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This isn't my whole life story — just a chapter. And as they say, this too shall pass. If you came expecting the story of a successful man, well… success isn't the end. Even at the top, battles continue, reshaping the road ahead. Life breaks us quietly, piece by piece, until we forget who we were. But in the fall's silence, we find a voice we never knew we had. My name is Goutham Siva, and this is how losing everything led me to discover a strength I didn't know I had. On February 21, 2021, I left home with a suitcase full of hope and dreams bigger than my fears. I had just joined ZSMU in Ukraine to study medicine — a goal born from silent perseverance and a promise to myself. I come from a middle-class Indian family. As the only son, I understood the pressure I carried, even if unseen. For the first time, it felt like life was finally giving me a chance. Everything was falling into place — friendships, studies, future plans — until war knocked.I remember the laughter in our hostel halls, the dreams we stitched late at night — study plans, travel ideas, shared meals. These weren't just friends; they were giving colors to my black and white life, endorphins I never knew I had. On March 1, 2021, everything fell apart. The icy wind tore through my jacket as I stood at the border, clutching my passport like a lifeline. My friends and I huddled under one blanket on the cold station floor, like birds in a cage, waiting, unsure of what came next. Then a guard looked at us and said, “You're safe now.” But I wasn't sure what safe even meant anymore. In just a few days, I went from student with dreams to refugee with uncertainty in my hands. I left behind friends, classes, routines. Everything I had built — gone. I held on. For six months, I clung to online classes and fragile hope I could return. We stayed connected — calls, late texts — but reality closed in. The university asked us to transfer. Coming from a family where every rupee counts, it felt like everything my parents worked for was slipping away. Their sweat, savings, and belief — all in water. But fate didn't end my story — it rewrote it. I was given a painful gift: the chance to start again. A new country, a new system, a new language. Uzbekistan was unfamiliar. Bukhara State Medical Institute became my new battleground. This time, I wasn't just chasing a degree. I was honoring every sacrifice my parents had ever made. I was fighting for the version of myself that refused to be defined by loss. And honestly — I wanted to prove my existence. That I mattered. Strangely, that blank slate became my biggest blessing. I threw myself into everything — competitions, video projects, student activities. I entered an essay contest. No expectations, just heart. And I won. That win reminded me I still mattered — that I still had a voice. Then came a video Competition I filmed with nothing but passion. And when I stood with the rector, receiving first prize, I wasn't just smiling for the camera. I was smiling for the version of me that almost gave up. That moment wasn't just about the award — it was a silent, defiant message to everyone who ever doubted me. That video opened doors. I began working with the Youth Union, creating content for the university. I became a bridge between cultures, an international student coordinator. And with that, came my first stipend — a small reward, but a huge symbol of redemption. Then, one afternoon, something surreal happened. I was honored by the Minister of Health of Uzbekistan — handed a certificate, a bouquet, and a laptop. The certificate read: “For his exemplary behavior, dedication, and contribution to our University “ As I stood there, the weight of those words sank in. The boy who once stood at a border, unsure of his future, was now celebrated for shaping one. I realized I hadn't just survived — I'd contributed, grown, risen. You know what I've learned? Starting over isn't failure. It's the universe giving you a new canvas. Sometimes, the second masterpiece is more powerful than the first. Life isn't chess, where you win by taking down others. It's more like a journey — where the real victory comes from the friends you make along the way, the moments that shape you, and the scars that teach you how to fly. So if you're standing at the edge right now — unsure, broken, tired — know this: The hardest chapters often become the most powerful stories. That's where warriors are made. That's where you are made. The world may take everything from you — but it can never take your will to rise. I didn't get here alone. My parents' belief lit the way. My friends brought laughter when I forgot how. And every moment I wanted to quit, their love reminded me why I couldn't. And this — this is not the end. This is the part where I rise.

