Wake up, make the bed, cook breakfast, clean the house, cry, cook dinner, greet George with a bright smile, have dinner, go to bed. This is my life. These mundane tasks chip away at my hope for the future. This is it. I am going to die on these perfectly waxed floors. This is the “perfect nuclear family.” I am living the life every woman told me I wanted. So, why am I leaning on the sink counter contemplating my existence? When I got engaged, everyone congratulated me. Why? Why would they wish for this dehumanization? Hopelessness crushes my chest, attempting to squeeze out my remaining breaths. The first time I had this reaction, I thought I was dying. But I am growing accustomed to it. Today, a spot of grime sent me spiraling until I hit the floor of my bottomless well of a soul. All I can do is wait for the spiraling to slow. Just wait and this feeling will be pushed down. My back slides down against the wall, dragging my skirt with it until I hit the cold tile floor. GET UP ELIZABETH. Despite every muscle in my body telling me to lie down, I pull myself up to prepare dinner. Six o'clock. George should be arriving soon Bright smile “I'm home. . .” my husband's bored voice fills the room, “. . . have you made me my drink yet?” “Of course. How was work, darling?” “Oh, boring work stuff. I'm in no mood to talk.” He picks up his daily paper and sits down at the head of the table. The bright smile plastered onto my face falters. Why do I even try anymore? What happened to me? I was once idealistic. Ambitious. “Women only go to college to get their MRS degree,” my mother said. Oh, and a husband I found. George was practical, stable, average. Nothing little girls wish for. An accountant with a retirement plan. Just what every girl dreams of. I quit school after I got married. Sometimes I wonder about the girls who stayed. Who chose themselves. Who didn't buy into the nuclear family fever dream. I imagine them stepping out of elevators and rushing down the hallway to their desks. They are stressed but fulfilled. The most fulfillment I get is clean dishes. I glance over at my husband's paper, announcing “Supreme Court Strikes Down School Segregation.” My law professor told me I was the most promising student he'd ever had. I've been chasing that high ever since. I only had one year left on my law degree. I could go back! I look over at my husband. He sits across from me, yet I am alone at this perfectly set dinner table. His face is shrouded in the shadow of the newspaper, a wall between us physically and emotionally. “How is the food?” I ask, trying to nonchalantly propose my return to the university. “Fine.” Of course it is. “I was thinking, you are always at work and I get kind of lonely here,” I hesitantly state. “So, you want to have a hobby? That's fine with me.” “Not exactly. What if I return to school and finish my law degree?” His silence at the end of the table sends trickles up my spine. “I only have one year left.” His lack of a response flushes my face. He has not put down his paper. “I'm not sure that's a great idea,” he states matter-of-factly. “Why not?” An edge creeps into my voice. “You are just so busy here taking care of the house and cooking.” His completely flat tone raises my body temperature. “I could find …” “No, you couldn't,” he interrupts. “Well, I was just saying that…“ “It just isn't a great idea. Sorry.” Adrenaline pulses through my body. “I need someone to be here waiting for me.” Boom. There goes my temper. “JUST PUT DOWN THE DAMN PAPER!” That gets his attention. He lowers the newspaper and strides over to my side of the table. “That's no way to speak to your husband.” He raises his hand and strikes me on my cheek, leaving a stinging sensation. A tear trickles down my face. George returns to his seat and picks up his newspaper. “A wife needs to support her husband. And for that I need you to be here.” Tears silently roll down my face. No. I am not doing this. I rise and stare this man in the eyes. I briskly march to my purse. “Where are you going?” George shoots up, his chair crashes against my immaculate floor. His voice quivers with uncertainty. “Anywhere but here.” I grab my purse and make my way to the door. “Wait, you can't just leave!” I ignore his frightened calls. I open the door feeling the rush of the cool night air on my skin. “I AM YOUR HUSBAND!” I shut the doors behind me, turning George's shouts to muffled words. I step inside the car and turn the engine. The soft roaring sound fuels my passion. I drive away from my perfect white picket fence house. In spite of the darkness shrouding my view, I sense a new dawn of a life absent of the suffocating “nuclear family.” Finally feeling that warm rippling feeling of potential surging through my veins, I choose myself.

