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…”

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

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.

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.

Thorin was looking for a lost temple in the Western Ghats forest with his team of archaeologists when he got separated from the group. He didn't have any maps or a compass with him at the time, so he was in deep trouble being lost in the middle of a forest. All he had were lots of vegetables and fruits like carrots, beets, corn, potatoes, pumpkins, bananas, apples, and melons. After seeing them, he realized that all of them were high-sugar vegetables and fruits. Suddenly, he had an idea. He also had a couple of balloons and some plastic containers. He put all his vegetables and fruits into the container and sealed it so that no air could pass inside, allowing methane gas to be produced. He knew that it would take at least two days for the required methane gas to be produced, so he kept some fruits for himself to eat during those two days. During this time, he made a bow and some arrows. Then he built a fire by filling a plastic cover with water and shaping it into a sphere; using it like a convex lens, he concentrated the sunlight on the tinder. Then he ripped a part of his shirt and bound it to the arrowhead end of the arrow. In the evening of the third day, he filled the three balloons with methane gas using tubes so that the gas wouldn't come into contact with the air. Since methane gas is lighter than air, the balloons started to rise, and right when the balloons were about to go out of sight, he dipped the arrowhead into the fire, and after it started burning, he released the arrow from his bow so that the burning arrow hit the balloon and the balloon burst because of the reaction between the fire, methane gas, and oxygen, producing light and sound. His friends, who were searching for him, saw the light and heard the sound and rushed in its direction, and Thorin was rescued.

Sunny April days started after a rainy March. My mum took me and my siblings to a local bazaar to purchase clothes and other necessities for spring. It is quite common in Uzbekistan to buy goods in a traditional bazaar despite having big malls and clothing stores. While entering the tall gates of the bazaar, I saw several foreigners. It was the first time I had ever seen foreigners in my hometown. I used to see them on TV occasionally when I visited the city. At that time I was learning English myself; I used to learn by watching TV shows in English and visiting my uncle every weekend. I was so passionate about talking to those foreigners but due to my shyness and lack of English skills, I hesitated and kept wandering around the bazaar with my mum and siblings. It had been more than an hour since we came to the bazaar and we purchased several things. At that time, I saw a woman tourist who was having some difficulty communicating with a saleswoman. She was going to purchase a traditional Uzbek dress. I was so shy as I had never talked to foreigners before but I was also worried about her difficulty in communicating. So I went towards her, greeted her and introduced myself. After that I translated what the saleswoman was saying. In Uzbek bazaars, bargaining is very common. So, I started bargaining on behalf of the tourist. The saleswoman was not very happy, as she was going to charge her a bit more. Then, I told the tourist to go to another store as this one was expensive. Before we left the store, the saleswoman agreed with the price we offered. Interestingly, leaving the store was a part of the bargaining, it often works when salespeople are too stubborn. After buying the dress, we talked a bit and I introduced the tourist to my family members who came to the bazaar with me, and she took several photos of us. The tourist was from Italy and I enjoyed talking about Italian history and art as we had a few books about Italy in our house. Then, I spent more than an hour showing the bazaar to the tourist. At the end of her trip, she offered me money, which I rejected right away. She was very surprised and tried to give money to me several times. I rejected and talked about Uzbek hospitality. Then she stopped me and gave me her business card. I did not have any social media or telephone at that time. She thanked me many times, gave a hug and said bye. It was one of the most inspirational moments of my life and I was so proud of being able to communicate with someone from another part of the world. It further inspired me to study English and learn about the world. When I talked about rejecting money, my family was very proud of me. I showed them the business card I got and we started to set up a Facebook account for me! I opened my own Facebook account just to reconnect with that Italian woman. We searched several times and it was not possible to find her because there were too many people with the same name and I also almost forgot her face as she took our photos but we did not take any photos together. It felt quite disappointing, however, I kept her card, remembering her saying, when you come to Italy, call this number and I will show you around. After that experience, I started to work on my English every day and go to historical sites on weekends to practice my English with foreigners. Most of the time, I volunteered as a tour guide, talking about my hometown and helping them communicate with other locals. At the same time, I also took advantage of Facebook, I started my own blog on Facebook where I post about Uzbekistan. Shortly, I gained a lot of followers from all over the world. After more than a year had passed since I met the Italian tourist, I decided to search for her again. At this time, I was more aware of how Facebook works and the possibility of finding someone through a phone number. So, after several attempts, I managed to find that Italian tourist and commented under her Facebook post. Shortly, she replied and we reconnected! It is not easy to describe that feeling in words. It has been over 7 years since that memory and we are still in touch. She also introduced her family members to me and I am thinking of visiting Italy in the near future. Overall, I would describe this memory as a life-changing moment. I had an amazing feeling when I was able to communicate with someone from another country, from a totally different background. That feeling motivated me to keep learning English and seek study abroad opportunities. As a result, I came to the US to pursue my education at an international campus. For the future, I plan to pursue my career at international organizations like the UN or the World Bank, and contribute to close ties between nations just like my friendship with that Italian tourist.

