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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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Every day I reevaluate my life: achievements, failures. I review events. I try to approach life philosophically, analyze the past, predict the future. And everything seems nothing special. Sometimes it feels insufficient. What else to fill my days with? I pour myself another cup of coffee and go to the window. The wind rustles the poplar leaves. Pigeons perch on the wires. Not a single crow in sight! A fly darts across the windowpane. It's flawless. I wish I had wings like these! I sip my coffee, observing people on the street. Everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. None of them even suspects that I'm watching them. There goes the heavily sweating overweight man rushing to cross the road. The light will turn red soon, and cars will traverse the pedestrian crossing. Hurry up, chubby! Not far away, at the bus stop, a young woman sits with a stroller. The baby inside, snoozing quietly. It's not easy for him to adapt to the new environment. Luckily, mom is right there. But it won't always be like that. Enjoy the moments, little one! And here comes the well-groomed gentleman in a hat. Though it saves his bald head from the heat, his attire is entirely inappropriate for the weather. Black tweed suit and monochrome polished shoes. The crimson tide tightly cinches his neck. The blue shirt is buttoned up all the way. He is serious and focused. So, what if it's 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit outside! "Keep up appearances!", as they say in Odessa. Good luck to you, sir in the hat! And now a young lad is racing at full speed on his new bicycle. He is well-prepared for the ride, equipped as needed! Shiny helmet, elbow pads, and knee pads. Hand on the horn, as if on a pulse! May your ride be successful, young lad! So, hour after hour passes. Faces, colors, and scents change. The clock hands inexorably carry me into the past. I think about all these people, trying to predict what will happen to them after they leave my field of view. But they don't think about me. They don't even know that I'm observing them. So, hour after hour, I piece together an endless puzzle of human destinies that momentarily intersect with mine. And we have one thing in common: we are strangers, and we are unlikely to ever meet. After all, all of this is happening only in my mind. A mind that was never born. Just like me.

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Ever wondered what it's like to be loved? For 14-year-old Sophia Park, the second child of the Park family, this remains a distant dream. Unlike her younger sister Bora and older brother Ethan, who are showered with affection. She's accustomed to it. The more her family acts cold-hearted, the more she feels solitary. And it breaks her heart every time. A typical evening with the Park family. Everybody has their own bust. Ethan came home from work. Bora rushed to her brother on the instant; Ethan picked his little sister up and kissed her cheeks profoundly. In the meantime, our Sophia was watching this scene with teary eyes. She continued watching her brother and sister bond. Then she walked to her room, sighing heavily. She heard as her brother and sister were playing games in the next room. She could hear their giggles and laughter. She wanted to cry but she couldn't. Not even a single drop of tears could escape her eyes. But she knew deep down her soul was hurt. Then her phone buzzed, indicating she received a new message. She opened the message and read the text. “Hey, princess? How have you been?” She smiled while reading it. It's her friend, Alex. Her only friend and pal whom she is comfortable with and she feels at ease with him. Alex knows everything about her. “I'm good. Nothing serious happened.” She texted back. “Can I call you?" Alex texted. Sophia agreed. They had an enjoyable video call. They talked about their days and incidents that happened today. She is really content with him. After talking with her friend, Sophia started doing her schoolwork. She was peacefully doing her homework when her little sister came in. “Sophia, can you do my homework too?” She asked in a demanding tone. “Sorry, Bora, I'm busy. I also have my schoolwork to do,” she replied politely. Bora stomped her feet in anger. She punched Sophia and walked away from her room. Sophia groaned in pain as Bora punched her back. She ran behind her to catch her. But she witnessed something terrible. She saw her sister falling from the stairs. She couldn't help her. Bora fell from the stairs, and a loud thud can be heard. Every family member stopped doing their work when they heard a voice. Bora was lying on the floor; her head is bleeding, and Sophia is beside her. “What did you do?” Ethan asked as he suspected that Sophia did it intentionally. He bent down and took Bora in his embrace. “I-I…” Sophia looked at her brother with wide eyes. “I am asking you, you dumb. Why did you do it? Are you jealous of her?” Ethan asked with anger visible in his tone. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her on the floor. Ethan tightened his grip on her wrists, making her hurt. “I did not do anything. She fell herself. I didn't push her,” Sophia defended herself, not believing her blood brother is blaming her. “And should I believe that? I know how you are jealous of her. I know how you hate my little princess,” Ethan raised his voice. Sophia can't even form normal words because of shock and hurt. Her soul shattered into million pieces after Ethan's words. Suddenly the house felt oppressive and sultry for her. She wanted to disappear from this world. Meanwhile, parents called 911 and an ambulance. Paramedics took Bora to the hospital, and Sophia was taken to the police station for interrogation. “I'm not guilty. I didn't take any action.” As she was taken by police, she muttered, “I am innocent.” She had tears streaming down her face. She finds it incomprehensible that her family did this. Why? Nothing was even looked into by them. After reaching the station, cops asked her several questions regarding the incident. But she did not answer. “I'd like to sit in prison.” Since it was the only thing she said, “I accept responsibility for it.” She spoke with earnestness and sensibleness in her tone. She was prepared to accept responsibility and leave her callous family since she was truly hurt. Even the police were taken aback by her singular response. Cops did not ask any further questions. They put her behind chambers. Meanwhile, Bora was hospitalized and put in a resuscitation room. Family members are around her, worrying about her health as she didn't open her eyes. Everyone was busy with Bora, and no one even dared to visit Sophia or even think about her. Sophia was in the police station. She hasn't said a word. She lost her hope and motive for living completely. Her life, once painted in black and white hues, felt completely dark. She was sitting alone in a prison cell, looking at only one spot. She can't believe that her family doesn't care about her on this level. She has already given up on her future. She has already accepted her wistful fate, and the silence around her echoed her despair. The weight of her choices pressed heavily on her chest, making each breath feel like a struggle as memories of happier times with Alex flickered faintly in her mind, like distant stars lost in the night sky.