Each musical note blossoms with color. Each color infuses a distinct flavor in my mouth. C# is light blue and metallic. A—my favorite—is yellow and peachy. I cannot escape the constant barrage. Everything has a tone. The school bell rings out an E—it's green, tastes like pistachio ice cream. The hum of the fluorescent lights is out of tune to an A-flat. Even silence has a note, because it's never truly silent. When I plug my ears, even the blood rushing through me has a note. A color. A taste. If I tune one out, it means tuning in something else. Like Mr. Steever in history droning on and on mostly in low F, a swirl of gray and beige, tasting like mashed potatoes with nothing added to them—earthy and bland. I can handle his class. My therapist calls it a gift. I call it a prison, and I don't know where the key is, or who has it, or if one even exists. I can't focus on Ms. Donaldson's lectures. Her voice hits almost all the notes but F. Most of my class thinks she's the best teacher. She probably is, but I usually leave her class with a splitting headache. I wish I could have a brain transplant. “Sadly, it's not a medically viable option, Allie,” my dad said. So, what do they do with a freak like me? They stick me in the gifted classes. I told them, this is not a gift. Plus, in the gifted classes, we just get more homework and harder assignments. So not what I need. They say I'm under-performing. What they don't realize is I can't perform. Not when I have three distracting channels going on inside of me—at all times. My only friend is my dog, Cody. After school I bury my face in his fur, and I can finally focus on a different sense: touch. I could lie there for hours, rubbing his fur. Nothing else calms my other senses. But I don't tell anyone this. It's my secret. I don't want them to make me go to school with a guide dog. I have enough trouble making friends. I think my mom knows I'm different when I'm with Cody. It makes her happy, and that makes me happy, too. Today my lab partner, his name is Jay, brought his rabbit in. It had babies last week. Jays in 4-H and wants to show off his project, which Ms. Donaldson is more than happy to oblige. I've never held a rabbit before, but I'm anticipating the feeling of it. Everyone passes the baby rabbits around, and Jay hands me the mama rabbit. I hold her close and stroke her head and ears. I close my eyes and hold her up to my cheek. The notes fade. The colors turn to gray. My tongue tastes . . . like nothing. When I open my eyes, half of the class is staring at me. My face heats up as I lower the rabbit. Someone points at me with their mouth popped open. I scratch my wrist and sniff. My nose is stuffed. Was I crying? Jay takes the rabbit. “Are you okay?” I scratch my chin. “I'm fine,” I say, but I don't feel fine. “I think you're having an allergic reaction.” Jay takes my hand and says to Ms. Donaldson, “I'm taking her to the nurse.” Jay pulls me into the hall. His footsteps echo with mine. His are A and C: true perfection. My one shoe squeaks out F, F, F—dull, boring, mashed potatoes. But together, the notes make a beautiful chord. I look at his hand holding mine. My wrist is covered with red bumps. “This happened to my sister's friend,” says Jay. “You need to wash your skin.” My face tightens around my mouth, cheeks, and chin. I touch my lips and scratch. “Don't touch your face,” Jay says. “Let's go in here.” We duck into the teacher's-only bathroom. Jay turns on a stream of cool water—B-flat, terracotta, cinnamon with a hint of chocolate. “Wash up,” says Jay. He puts my hands under the water and starts to rub them. He pumps soap out of the dispenser and rubs my wrists, and lower arms. I stand speechless and tune out the sounds, the colors, the tastes to focus on his rough, sand-papery skin rubbing my smooth arms. It feels so good to be touched. And not in an accidental or slight way, but in a firm, intentional way. I can feel this and feeling it makes my prison slowly disappear. “Wash your face,” he says, but my hair falls forward into the sink. He holds it back as I cup water into my hands and splash my face over and over. When I come up for air I'm shaking. He doesn't let my hair go until I wipe my face with the rough paper towels. “You'll be okay. Don't worry.” He takes my arms, turns them over, and looks at the insides of my wrists again. “They haven't gotten worse, so that's good,” he says. “Let's go see the nurse.” I don't move with him. I want Jay to hold my hands forever. How can I tell him I don't want him to let go? I look into his deep brown eyes and grab his hands. I've never held a boy's hand before. But I can't let him go. Not yet. He tips his head and narrows his eyes, questioning. “Come on,” he says, but he keeps holding on. We walk to the nurse's office. I still feel miserable, but I don't hear the notes of our footsteps. I only feel his firm grasp; the key I've been searching for my whole life.