Daniel's life had always been hectic, with meetings, deadlines, and the never-ending bustle of city living. He was proud of his work as a financial analyst, but recently he felt that something was lacking. He had lots of material possessions, therefore it was not a desire for them. There was a deeper urge, a need to go beyond the numbers and accomplish something worthwhile. After a particularly demanding day, Daniel was going through his phone one evening when he noticed an article. It was about a local soup kitchen that was having trouble filling volunteer positions for the winter. "Help Needed: Make a Difference This Holiday Season" was the headline. He had considered volunteering in the past, but he had always written it off as being too busy. But something stopped him this time. Daniel signed up for a shift the next morning. It was a hive of activity that Saturday when he arrived. Meals were being prepared by volunteers, who also set up tables and grinned warmly to greet each visitor. Jack, the team leader, promptly introduced himself to Daniel and gave him a rundown of the basics. “First time volunteering?” While giving Daniel an apron, Jack enquired. Daniel tied the apron around his waist and said, "Yeah." "I always wanted to, but I could not seem to find the time to do it." Jack grinned. "There is always time to get started. There is always room for one more set of hands." The first thing Daniel had to do was serve soup. He observed the variety of people who entered the building as he ladled the hot broth into bowls. There were young families, old men and women, and those who appeared to have seen better days. But despite coming from diverse origins, they all had thankfulness in common. Every "thank you" Daniel got was genuine and frequently accompanied by a smile that gave him the impression that he was making a difference in the world. Daniel found himself lost in conversation with the guests as the hours went by. He got to know Mr. Carter, an old jazz musician who was full of nostalgia for his career. Maria was there, a single mom caring for her two kids. John was a reserved man who tended to keep to himself, but when Daniel inquired about the book he was reading, John's eyes brightened up. John answered, "The Grapes of Wrath," grinning a little. "It is about people attempting to find hope during really challenging situations." Daniel nodded, seeing an unspoken bond between him and John. He came to see that everyone had a backstory, a life full of both successes and setbacks. The goal of the soup kitchen was to give them human connection, dignity, and respect in addition to nourishment. Daniel had not felt this fulfilled in years, yet by the end of the day, he was tired. He was approached by Jack as he was clearing up. "You did well today," Jack remarked. "You are free to return at any time." Daniel grinned. "I believe I will. This was... more rewarding than I expected.” Daniel then started helping out every Saturday. He eventually established himself as a welcoming presence at the soup kitchen, one that the patrons eagerly anticipated. He contributed his professional talents to the organization's budget management as well. More than that, though, he discovered that the relationships he formed offered him a feeling of direction that his profession had never provided. One day John caught him in the act of leaving. Daniel accepted a little, wrapped present from the calm man. "What is this?" Startled, Daniel enquired. John answered, "Just a small something to say thank you." Daniel opened the parcel later that night. A battered copy of The Grapes of Wrath was inside. John had put a brief note on the inside cover, "For helping me discover hope again." With a knot in his throat, Daniel took a seat and held the book. He understood then that receiving something considerably bigger in return was the genuine gift of volunteering, rather than merely giving. It was about knowing what it meant to be a part of a community and how even modest deeds of kindness might have a profound impact. That was the gift Daniel had been looking for the entire time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is simple to lose sight of the influence we have on other people's lives in a world where we are frequently engrossed in our daily activities. In actuality, though, each of us can change things, regardless of how insignificant a gesture may appear. Your actions can have a profound impact on others, well beyond what you may have imagined. These actions can be as simple as being there for someone when they need you, lending a helpful hand, or saying something nice. Let's make a difference, let's change the world!

