrapped it. Inside was a late nineteenth-century Ansonia bracket clock. Its dark mahogany case was cracked, the dial oxidized, and the hands bent. "His name was David," she said, her hazel eyes glistening. "He was a carpenter, and my father. Every Sunday at eight, he would wind this clock. Four months ago, he passed away. Near the end, the mainspring snapped with a loud crack. The house went cold. Other shops told me to throw it away, but this isn't old metal, Mr. Vance. It's my father's heart." Julian looked at the shattered movement inside. Rebuilding it meant hand-crafting extinct parts, an absurdity for a fifty-dollar job. Yet, looking at her pale, hopeful face, he saw his own buried grief. "My name is Clara," she added. "Fifty dollars," Julian said quietly. "And a cup of hot black coffee every Tuesday while I work." Restoration was slow. Julian spent days under the white glow of his lamp, filing brass gear teeth by hand. On the second Tuesday, Clara brought his coffee. "It looks like a skeleton," she said, watching the bare gears. "How do you know where everything fits?" "Logic," Julian replied. "Every gear has a precise ratio to the next. Time isn't mysterious, Clara. It's math made visible." "Do you think people are like gears?" she asked. "If one breaks, the whole mechanism stops?" Julian stopped his lathe. "No. Gears are dead metal. But people can recut their own teeth. It takes time, but we don't need a watchmaker. We just need a reason to keep spinning." Clara swallowed a hard breath. "I haven't played the piano since he died. His armchair is empty." "The silence in an empty room is loud," Julian said. "But locking the piano doesn't bring him back, Clara. It just makes the house dead. He listened because he loved you. The music was the bridge." Disaster struck in the third week. While guiding a micro-pivot into its bearing, Julian's arthritic wrist spasmed. The tiny steel shaft snapped with a sickening click. Julian froze. Rage and frustration boiled over. He threw the broken rod against the wall and rested his forehead against the cold window glass. You're old, a voice whispered. Give it back. Then his eyes caught the silver Hamilton watch on his desk. Thirty years ago, he had walked away from broken things. He had built a fortress of isolation. But looking at the snow falling outside, Julian whispered, "Not this time." He knelt, found the tiny broken piece, and worked through the entire night. He turned a new steel rod on his lathe, hardened it in flame, and tempered it to a brilliant peacock blue. By dawn, the new shaft fit perfectly. He pushed the escape wheel. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A steady pulse returned to the cold room. On Christmas Eve, Clara returned. The mahogany case now gleamed with a deep reddish luster, and the brass dial shone like new. She stood frozen before the counter. "Is it running?" "Listen," Julian said. He handed her the original brass key. "Set it to the hour." With trembling fingers, Clara turned the minute hand past the twelve. A brass lever dropped. BONG. The sound rolled through the shop—deep, rich, and golden. BONG. Clara covered her mouth, tears spilling over her cheeks. "That was his sound," she sobbed. "That was my home." "He's still here, Clara," Julian said softly. "Love doesn't vanish. It gets built into the things they touched, and into you." She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the old watchmaker. For the first time in decades, the tight knot of grief in Julian's chest dissolved. After Clara left, Julian sat at his workbench under the solitary warm lamp. He picked up his loupe and reached for his sister's Hamilton pocket watch. "Alright, Lily," he whispered softly, his hands entirely steady. "Let's get you running."

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"Summer Sky 2000" That is what is written on the photograph I hold in my hand. It was taken 26 years ago, from the front porch of my childhood home, with a simple 35mm Kodak camera. I was 14, and took pictures of everything. That photograph made its way into a biography project I had to assemble for my ninth grade English class, but then for whatever reason became detached and spent the next two decades floating around in my sock drawer. It was never framed; it simply served as a rediscovered treasure every time I moved - a reminder that the world could be beautiful. Sunsets have never ceased to amaze me. I recall one evening in the dead of winter when the sun set at 4:30. I was riding the bus home; this boy in the seat infront of me turned around and asked what I was smiling at. I told him "the sunset." He rolled his eyes and sarcastically replied "Why? it's the same every day." No, I thought - it definitely is not - and I felt sorry for him that he thought that, for he was missing out on one of Mother Nature's grandest displays of her flawless beauty. A sunset is a reminder that there can be beauty in chaos. Thunderstorms often result in the most stunning pallets of crimson and fire, with biblical pillars of light permeating through castle-like cumulus clouds. Have you ever gazed upon a soft yellow sun sinking low over a field of grain in late summer, or marveled at the shadows cast in the fog and hollers of the mountains? Sunsets are our reminder to stop and breath. To marvel at the world around us. To remember that we are just one tiny part of this amazing Creation, and that no matter how hectic and hopeless our lives may feel, tomorrow is another day.

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

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

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