Love is a fragrance that lasts long after the flower has wilted. It is a shield that protects even when it's tattered. Love enables and emboldens, despite doubts or fears. It bears burdens sans resistance, resilience it patiently rears. Love weakens the mighty, strengthens the meek. It never, ever treads lightly, grants colour to the bleak. Love is a lasting scent divine, a pure heart true it does define.

Whenever undertakers show up people always try to avoid contact as if they bring death or something so growing up i thought death has to be a body six feet under, first time meeting death was grandpa's death all I remember is mama crying, aunt on the ground and people all over the place wearing black like ALOT surprisingly they were yapping and acting like its an occasion to catch up like nothing happened ,I was a bit confused why do you show up if you really don't care? two years passes and here we meet again this time with dad got a call at school to go see dad at the hospital same scene all wearing black but this time they were all crying as I entered on dad I saw him but it didn't feel like him he was so cold like he was really soulless fear found me that time i got out of the room got out away all what i could say that i am ok, i went to the only place where i knew i will not have to deal with it to the pool spent there all day from waking up till i go home to bed and with my sister of choice it felt like nothing happened. nationals coming i trained harder than ever as every time I entered the pool I swam as sharks were chasing the faster i go the more silence i had tired body yes but muted mind just a week before my race got chickenpox sitting alone between those 4 walls felt as a mice trapped with a cat that is trying to kill him my mind was merciless blaming me for everything i couldn't sleep for 3 days itching body crazy mind felt like that this my end till my girl stepped in and helped and helped me realize that its ok nothing happened because of me, days passed and as i got better i was offered a job as swimming coach accepted with no hesitation chlorine smell is back in my hair this time I am the mentor ,that was the best time of my life. That friend we started talking less but that's ok that how it have been around us since childhood we both knew as we meet it will be like we never left or at least that's what i thought as she started ignoring me something felt wrong the more i try to approach her she runs new semester started I saw her at school went to talk to her she ignored me again. I really don't know what did I do? I kept texting , calling ,sent her a video of younger us saying how we will be together forever she saw it and then responded with a react after 3 days, that when i knew she is no longer the same person found her at school after that hanging with girls she used to yap how much she disliked them I felt real betrayal how can she even do that to me I trusted her as a family even more she was more than blood to me and I was a part of her family too! that's a betrayal you forgot 15 years? crying laughing everything together and for what I really don't know what happened as time passed I drown myself in work but that wasn't even powerful enough I don't miss her at midnight i missed her in the most crowed places and in my biggest achievements she was missing her spot was empty and she is the only person I really want by my side . As I trained more swimmers there were grandma's who came to train as there grandchildren watched , introducing kids to the water and seeing the hunger in young swimmers there, sprinting with my whistle , they think i am the one who taught them something new but they are the ones who came to me with wisdom every swimmer has a story and a lesson for me to learn specially those adults . I finally reached peace and that I need to let people die stop chasing not only those who are 6 feet under put in by undertakers but also those who breath i realized the girl i knew is dead so I have to grieve it and honor our memories that new girl is some one i don't know anything about as she don't either soka my dog just died months ago she was my last shared memory with dad she went to be there with him and the girl I never imagined she won't be there to get me out or i won't be there in her wedding as we dreamed wasn't there. something I learned too that when someone dies you don't try to bring them back cause they will come as a ghost or a vampire and from we knew from drama they aren't much friendly(except if he was Niklaus Mikaelson of course) people are stages in life god send them to help you through something and then leave ,same thing with you .even if you thought they will stay forever; enjoy the moment while you can and make peace with death it means someone's message is delivered as all I said hurt but it developed my character maybe god took them away cause they won't fit in the next chapter it doesn't matter if they died in a grave or in life make peace with yourself as that's the only one who is not just a chapter its the hero of the story love him so you can make a rememberable character out of him. True death happens when you get forgotten.

I never dreamed of much. All I wanted was a place where I could work honestly, where my silence was respected, and my effort seen—without needing to shout. I entered the factory with a quiet but sincere hope. I believed that calmness was a virtue and that discipline would be appreciated. But I was about to enter a world that didn't reflect who I was. I moved like a light shadow between machines. I completed my tasks in silence. I smiled sometimes and often swallowed my breath—but never showed a thing. They thought I was quiet, but inside, I was singing… Singing to myself, so I wouldn't break. Every flower that isn't watered by words sings from thirst. I wasn't like the others. I read, noticed the smallest details, loved order, adored learning, and searched for meaning amid the factory's mechanical noise. But this place didn't read. It didn't open a book, hear a song, or ask "Why?" Everything was mechanical: Movements, time, responses—even the smiles. Life was performed here, not lived. And whenever I reached toward the light, A curtain would quietly be drawn. It's as if the world fears those who see deeply. As if knowledge threatens those who've learned to walk in straight lines. Weeks passed in silent repetition. I learned to roam as someone skilled in vanishing. I lowered my gaze, shortened my steps, and hid my thoughts. Not because I had stopped dreaming, but because I could no longer bear seeing dreams crushed beneath collective silence. During breaks, I returned to a tiny notebook. I would write a phrase, record a feeling, borrow a line that sounded like me. One day I wrote: "When no one sees you… learn to see yourself." Then I closed the notebook like I'd signed a secret confession. The factory produced boxes, But I was producing questions. They counted time in minutes, I counted it by the weight it left in my soul. Yes, one day—I cried. Not out of weakness, but out of transformation. And for the first time, I heard my own voice. I knew I'd never return to who I had been. I was not a machine. I was the girl who tried to read… In a place that doesn't.