The Garden of Hope It was the time of the Second World War — a time when the sky was painted with ash, and hope was buried beneath the rubble of ruined homes. The world trembled under the roar of bombs, and humanity seemed to fade into shadows. In a small war-torn country, surrounded by enemy forces and abandoned by its own government, there lived a twelve-year-old girl named Luiza. War had stolen everything from her. Her father had died on the front lines, and her mother, frail and ill, perished in silence — starved and forgotten. All Luiza had left was a small notebook she carried everywhere. In it was an old photograph: her, her mother, and her father smiling in a peaceful garden — a memory untouched by war. Below the picture, in her mother's delicate handwriting, were the words: “Never give up, Luiza. You must live for all of us.” That notebook became her world — a place where grief and memory met hope and resistance. Luiza wrote in it every day: stories of loss, of neighbors disappearing, of bombs falling, but also of dreams — dreams not yet dead. One cold morning, the enemy broke through the city's final defenses. Soldiers flooded the streets like a merciless tide. But Luiza refused to run. Instead, she gathered the children of the neighborhood — frightened, hungry, barefoot souls — and whispered to them a plan. In the darkness of a basement, using scraps and rags, they crafted costumes. They rehearsed not a play, but a truth. A performance stitched from the pages of Luiza's notebook — a story of war, of love, of humanity. When the enemy marched into the central square, they found no resistance, no fire. Only children standing quietly on a makeshift stage. And then... the performance began. The Theatre Scene – A Performance of Truth (The children stand in position. Torn cloth as curtains. Broken crates as props. A hush fills the square. Luiza gives a silent nod. The play begins.) [A Girl (playing a mother) walks to center stage, holding a bundle of cloth like a baby.] Girl (Mother): (softly, rocking the bundle) “Hush now, little one. The bombs are far away tonight. Let's pretend we're in the garden… just you and me.” (pauses, then whispers) “But your papa… he won't be coming back. Not from the front.” [A Boy (playing a son) steps forward with a wooden toy soldier and a folded paper letter.] Boy (Son): (reading shakily) “Dear Papa, I fed your pigeons today. Mama says I should be brave like you. But Papa… it's so cold. And the sky keeps falling.” (chokes back tears) “I miss you more than I can say. I still sleep with your toy soldier. Maybe it'll protect me too.” [A Small Girl (playing a sister) joins with an empty plate in her hands.] Girl (Sister): “Do you remember soup, Mama? The real kind? We had it once… before the soldiers came.” (looks up) “If I could cook stars, I'd make you a bowl.” [A Boy (playing a neighbor) enters limping, holding a pair of broken shoes.] Boy (Neighbor): “They took my brother yesterday. He was just fourteen. He said, ‘Tell them I wasn't afraid.' I didn't get to say goodbye.” [All the children form a line, facing the soldiers. Luiza steps forward, holding her notebook. Her voice trembles but remains firm.] Luiza: (opens notebook) “This is our truth. Our story. We have no bombs, no bullets — only memories and dreams. But listen closely. Because dreams... can end wars.” (She reads aloud, voice rising with strength.) - “If even one heart still holds hope, this world is not doomed.” For a moment, everything stopped. A hush fell over the square. Then, an officer stepped forward, lowering his weapon. A tear slid down his weathered cheek. Officer: (softly, almost to himself) “She sounds like my daughter…” Another soldier followed, then another. Guns were placed on the ground — not in surrender, but in remembrance. What began as a child's play turned into a message the war could not silence. Soon after, peace negotiations began. A treaty was signed. The war, at least for them, was over. Years Later… Where the stage had once stood, a garden now bloomed. In the heart of it stood a house — full of laughter, music, and the scent of flowers. And in that house lived Luiza — no longer a lost girl, but a mother, a wife, a woman who had rewritten the story of her country. On the wall hung a faded photograph: a girl and her parents smiling beneath a tree. What was once just a picture... had become reality. It was the Garden of Hope.