Galveston, Indiana − 29 March 2024 Noah is on his way home after school under dark, cloudy skies. While he is crossing the road called “Skinwalker Road,” he sees a white dog with white pupils that might be a Labrador retriever sitting in front of an abandoned church, staring at him abnormally. It seems like it is creepily smiling at him. Noah: Jesus, what kind of creature is it on this earth? He ignored it and started walking home, crossing by the church. Suddenly, in the middle of his path, the dog appeared and stared at him abnormally. At that time, Noah froze for a few seconds. Then, after taking a deep breath, he picked up a stone to throw at the dog. Noah: You shitty doggo! Get out of my way! Surprisingly, the dog disappeared like a television turning off. Noah didn't wait for a second there; he started running towards his home. At midnight, he is preparing his school bag for tomorrow's classes. At that time, his eye captures a white figure sitting at the top of the road lamp through his room's window. He steps closer to the window for clear vision, but he sees nothing at the top of the road lamp. Then he is turning off the room's light and closing the window before going to bed. Half an hour later of his sleep, he is feeling heavy weight on his chest, his arms are becoming paralyzed, and he can't inhale properly. He opens his eyes; he sees nothing in his room, but as he is moving his head left, towards the mirror beside his bed, he discovers something horrifying! A scary creature with a tall human body and head, like the dog he met on the path at noon, is opening its mouth wide towards him! In the morning, as the sun rises, Noah's mother is knocking on his room door to wake him up for school. Noah's Mother: Son, wake up, or you will miss your school today! At that moment, she feels as though she has stepped on something damp. As she is looking down, she sees blood coming under the door. Noah's Mother: JESUS WHAT THE!! NOAH!!! OPEN THE DOOR!!!! Noah's father comes quickly. As he sees the situation, he becomes so busy that he breaks the door as fast as he can. After breaking the door, what they see is blood splattered around the room, and Noah's body, half eaten, falls to the floor. Since that day, Noah's death case has remained unsolved.

The crisp February air was warmed by a sixty-five-day-old Samoyed puppy. My uncle and aunt had promised me this puppy, Lucky, upon my election as deputy head girl. Although I wanted a cat, I was excited when Lucky arrived, his fur white as snow, with jade-black eyes and a tiny nose with pink spots. Lucky was introduced to his brother, Bantu, our grey cat. Initially scared, Bantu soon became best friends with Lucky, dispelling the myth of cat-dog enmity. Lucky quickly took over our basement, playing in the backyard with his chewed FIFA replica football and making noise with his bone toy. He was skeptical about the garden vegetables, often carrying them around as if he owned them. Lucky loved belly rubs and could charm anyone into giving him one. Our days were filled with walks and laughter with Lucky and Bantu. Life seemed perfect, but reality has its imperfections. As April approached, the school focused on final exams, and I secluded myself in my room to study. Lucky became my escape from anxiety, his presence calming me. The night before my last exam, I planned to spend my free time with Lucky. However, on 28th May, I felt distressed, and during the exam, I felt as if I was going to get sick. After the exam, I hurried home, convinced this summer break would be the best. While eating, I heard my brother scream, "Lucky is not moving, something has happened to him." My father and brother ran downstairs where my mom was with Lucky. My mom told me Lucky's body was cold and he wasn't moving. I couldn't breathe, the pain of losing him overwhelming me. Lucky's absence filled our home with silence and excruciating pain. The staircase where I used to call his name was now empty. I couldn't see him one last time, and the guilt of not loving him more weighed heavily on me. It was the realization of losing my ‘Lucky' charm. Leaving behind some cherishable memories and a longing heart.