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.

I was born in a well-educated family, and my early childhood felt like a dream. My father was a successful businessman, my mother worked at her sister's store, and when I turned four, my little sister was born—completing what felt like a picture-perfect family. But fate had other plans. One day, everything collapsed. My father went bankrupt due to heavy debts. We had to sell our home in the village and move into a small rented apartment in the city. Suddenly, the comfort and security we had known were gone—and none of our relatives or friends offered help. That's where our new life began. Soon after, my mother developed severe migraines. In the middle of all this pain, we learned she was pregnant with my baby brother. Doctors advised her to terminate the pregnancy, fearing complications due to her age—she was 39. My father, worried for her health, supported the idea. But my mother's heart had already decided. Having a son was her dream. Without telling anyone, she traveled alone to Shakhimardon, a remote area between Fergana and Kyrgyzstan. By the time my father returned, it was too late for an abortion—and we were glad. That baby became a blessing to our family. My mother's health deteriorated further. My father had no choice but to leave for Russia to earn money for her treatment. I was still in school, but I took on two cleaning jobs after classes. My sister and I scrubbed floors together, and at night, I'd sit down with my textbooks, determined not to fall behind. When my brother was born, our family's joy returned—but the medical costs were overwhelming. I worked even harder. In my teenage years, I helped a kind uncle who cooked kotlets (meat patties). I'd carry baskets of them to the bazaar and sell them to hungry shopkeepers, keeping the leftovers for my family's lunch. I never felt ashamed. Every kotlet I sold was a step closer to survival. At the same time, I had a deep passion for the English language. Despite my struggles, I tutored younger students and eventually earned a place at Fergana State University. After graduating, I worked at schools and lyceums, gaining experience until I finally opened my own private learning center. Founding my own education center was not just a dream come true — it was a tribute to every tear, every kotlet I carried to the market, and every sleepless night I spent studying by candlelight. I named it with pride, as if naming a child born from sacrifice. At first, it was just a small room with a whiteboard and a few chairs, but to me, it was a palace of possibility. I wanted to create a place where children, especially from struggling families, could believe in their dreams — the same way I once believed while scrubbing floors and teaching English to younger students. Each time a student smiled in understanding, it felt like healing a piece of my past. Even when the center faced challenges and had to shut down temporarily, I did not see it as a failure. It was a lesson — one that taught me how to rise stronger, adapt better, and dream even bigger. I look back at those kotlet-selling days with pride, not shame. I was 11 years old when an elderly man at the market once told me, “You will become a great entrepreneur one day.” He was right. Today, I live the life I once dreamed of. I am married to the man I love, we have four beautiful children, and we live in a two-story home in the heart of the city. This life was built on patience, perseverance, and prayer. My story is not just about overcoming hardship—it's about believing that even from the humblest beginnings, dreams can rise.

Planting seeds of greatness, one by one, Some for nourishment, others for fun, The journey of growth has now begun. Watch and mirror the pro, she knows the way, Grasping the secrets of greatness each day. With a heart sincere and desire strong, Vow in the plow where dreams belong. In trusting and allowing, find peace profound, Navigate the path where hope is found. Expect greatness, nurture seeds with care, But know, before the breakthrough, adversity will be there. What choice will you make, what will you do? When challenges arise and skies aren't blue. Yet, because you've stood firm, your harvest draws near, Don't halt, press onward, your moment is here. Keep going, keep striving, don't dare to despair, For in perseverance, triumph is near. Press forward, prevail, your efforts are clear, In the soil of persistence, your greatness appears. © 2024, Stephene Klein Originally Pandemic Inspired © 2020, Stephene Klein