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The northern lights skillfully danced across the night sky but Shifer took no notice. He scurried along the dimly lit street sticking to the shadowy fringes as much as he could. One couldn't be too cautious, especially with a reputation like his. Pausing for a moment, nose poised high in the air, he waited for a scent to guide him. There it was. He darted down an unusual alley, hunting for his evening meal. He had a feeling something special was on the menu tonight. The scent grew stronger. Fresh meat? A cunning smile spread across teeth as grimy as the pavement he stalked upon. It wasn't long before his dirty paws carried him right to the source of the smell, outside an old wooden door. A large basket sat on the pavement, unattended. How kind! He smirked and jumped up. As quickly as he landed, he reeled back in shock. Was that what he thought it was? He gingerly peeked over the edge of the basket. Brown smiling eyes looked back at him as two chubby little feet kicked around. A baby! Why was it alone? Didn't the parents know what could happen? He shuddered at the thought. He might steal from other rats but he wasn't an animal! Spying a note on the side of the basket he crept closer while keeping a wary eye on the baby. His English wasn't well-polished but he could decipher a few words. ‘Can't look after… please take my baby…' Abandoned? He thought of his own past of being the runt of the litter. His family had left him for dead one cold February night when he was just a wee rat and he had been fending for himself ever since. As difficult and lonely as it had been, at least he was able to care for himself. He knew this little one wouldn't have the same fate without help. No, he must do something. But what? He pondered aloud what to do, his squeaking making the baby giggle with delight. All of a sudden the hairs on his neck began to prickle and stand up on edge. He paused, eyes darting around him as he listened. No, it didn't seem anyone was there. He looked down to the child again as she smiled up at him. Shifer did his best to smile back. Most said his smile could make milk curdle, but this little one didn't mind it at all. His heart just began to melt when his beady eyes detected movement to his left. Four figures slunk up the pavement silently like the descending of darkness. ‘Holding out on us again I see, Shifer,' sneered the huge black ringleader as they surrounded the basket. ‘You obviously didn't learn your lesson last time. I told you what would happen if you crossed us again.' ‘This isn't ours to have. Leave the poor thing alone, Vladelets.' ‘I don't think so. Now get out of here before we eat you first, traitor,' hissed Vladelets, his anger boiling over. Time was running out. Shifer desperately looked up at the oak door, willing someone to come out. Nothing. Seeing no way out an unfamiliar courage rose within him. He let out a blood-curdling squeal. Vladelets greedy eyes widened with surprise. His head cocked on one side and he glared at Shifer. What was he playing at? Neither of them noticed the child's eyes widening or her sudden quick shallow breaths. Like the firing gun the babies scream pierced the silent night. The ringleaders eyes flashed red with rage and he lunged toward the offending rat. Running for his life, Shifer had a fleeting moment of hope. He might just make it out of here alive. Searing pain rippled through his haunches as four sets of teeth sunk into him. ‘What on earth...' muttered a startled voice, as the door flew open. ‘Dmitri, come see!' The gang of rats leapt off Shifer and fled at the sight of the human, leaving him alone in the shadows. The woman bent down and tenderly lifted the child from the basket just as a man appeared beside her in the doorway. ‘Yulia, it was just this morning we prayed…' The man's voice was thick with emotion as they stared at the child in amazement. Shifer strained to stay awake, watching the scene play out before him under the backdrop of the shifting purple and green aurora. The man and woman hovering over the child, stroking her softly until her cries stopped. The baby sniffling quietly, snuggling into the woman's arms. The feeling of love and hope for the future settling over them all like a blanket. It made Shifer feel warm and safe. As he slipped away from consciousness a slight smile spread across his lips. He was no longer a coward nor traitor. He had given his life to save another. The last thing he saw was those big brown eyes looking down at him. Thanking him.

Dr. Aaron J. Greenberg is board-certified and fellowship-trained in orthopedic surgery of the spine. After completing his undergraduate degree at Johns Hopkins University, Dr. Greenberg attended medical school at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center, where he was elected into the AOA Honor Society after finishing top of his class. Dr. Greenberg completed a residency in orthopedic surgery at University Texas Medical School, followed by a fellowship in orthopedic spine surgery at Emory University. Dr. Greenberg is passionate about patient care, treating patients who are experiencing pain, and getting them back to a great quality of life. He treats cervical, thoracic, and lumbar disorders of the spine. Dr. Greenberg uses the latest spine techniques, such as motion sparing technology, and specialises in minimally invasive spine surgery. Using a personal and sensitive approach in his patient care, Dr. Greenberg emphasises understanding the concerns of his patients. Dr. Aaron J. Greenberg, a leading spine specialist, is a member of our top-rated team of orthopedic spine surgeons in New Jersey and New York. He accepts patients at Premier Brain & Spine, an orthopedic spine center. Google maps: https://maps.app.goo.gl/bv29hb5xxX1G3PRY7 https://plus.codes/87G7VWMV+85 Nearby Locations: Bogota, NJ | Maywood, NJ | Teaneck, NJ | Hackensack, NJ | Lodi, NJ 07644 | River Edge, NJ | Paramus, NJ 07652 | Ridgefield Park, NJ | South Hackensack, NJ | Little Ferry, NJ 07643 | Hasbrouck Heights, NJ 07604 Premier Brain & Spine — Hackensack, NJ 20 Prospect Ave, Hackensack, NJ 07601 848 212 8485 / (866) 590–0601 https://premierspinenj.com/ https://premierspinenj.com/contact/hackensack-nj/ Working Hours: Monday-Friday: 9:00AM — 6:00PM Saturday-Sunday: Closed Payment: cash, check, credit cards.