I turned on my phone, opened the College Board website, only to be met with the same text I had seen countless other times in the taxi: “Your AP scores will be available starting Wednesday, July 5th, 2023.” I turned off my phone again. Unfortunately for me, today was already July 5th, and seeing how China was 12 hours ahead of the eastern US, I had to wait until 8 PM—or another 7 hours—until I received my score. The taxi dropped off the four of us—my parents, my brother, and me—at the base of Emei Mountain, the tallest of the four sacred Buddhist mountains in China, just above 3,000 meters tall. There would be a difficult 4 hour climb before a gondola would take people the rest of the way. As I stood in the parking lot, the smell of lush vegetation and the muggy mountain air contrasted with the fumes from cars and smokers. I awkwardly stood in front of the visitor center. Hoping to not look out of place while waiting for my mom to get to the front of the line, I pulled out my phone; before my dad immediately ordered me to put it away. I shook my head but complied. I couldn't help my anxiety, as I needed the 5 on my AP Chinese exam. Part of my China trip was going to be a volunteering event, where I would be tutoring rural kids about science, math, English, and other activities, providing education to underfunded communities. However, one of the requirements was a 5 on the AP Chinese exam or an equivalent. Through some confusing signup process, I was able to register by essentially promising a 5 on this year's AP Chinese exam. As I trudged my way up the trail, the dense Sichuan fog began to clear. The gray sky provided a comforting cooling sensation as the climb became more arduous. My climbing efficiency dipped, as I found my family and I stopping more and more frequently. Wisps of fog rose as I took photos of the surrounding ferns, broad-leaved trees, mountains, and the occasional bird or monkey. Scaling the increasingly steep trail, my brother and I slowly pulled away from our parents and most of the other tourists. The deciduous surroundings were replaced by slender fir trees, and the sides of the path slowly became steep rock faces with sprouts of green dotting the sides of gray. Simultaneously, the stone path also became narrower, and each step became an undeniable reminder of my fatigue. I could not think about anything else besides rest. With my breaths becoming heavier and the gnawing in my legs increasing, I sought the railing for support. I blankly stared at the landscape ahead of me—a forested mountain on the left gradually descending, and a flat, sloping green valley below, expanding toward a miniscule city. Looking down, I felt a rising force start in my stomach then make its way toward my throat. In the face of the sheer openness before me, the worries over my modern-day problems were completely washed away by a mixture of awe, respect, and fear. My physical ailments were overtaken by an uplifting feeling of wonder and admiration. Feeling lighter on my feet, my brother and I continued to walk towards the gondola lift, where I continued to be overtaken by a sense of reverence for the landscape around me. Revitalized by an inexplicable force, my weariness from earlier slowly drained out of me, and I strode confidently towards the lift. Upon reaching the supposed “safe haven” which signaled the end stretch of my climb, I did not feel physical relief or boredom while waiting for my parents to catch up, but rather gazed into the distance in wonder. The gondola brought us above the fog, leaving the green portion of the mountain behind and carrying us toward the rocky peak. After a light twenty minute walk to the peak, the sun shone warmly in a cloudless sky save for a few wisps of cirrus. A small breeze ruffled my shirt, and as per my mom's orders, I tightened my hat.As it was getting late, we chose to have dinner at a small Buddhist temple, where we ate vegetarian dishes made with the local flora. After dinner, we finally walked to the large stone courtyard, where the centerpiece, an enormous gold statue of the Bodhisattva Pu Xian, towered over us. The 12-story statue, combined with the setting sun, began to replicate the same initial mixture of emotions I had first felt during the climb. After taking some pictures with the family, I walked to the stone fences lining the pavilion, and looked out at the sun cutting into the blanket of fog shrouding the land. I was approached by my brother: “It's 8 PM.” I opened my phone. My heart was steady, and I felt no fear, but rather a sense of calmness and inner peace. I opened the website without the restlessness I had felt in the morning. There, I was greeted by what would have been intense relief: a 5. Instead, I merely smiled, took a screenshot, and looked out onto the sunset.