I lie in the foreign bed within the unfamiliar room, staring up at the unknown ceiling. My heart is galloping like a bronco inside my chest, and a piercing ache develops inside my head. My muscles appear to be in pain, although this could be an illusion. In truth, everything around me could be a mirage. The anti-ligature luminaire attached to the ceiling or the highly secured windows, as well as the fragrance bulbs generating a bittersweet scent, can be a deception. The thoughts in my head run in an infinite cycle until the sense of worry awakens inside my chest, prompting me to deeply breathe in and lightly breathe out. This method clears my mind of superfluous notions, leaving only one thought: I do not belong here. These last several weeks felt like an eternity. I'm trapped within this facility, not even permitted to get some fresh air like a "healthy" person would. I am continuously accompanied by an adult who most likely does not understand me. They do nothing except feed me a lot and tell me that gaining weight is necessary for me. They have no sense of humour or sympathy. What they value the most is when their patient follows their instructions. For me, they are living machines who exhibit no empathy for the most vulnerable individuals. And they claim to understand me: lucky enough to be swapping shifts with others in order to return home, while I'm compelled to stay in this building for the entire time! Each guardian is slightly different, but they all share one trait: they care more about my weight than what goes on within my warped mind. Every day, I'm expected to eat six times. This is more irritating than listening to an OCD girl ask her guardian thousands of questions or seeing a depressed female sob in the restroom. And even though the amount of food I have to consume frustrates me, I refuse to give up; every mouthful I make, every sip I take, is for my family. My parents simply deserve a healthy daughter, not one who is locked up in a psychiatric clinic for months when she could be at school working. The wall of my temporary room is adorned with images of a happy family, a family that is mine, and I don't want to destroy something as valuable as a family just because I couldn't beat my eating disorder. This condition isn't worth it. I must continue to fight. For the sake of my family; for my own benefit. And, while I don't understand some of the other patients, I'm confident that they can all do the same thing: keep on fighting for the sake of their loved ones. As difficult as it is to overcome a mental illness, one can be stronger than the voice inside their head; since this voice isn't the real you! The true self is the happy person you once were, yearning to be released from the pressures that a mental illness can bring. And I know we can do this; we just have to. So I keep on eating, keep on fighting, and everytime I'm feeling down about myself, I go to my room, to the wall covered with family photos, to remind myself why I'm doing all of this in the first place. I want to be with the people I love, but I can't since I'm in this facility. The only way out of here is to eat - and I'm doing this right now. Another few weeks pass, and I do my best not to give up. I can't let myself down, especially now that I'm so close to being released. Sharing my room with someone who is working as hard as I am to get back on their feet enhances my confidence. Having a friend like them is extremely beneficial in keeping me on track. Their name is Yara - but I call them Lou. And, finally, the day of my release has arrived. Everyone congratulates me on my accomplishment, my new friends give me tight hugs, and Lou even gives me a present - a painted canvas with my name on it. "We have made this for you so you will remember us" , they tell me. "I will miss you so much." I try to stop the tears streaming down my face. I will miss you too!, I want to exclaim. I will miss you more than you'll miss me! But everything I say is “Thank you for the canvas. I really appreciate it!” With that, I leave them - it's now their turn to leave this place having accomplished something that they can be proud of. Once I step outdoors, I immediately spot them: my mother in her ivory-coloured coat, my father in his characteristic black cap, and in front of them, my precious sister carrying our dog in her arms. They look lovely together, yet their pack is incomplete. So I run towards them, a broad smile on my face. The moment I land in my mother's arms, everything is fine again. I did it! I've returned home. Our tribe is at last complete. And everything that has happened belongs in the past, where I hope it will remain in perpetuity. Two years later, I am sitting in my room in an entirely different country, at my desk, writing the story of my life. When I pull my gaze away from the screen, my attention is drawn to a colourful canvas situated on my windowsill. Guess what? It has my name on it.