If you can fill your heart with compassion for friend, foe and stranger alike; if you can out of your soul hatred strike and instead resolve kindness to fashion… If you can embrace with every fibre of your being empathy for each suffering living thing; if your soul can of love and tolerance sing and vow to only the good in all be seeing… If you can sincerely forgive and forget every slight and slur hurled like words of stone darts; if you succeed in mending broken hearts and offer solace to those running in fright… Then have you conquered your nature cynical, Raised your mere humanity to heaven's pinnacle.

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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!

Power of hope For I will achieve these I need enough knowledge, force, energy and hope. In this way I am going to pass the exam at university of diplomacy. So the main subject of the enterence exam is English. Hence my mother took me tutor to learn English. My teacher was very kind person. I appreciated that person very much. At first I am not deal with these subject . Because it was my first attempt .in our study center have had a lot of facilities for wise student. For intense: they used to win dessert, books, money and other gifts. When I participated lesson at first time, one student who the smartest of group was legend and I green envious to her. Because she was also won present . And spirit fell for I had not ability as her. Days , week and month alike passed. Soon my teacher understand my condition. And she asked me not leave after the lesson. Then she said " xolida ! If I am not mistaken I know that you have lack of confidence and hope . Because of Lily who the smartest of the group. But when she came as a newcomer, she couldn't win or understand anything for 4 month . But she tried to do it very hard, and asked me amount of question. You can also do it." Then she told me that "I believe you" and it was inspired me most. After that I headed to home. Then I told to myself "even if I met with billion obstacle on my way , I would defeat all of them. And it was my true decision. After I arrived home, I started read my my book and I corrected my fault from the last test. Then I was also take extra lesson an online. Finally I improved my knowledge day by day. But slowly a few problem came to my life. The first was , one day my relatives visited our house for my birthday. But i was doing my homework quietly on the corner. Then they called me and said "why are you choose this difficult way ? What you expect from yourself ? You small, young and weak .you cannot do anything" and I felt disappointment for their rude word. After they left our house, I stared at one point upsetly for a while. And my my mother Saw my state. She told me " you should don't care about their rudeness. Don't forget from age 15 to 23 , the age where you meet with a lot of toxic and temporary people . They just say nonsense. Inspite of you should show off your ability to them". And these phrases helped me for put me such good mood. Then these night I didn't sleep and I did my object. After one week , we wrote essay to the teacher with our tutor student. Soon our teacher marked our essay . Then she informed that my essay was the best writing. And she gave bar of chocolate as a present. It was very simple but my first steep forward vivid Future. And I went to my home happily. So quickly I also became the more knowledgeable of the group. And I decided to register in multi level test exam . The more I felt strong , many people hated me. It seems also simple things to me . One day I slept while I was doing my homework. Because I exhausted at that time. However when I woke early , I couldn't my hands as lack of strength. Besides that my back was hurting . Then my mother took me a doctor. He said to me "you need to rest, if not it may lead you to bad consequences". However I cried after heard these, and I told him about my all plan , that is I said that I had to prepare for exam and that I had to go to tutor too . But he didn't listen to me and recommended me to get treatment in hospital. I used to study at night in hospital kitchen every day. So that no one would know. But then hospital chef found out me and brought a cup of coffee. Then she said " your hard working behavior take me aback. Drink it it may give you refreshing." I became glad and said thanks to her. So it happened every day until I left here. After that final day of treatment, my mother took me home. Next day I else went to tutor for check my all test. And it showed good result. But there were also a few mistake too. I felt nervous. But I didn't give up. Suddenly in exam day, I woke up with unbearable headache. Out of fear my mother almost cancelled my exam. However I didn't want it. Thus I took a medicine and went forward exam hall. All the test seemed very easy to me. As I prepared beforehand. After I did all the test . I left exam hall . My mom waited for me around 4 hours impatiently out of exam hall branch. And asked me to about exam. I told her about everything on the car, while we were going to home after one month exam result have been announced and I passed the exam. We were very happy, glad and merry. My life wasn't ended here whatever I have achieved, I did with my own personality, strength and hope . I have had billion reason to complain. however I didn't pay attention to them. They called me child, young and weak . But I proved that I can do it . And my strenge , hope is not lost yet. Despite of trouble , fell over that I met . I stood up and tired to do it. If people are still alive, they can do whatever they want inspite of any obstacle.