My eyes trail his beautiful features. His tanned skin compliments his plump pink lips. My fingers outline his chiseled jawline and high cheekbones with sullen cheeks. Sometimes, I can't believe he's mine, an ordinary girl with boring pale skin and inky black hair compared to the red flames on his head. I swipe through other pictures, especially the ones we take together. My insides turn to liquid at the way he stares at me like I'm his entire world. I dial his number, every fiber of my being craving his voice. “Hey you,” He says, and electric currents surge through my veins. For a few seconds I go numb. “Vivian, you there?” “Brad,” I whisper, recovering. “I want to see you tonight.” “Babe, but I told you how busy I've been lately.” “Yes, two weeks now and I haven't seen you.” “Don't be like that. I call you every day.” I groan. “I want you, tonight.” “You want me? Like, want me, want me?” He confirms, getting the picture I'm trying to paint. A smile quirks at the side of my lips. “Yes, I want you, want you.” He chuckles. “What? Are you serious? Wow, I can come over now if you want.” “No!” I snap and suck in a sharp breath to relax. “I have to prepare first.” “I don't care how you look.” “I do. I've got to get ready, because tonight, I'll show you a different side of me.” He growls. It vibrates through my phone and the hair at the back of my neck stands. “I don't know what changed with you but I like it.” “See you soon.” I hang up. Quickly, I hurry to the shower, pull out my drawers, and browse through different products that belong to my roommate. She's out of town for a week. Good, I need to be alone with Brad. First, I go with facial cleansers, then scrubs to exfoliate dead skin, and a snail mask to give me a glassy look. After spending over two hours in the shower, I sit in front of the mirror stand. “Ahh, makeup,” I whine. I've never really done it before. But not tonight. Tonight, I've got to take his breath away. Finally finished with makeup, I dash into the kitchen to make his favorite meal. Mashed potatoes and beef stew. Just as I turn off the stove, my doorbell rings. He's here. I open the door. He pulls me in for a long kiss, sucking my tongue as though savoring my taste and etching it to his brain. “You look beautiful tonight,” he compliments, then sniffs the air and lets out a sharp exhale. “Gosh, I love you. You made me my favorite.” “Just the way you like it,” I announce, proud of myself. I lead him to the kitchen and he perches on a stool beside the counter. “I'd rather have your other food.” He winks. I smile, loving the attention. “You should eat first.” “I'll eat later.” “Brad...I've got bad plans tonight. Very bad plans.” I dish the food, filling up a glass with orange juice, and handing it over to him. His cheeks turn pink at my confession, and his mouth drops open as he processes my words. “Hmm. The things you say. What do you want to do with me tonight?” I smirk. “Bad things.” “You want to leave me speechless.” I lean forward, peering into his enchanting green eyes. “You'll be more than speechless when I'm done with you.” He groans, as though stifling an urge. “I'm on fire for you tonight. Do whatever you want with me. You can tie my hands to the bed stand. I won't complain.” I laugh. “Don't worry, I'll try other things.” He gobbles down his food, like it were a food competition, and chugs his glass of juice in one go. Brad rushes over to me, sweeps me off my feet, and lifts me from the ground. He carries me in a bridal position and takes me to the room, throwing me on the bed, and unbuttoning his shirt like his life depended on it. He gets on top of me and smothers my neck with wet kisses. “No, I want to be on top of you,” I tell him. “Whatever you want, baby.” He turns over and I climb on top of him. His eyes are on me and I smile. His hands caress me, impatient for some action. Action. I slip my hand under the pillow and retrieve the dagger I had hidden. His eyes widen in shock but before he can react, I plunge the blade in his chest, squeezing deep with all my strength. He coughs and red liquid gushes from his mouth. “You shouldn't have cheated on me.” I spit on his face, leaving the buried knife and getting off him to watch at a distance as he struggles. Soon, his arms are tired, slumping down and his head falls to one side. His gaping eyes stare accusingly at me. I sit in a curled position, rocking myself back and forth, whispering in tears. “You shouldn't have cheated on me.”