Once upon a time, a man named Paddy dug in the ground to harvest his crop, and found rot. Black, putrid rot. After digging more and more, he only found more of the same. He grabbed up a handful of what was supposed to be a potato, and, after pondering for a second, he suddenly and violently threw it; a long, hard throw, further than he thought he could throw, with fierce, clear adrenaline kicking through his body. But as he looked after his hurled piece of rot, his eyes focused on the Irishman's spear to the side. The landlord's men. A miserable, merciless, loveless lot. Now. Today. Coming to his house. Dropping everything, he turned and ran, faster than he thought he could run, up the hill to his humble stone cottage. He arrived there just as the men came riding at a swift jaunty pace into the hard-packed dirt front yard. His mind was on one thing. He neither turned nor stopped his pace, but hurled himself into the house and straight to that one thing. Along with a few last coins, he grabbed that one precious item, and ran far out back and, digging with his hands in the dry soil he placed that precious thing in the ground and threw some dirt over it. Then, turning, he saw the men ram rod the stone walls of his house. Stones fell and thudded inside the cottage, and he felt his heart thud with them. Like a wild man he wanted to run and fight them all, running into the midst of them like a one-man nightmare such as they had never seen before. With a roar the thatched roof went up in flames, and deep inside him something roared with it. But before he launched himself from his locked trance, heaven's gates swung open, and with a wild rush, it let loose its tears. All was thickly veiled with gray, fast falling, drenching, pouring. Quickly he turned, and threw himself on the ground, over his precious item shallowly buried. When the heaviness dwindled into a light drizzle, he lifted himself from the ground and turned to gaze at the landlord's work. The landlord's men were gone. Tumbled stones and piled ashes dark, damp and glistening held close the earth. Sifting smoke stirred up from it, lifting softly, sweetly, sorrowfully, like a soul leaving a young body, prematurely. And he felt his soul going with it, lifting, drifting, sifting. But not dead. Yes very much alive. More alive than many a living thing. Grief struck deep into his soul, the truest grief, yet not a tear he shed. Sorrow stung his heart, yet still, he rose upward. His precious item buried, he bent and dug it up. There it lay, like a small, premature casket, a narrow wooden box painted black, as long as his arm. His soul was in there, or, at least, a prime defining feature of his soul. Though it lay in a dark box, it was not dead. In fact it was one of the greatest defiers of death. Opening the box, Paddy pulled out his fiddle.

In the molecular biology department's lab at the University of Southern Denmark, where I participated in a one-week biotechnology camp, I was doing an experiment using the PCR technique. Using this technique, I increased an amount of DNA exponentially, generating thousands of copies out of one copy of a DNA sequence. I was quite fascinated by the experiment. It didn't take my fantasy long time to start applying the technique outside of the university's walls. I started imagining how astonishing it would be if we could replicate our wealth, achievements in academia and all the goods in the world by just replicating one single segment of them. The clock suddenly rang, and one of the professors signed our attendance, indicating the end of the lab. On the way home on the train, I was thinking about the experiment, but also about the coming high school application interview of a mentee of mine, and from this my mind wandered to the whole experience of teaching her. My mentee is a young Syrian refugee living in the town where my parents and little brother now live, and I volunteer my time to help her. She is my age and she was still attending language school when I became her mentor, to help her learn Danish and prepare to get into Danish high school. On our first meeting, we had to get to know each other. She told me that she had always dreamed of studying economics and she had been a refugee in Turkey for the last three years where her parents had not been able to send her to school, and thus, she suffered from learning difficulties. She also told me about her worries of not being able to learn the Danish language and if that would possibly prevent her from attending a normal school with teenagers who share the same interest as she does and who are at the same age. At that time, I had developed mixed feelings of responsibility for and connection to her that I hadn't expected. Despite both being refugees from Syria, we were two very different people and our challenges with regards to education and learning were very different. But we were, however, both trying to find a source of hope for our futures, or as they say, a light at the end of the tunnel. Gradually, I began to realize that we had more things in common than we might have thought originally. What I really wanted to do was not just teach her Danish, I wanted to open her eyes to the possibilities in this different world, which both she and I had been thrown into. The language was a tool for this and I had that tool. I had managed to take hold of it quite quickly, but passing it on to her and others often felt like a whole set of challenges. Suddenly, everything became dark as the train passed through a tunnel along the way. I closed my eyes letting my thoughts wander deep into the Danish language, trying to find some tips that might make learning easier and more enjoyable for her. The next day, I bought a small notebook for our next meeting, and in that notebook, we wrote down all the new words she learned while reading. We had agreed together to practice them in our conversations every time we met. As her vocabulary grew, the Danish language began to acquire a distinct rhythm to my ears; a rhythm that I didn't have the chance to feel properly or to hear closely before, as my brain was absorbing the language very quickly during my first seven months in this new country. Our words were multiplying in the notebook, and as they did, our will was rising and fighting against the consequences of an illogical war that had brought both of us here. As our conversations in Danish advanced from very simple sentences to more complex thoughts and phrases, I began to sense a change in the essence of our exchanges. With each new word that my mentee added to her vocabulary, I tasted words of resilience and hope that were never present in our Arabic conversations. I began to realize that the Danish language had become not only a means of communication, but also a source of strength and resistance and hope for a better future. With this realization, I repeated each sentence, uttering the words again and again, allowing her to understand the layers of meaning within this new vocabulary. Fortified with this new language, she was rebuilding a life and lighting up the dark tunnel with her education. It was only a few days before her high school interview that our notebook was almost full of new vocabularies. Her Danish conversations had developed remarkably and her confidence in her own skills has grown as well. After my mentee passed her interview for high school successfully, I discovered that replicating our academic achievements would never have the same value as replicating DNA copies. I realized that the true value of these achievements comes only through sharing them and using them to make a difference in the lives of others.