Though he was tall, quite fair in complexion, His cerulean gaze was lowered in humility, For he was filled with the shame of poverty; Viewed he himself as nowhere near perfection. Life was a stagnant river of constant rejection. Dismay gnawed at his sad soul in brutal enmity. Wealth he lacked, but rich he was in sagacity. In the company of peers, he feared humiliation. Yet, in the radiance of dawn he arose with hope, Laughed about the sole of his shoe gaping so wide. ‘Much to be grateful for' was his personal creed. His heart filled with faith that again he would cope, Face travails, shoulder challenges and never hide From anything, as God provided for his every need. Image: Fernando Photography (www.unsplash.com)

Warrick propped up the soft pillows behind his granny's head as she lay like a gaunt specter of her previous spirited self in her deathbed. And deathbed it was indeed. At nineteen, Warrick knew death when it looked him in the face. He had become all too familiar with it when his mother had wasted away from cancer of the stomach two years ago. “My boy,” Kathy wheezed, fondly squeezing Warrick's hand with the last of her strength. “I'm so sorry you're burdened with me,” she added, tears flooding her faded eyes. Guilt overwhelmed her frail body, making her curl even further into herself. She was grateful that the agony that wracked every part of her broken body seemed suspended for now. “You're not a burden, Granny!” Warrick said , looking into the old woman's watery eyes. He was afraid to sit on the bed for fear of causing her any discomfort or hurt. “You were there for me when Mom passed away, and you've always looked after me even before that, so this is nothing. I can never repay you, so don't think or say you're burdensome to me. You're my blessing.” His words nearly undid the old woman's hold on her emotions. “I'm going to prepare supper now, all right? I managed to borrow a can of peas from Brian's mom. We've still got carrots and potatoes, so I'll make us a stew. I think there's enough rice left for one pot,” Warrick said, hating the fact that they were truly living on the edge of poverty. “Since this terminal illness struck down my granny,” Warrick said to Brian later that night, “I've had to become caregiver, cook, house cleaner and nurse. You know my dad abandoned us when I was only eight, and my mom slaved all her life as a domestic worker to provide for us,” Warrick added. Brian was his school mate; they were more like brothers than friends. “With your granny becoming ill, looking after her fell on you. You can't even look for a job 'cause your granny needs constant care,” Brian commiserated. “Is there any hope for her recovery?” “None. At our last hospital visit, her doctor told me to ‘make her as comfortable as possible' here at home. How can anyone who's dying so slowly ever be comfortable?” Warrick asked, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders hunched forward. “It's bad, bro. I don't know if I could've handled this, to be honest,” Brian said. He reached out to give Warrick's shoulder a long squeeze before going home. Kathy had heard the conversation between the two boys. By some quirk of the night or fay life, their hushed words had reached her clearly as she lay statue-still, imprisoned by her bed. She felt some remnant of fury trying to bubble up from her breast, anger that she had become this weak when before she had been energetic, industrious and a whirlwind of movement. Being this incapacitated often made her feel wrathful, but she swiftly smothered the emotion. It would only bring on the vicious barbs of pain. Her medication sat on her bedside table, within easy reach. Warrick is truly thoughtful, she thought, then she started to cry softly. He doesn't deserve to have his life placed on hold because of me, the bitter thought flitted through her mind, superseding the twisting, torturous pangs running amok throughout her body. As the last rays of the setting sun peeped through a chink in her bedroom curtains, Kathy slowly, painfully, sat up in bed. She reached for the morphine pills. With immense determination, she poured all the pills into her cupped hand. Closing her eyes, she prayed one final time. Forgive me, God. I know I'm damning my soul forever, but I would rather do that than have Warrick sacrifice another day of his young life. With a trembling hand, Kathy gripped the glass of water. She looked lovingly at her bedroom, at the knickknacks on her dresser, the antique wooden wardrobe her husband had made himself ages ago, her rocking chair next to the small, round reading table on which a novel waited for her to finish reading it for probably the twentieth time. She smiled wanly as she recalled the joy she had experienced upon first reading the book; that happiness had only increased with all the other subsequent readings. 'Gone with the Wind', by Margaret Mitchell. I have no regrets, except one. I'll be leaving Warrick sole alone in this cruel world. May he forgive me. Closing her eyes again, tears seeping from under her closed eyelids, Kathy brought the pills to her mouth. A warm, soft touch arrested her cupped hand. Kathy's eyes flew open in surprise, only to see Warrick standing in front of her. His cheeks were moist with his trailing tears. The forlorn look on his face broke her heart anew. “Granny, this isn't the way. God will ease our suffering. We only need to hold on to our faith and believe in His mercy,” Warrick whispered before carefully enfolding the tiny, fragile frame of the old woman in his strong, youthful arms. “My sweet, sweet angel,” Kathy breathed softly.