One day, in an increasingly large and crowded metropolis, there was a tiny store, which was specialized in selling books. It was owned by Clara who inherited the store from her parents. The bookstore was the one place that Clara adored with its climate-controlled structure, its old wooden floor, and dusty books all over the place. This place had once been her haven when she faced the worst in her life; thus, she managed it as her parents used to do. There is a story I heard and very much believe to be true: there was a girl named Mia and one day she visited the store. She was perhaps eight years old with big round eyes with the look of a child full of questions and Fabian was rather shy. She strolled around the shelves of the store rubbing the backs of the books with her hand but did not select one. Noticing this, Clara followed the girl and tried to talk to her though the girl seemed surprised and a bit reluctant. “Is there something I can help you find?” Clara asked gently. Mia looked up at her, then down at her shoes. “I'm looking for something… something special.” Clara knelt to the girl's level. “What kind of special thing are you looking for?” The girl paused for a brief moment then cleared her throat and softly said, “My brother is sick. Sick. ” She continued to breathe something ragged before adding, “He's in the hospital, and… I need something to help him feel better. ” Clara could feel a sharp squeeze in her breast at the girl's words. She recalled deep disappointment and hopelessness when a dear person was sick Surrey made a decision that a petty action in such a situation could help Mia to ease her burden She took her by the hand and led her to the corner of the shop where there was a solitary shelf with several sheets of origami paper and a couple of books on how to fold the paper crane. “Yes, it is about a child, a girl, who folded a thousand paper cranes with her own hands for her sick mother”, smiled Clara. Mia shook her head. Clara smiled. It is generally believed that when one has folded one thousand origami cranes, the gods will grant the person a wish; it is a Japanese belief often associated with good health. Mia stared with wide eyes and Clara succeeded in seeing hope in her eyes. “Would it do my brother any good?” Clara nodded. “Maybe it could somehow make him more comfortable and who knows, maybe even magical, don't you think we should try making them together?” Weeks passed and Mia came to the bookstore every day after classes. And she was with Clara in the corner where flannel blankets were wrapped around the books and the bright sheets of paper, making crane upon crane. It was when Clara in the simplicity of showing Mia how to fold a simple bird out of an A4-sized paper that one saw that Clara possessed impeccable dexterity. Days went by and people began to notice what Mia was doing to her co-workers. Gradually, it became customary in the bookstore that Mia and Clara receive paper cranes from those customers who had originally folded them at home, or from people who came into the store to fold paper cranes along with Mia and Clara. Thus, the little bookstore turned into a hopeful place and people of different backgrounds assisted Mia in achieving her dream. A month later, effort was made to fold the last crane, which was the thousandth crane. The two girls properly put the cranes in a big box and the following day, Mia took them to the hospital. When she got to her brother's room, he was confined to bed more weakened than before but the look of joy which was evident in his eyes said a lot when he saw the box of colorful cranes. ‘Here are yours,' Mia said gently. “Each one is a wish for you to get better,” Telling this sad story and looking at the cranes which were made with love and hope her brother cries. He rose and went towards his sister grabbing her hand firmly. For the next few weeks, something quite out of the ordinary started to happen. This time was promising for Mia's brother as he started to recover. The doctors were filled with delight after seeing him fully recover, one even stated that was a very rare occurrence. Mia however was convinced by the other view that there was magic in the cranes, the love that was embraced within each of the pieces. The cranes were suspended from the ceiling of his hospital as a constant reminder to Marge that no matter how bad things are there will always be a tomorrow. And although life is fragile and many times tough, still kindness and love no matter how small can make a world of difference. Years later, Mia and her brother would often come to the bookstore and it has become their source of with full memories of hope and healing. Every time they looked at it, they would regard the strength of a wish, the sister's love, and the mystery of the existence of magic in this world.