“I'm looking for the thing that will fill the hole in my soul. I have everything— riches you will never comprehend. Men and women love me, the people want to be me, and I have endless companions. I can afford to adorn them with rare jewels and house them in my massive castle. I have a whole wing filled with wine older than my grandfather. I have a closet larger than town square. I have everything I want. “You have nothing compared to me. Your horse has one leg in the grave and my steed makes it look dead already. Your own home is crumbling and one day, it will crush you. The fireplace is more ash than flame and your carpet has withered. Your clothes are tattered, tarnished with the filth of a poor man's life. You survive, but I live. You will never understand my wondrous life. You clean up shattered pieces and try to save your life's wreckage but you will never be as close to this feeling as I am. But, how could you? You've been dealt a hand full of holes. You've lost. I truly pity you and these creaky floorboards and the crying ceiling and that moth banging on the windowsill.” The man goes to the window. Loving hands scoop the small creature and carry it to the door. He releases it and it flies to the sky. “It won't survive.” “Probably not.” “It wouldn't have lived much longer in here either.” “…“ “Why did you release it?” “Because that's where it wanted to finish life. In the sky, where it is free.” “I want to die embraced with warmth. The moth is a stupid creature, choosing cold over comfort.” “Why do you so strongly hate that which you cannot understand?” “I, well—,” “Do you want to feel complete? Think. Do you really have everything you want?” “What more could there be to gain?!” The man counts on his fingers. “Money, pleasure, friends, jewels— I have it all!” “Do you have love?” “Of course! I love tea.” The kettle is removed from the fireplace by the other man. He pours the boiling water into two cups, swirling crushed tea leaves. “I love my mother and father. I love my kingdom.” “Do you love yourself?” he asks while handing him a glass. “Of course…” The wealthy man pauses. “Well… What constitutes self-love?” “Self-love is not just treating yourself to your desires. It is to be confident, to seek validation from only yourself, to be virtuous, to know what you truly want.” “How will I know?” “First, realize the moth knows its wants better than you.” “Are you comparing your king to a moth?” “Second, realize you are just an animal serving its animalistic desires.” “Hey—“ “You need people to love you in order to love yourself. You lack the esteem to consider yourself lovable. You bring down others so you can rise up. You surround yourself in material value and gorge because you have no sense of reason. Your friends are slimy and they will leave you the second you cannot provide.” The man pauses his speech. He takes in the other man, glass in hand, eyes bent wide, brows furrowed. “You have to want to be good. Do good, spread good, follow your morals, be ethical. If you look deeper and inspect the waves of your mind, you will find completion.” The man drinks his last sip of tea. “I must leave.” He sets the cup down and the discarded tea leaves settle. “What will you do next?” He leans in to look and see the way the leaves have fallen. The man crosses floorboards worn from pacing feet. He takes a final look at shards lovingly collected and a carpet that has nourished. He grabs a copper handle that has worn away to gold, then opens the door. “I'll learn how to love.” He closes the door. In the stable, his horse has its head turned and resting on the back of the other. He gently wakes them. They exchange goodbyes and the man adds his fur coat to the blankets piling the aged horse, covering frost-tipped ears. They make it back to the main road. By now, the crowd has dispersed, and only the sound of wind and thumping gallops follow. The snow glistens from the rising sun, painting the man and his horse in orange and red. Something glows from the light on the horse's mane. He gingerly picks it up, delicate like glass. Its wings look shattered and broken, twitching as he cups it in his palm. “The moth died for what it wanted.” He leaves its body to rest in a bright place under the sun.