In a rather small town in America called Maple Wood there lived a man, who was a rather old man by the name of Harold Thompson. Some of you never had a chance to meet him in person, although one could easily remember him as a kind man, who always smiled. Uh was a man who had wasted over half a century of his life sticking to one house, a neat-looking thatched-roof cottage home at the of a blind street. He had a good wife, Margaret, and a daughter Emily now a grown-up lady, who got married and resides in the city as observed in the text. Margaret had died 5 years back and ever since then, Harold had been on his own in the world. Although his daughter came to his house often, he had the feeling the house was more empty than before. There was once a time when Harold was cleaning one day, more specifically in the attic when he found a box that had not been used in years. In letters, all of them enclosed in a dusty but very much untied faded blue ribbon. They were ardently penned lines that Margaret had written to him at the beginning of their relationship. Harold took his seat untied the ribbon and spread open the first of the letters. When he painstakingly went through Margaret's letter full of hope, dreams, and love the events that they have shared blew his mind. He could just feel her giggling, the touch of her hand holding his, and could just imagine the twinkle in her eyes. Thus for the next few days, Harold spent his time with the letters. Everyone was a treasure to him and the extent to which Margaret loved him was depicted by these flowers. So after climbing to the middle, he saw a letter that looked different at the bottom of the box. It was placed in a new envelope, with his name on it written in curled Margaret writing. Perplexed he cautiously unfolded it. Thus, the letter from ‘My Dearest Harold' jumps right in. "If you're reading this, it means I am no longer by your side. I know how much you miss me, just as I miss you. But I want you to promise me one thing: die, my dear. Live as we used to live before, life has so much more to offer you the things and moments to feel happy You made my life full of joy every day, and I want you to have the same in the search for happiness without me. When Harold met Margaret's words, he wiped his cheeks and swallowed a lump of emotion that formed at the back of his throat. The letter went on, telling him to go out, to be with people, and prove that life was still as great as it was before. In the last line of the letter, Margaret penned down, I will be with you in spirit, in each stride you make henceforth, Love Margaret. Ever since the day of receiving the letter, Harold kept on thinking about it. Margaret had always been the one willing to take risks the one who encouraged him to go out and explore more. And now, even after she has died, she was prodding him to live life to the fullest measure. One day Harold woke up, and within a few minutes, he decided something. He put some clothes in a small backpack, put the letter in his pocket and went on a trip. He visited the parts of the world they wanted to visit but either couldn't or didn't get the opportunity to. Sometimes men are lucky to meet new friends and they indeed reveal to them about Margaret and your life experiences. The sea was as far as his eyes could see it; the wind was playing with his hair as Harold stood on a cliff and such position made him realize the serenity in life. He knew she was with him; in the sunsets, the laughs, and the new adventures that he was about to start in this new chapter of his life. Last of all, he was glad that he finally understood that their love transcended time and space it was within him and it inspired him to live each day and each moment with happiness and passion as the two always used to do. Harold got back to Maplewood months later with a glow on his face than he had ever had before. He had the wish to provide a full life as was expected by Margaret, so he continued living to the fullest. Although he longed for her daily, he had to accept that they were together for a lifetime and gave eternal light to his loneliness in old age.