Beautiful tapestries woven with gold shimmer in the sunlight. Jewels sparkle with a million intricacies and purple flows along banners, finest of silk. Like rolling fields of golden hay, hills of treasure tumble to the floor. “A fine collection, your majesty.” “That diamond is lovely, your majesty!” “What will you do with it all, your majesty?” Asks the choir of envy. “It will complete me, of course,” the wealthy man replies. Countless women, as beautiful as Venus. They slide over each other, reaching out for the wealthy man. Countless men, as beautiful as Mars. They are adorned with diamonds and put on display. They are here for him, to serve him, “—To complete me, of course,” the wealthy man replies. A banquet table glitters with steaming pots of emerald kettles. Fancy leather chairs comfort his companions. They wear shoes he bought them, jewelry he purchased, even the clothes off their backs are from his wealth. “You all complete me too, of course.” The wealthy man smiles, but like a gap in his teeth, or childless mother, something is missing. Later that night the wealthy man lies alone in bed. “What am I missing?” he asks. “I have everything I want, everything I need— what else could possibly complete me?” He gets out of bed and stands next to the window. The glass is cold and he can see his breath from fog. He wipes the obscure away to overlook his kingdom. Hundreds of people, wandering his streets. Thousands more, tucked inside. They all have far, far less than him. Compared to his riches and wealth, their existence is nothing. They will never as close to completion as he is. Still, he grabs his red and white fur coat and stumbles into his boots. He rushes for the doorknob and glides down the stairs. Maids and butlers give him quizzical looks, but they don't understand. Tonight is the night he answers this question. His royal steed is woken by the weight of a saddle. He rides down snowy trails as knights shout his name and say he's gone mad. The horse trots into town. Turned up dirt is splattered over slush. Townspeople, his people, stare in awe as his coat flutters in the crisp wind. They eye his crown, the piece barely hanging onto his tousled hair. No guards, no armour, no sense of reason, and utterly defenceless. Filled with greed, the crowd inches closer. From the crowd, a man in rags pushes himself forwards. “Would you like to come inside for tea?” The poor man asks. “Will it complete me?” the wealthy man replies. “It will fill you for a moment.” “I've had enough of momentary bliss.” “Your horse is freezing.” “…” “I have a stable. Please, follow me.” The crowd lets them through and the wealthy man follows slow footsteps. He is lead into a dirtier part of the kingdom, where the buildings are squished and held together with chipped bricks and knotted wood. The “stable” is a tiny shack that is hardly big enough for the old, weathered horse already inside. The wealthy man dismounts and together the men shimmy the steed inside. The horses draw close together, sharing a tender embrace. The poor man tosses another blanket over them and the shivering slowly stops. “Let's get you some tea.” Inside he is greeted by a leaky ceiling. Dirt paints a carpet that has been eaten away by moths, leaving it hole-ridden and bleak. Shards of glass from a broken plate have been picked up and stacked on a rag, stained red from soft fingers. “Take a seat, I'll put the kettle on.” The wealthy man sits on a wooden chair and it creaks under his weight. It feels like a threat and another reason he's not supposed to be here. “What is this feeling you've been searching for?” The run-down house warms up as more wood is tossed into the fireplace. A dim orange glow lets him see the features of the poor man. He's smiling. Why is he smiling?