Frank Alvarez had worked nights in the Halloran Building for eleven years, since before it was the Halloran Building, back when the name on the lobby wall was still Petrakis Group. Nobody remembered that name now except him. He came in at eleven, when the last stragglers were peeling out of the parking garage, and he left at seven, when the coffee machine in the lobby started grinding its first pot. In between, he saw the building the way nobody else did; the version that existed when nobody was performing for anybody. The executive on nine who cried at her desk on Thursdays, always Thursdays, always for exactly as long as it took him to do the floor. The intern who ate a cold sandwich alone in the stairwell because the break room felt worse. The security guard, Desmond, who read paperbacks with the covers torn off so nobody would ask him about them. Frank didn't pry. Prying wasn't his job. But he left things. He fixed a lamp. He wiped down a keyboard that had coffee dried into the keys. Small repairs nobody asked for and mostly nobody noticed. Mostly. There was a woman on the fourteenth floor, Maya, said the nameplate, who'd started staying past midnight. Untouched coffee. A wedding ring she took off and put back on, off and on, like she was rehearsing a decision. He left her a flower once, from the bodega on the corner, in the empty vase she kept on her desk for no reason he could see. She never mentioned it. He didn't know if she'd noticed or thrown it out with the rest of the trash. He left a note another night—Don't forget to eat. The job will still be here tomorrow—and the next week HR sent an all-staff email about unauthorized items left on desks, and for a month he didn't leave anything on fourteen at all. Some things you did weren't received the way you meant them. He'd learned that a long time ago and it hadn't gotten easier to remember. The contract ended in March. Building was changing management, changing cleaning companies, changing everything down to the soap in the dispensers. Frank's last night was a Tuesday. Nobody announced it. Nobody was supposed to know. He was almost through with the ninth floor when he found the ninth-floor conference room open, lights on, a cake on the table that said, in shaky icing, THANK YOU FRANK with his name slightly too big for the space they'd left for it. Desmond was there. So was the woman who cried on Thursdays, looking startled to be somewhere with her makeup still on. A few others he half-recognized, faces attached to desks, not to conversations. It was Desmond who'd organized it, it turned out. He'd asked the new building manager for Frank's schedule, put a sign-up sheet in the break room that maybe fifteen people saw. It wasn't a production. Half the building didn't know it was happening. The cake was from the grocery store two blocks down, not even a real bakery, and someone had clearly written the message in a hurry. "I heard you're the one who fixed my chair," the crying woman said. "The wheel that used to stick." Frank hadn't touched her chair. That had been someone from the day crew, probably, or maybe it had just worn in over time. He didn't correct her. It didn't seem worth it, and some part of him understood that she needed the story more than she needed the fact. Desmond clapped him on the shoulder. "You always thought you were cleaning this building," he said, like he'd practiced it. "But..." "I was cleaning the building, Des," Frank said. "That was the job." Nobody laughed, exactly, but something in the room loosened, like he'd given them permission not to make it into more than it was. Maya wasn't there. He noticed that, the way he noticed everything. Maybe she had a meeting. Maybe she'd never known there was anything to come to. He never found out if she'd kept the flower or thrown it away, and some part of him decided he preferred not knowing. A mystery was better company than a disappointment. He ate a piece of cake standing up, the way he'd eaten most things in this building for eleven years. Then he finished the floor, because the floor didn't know it was his last night either, and it deserved to be done right regardless. At seven, he walked out past the coffee machine just starting to grind, into a sunrise he usually missed by an hour. He didn't feel discovered, exactly. He felt like a man who'd been part of a room nobody quite remembered accurately, which was, he thought, probably the truth of most rooms. He didn't have another shift to start. He stood there a minute, working out what that was supposed to feel like.

2020. Covid spread around the world. I returned from Tashkent. Ancient Bukhara. What a beautiful city - but now a cage. Living with grandma. She is alone. It could be cruel to leave her in such a situation alone. But I missed my mother; her voice was weird last time. I feel worried, should visit her. But how? We are locked in our own homes. *** I came, ma! Father did not allow me to enter the home. Why? Strange. I insist. Mother came, did not go out of the home, just said at the door, “Bye", without greeting. She is ill. I swear she is ill, but she did not admit it. Father says, " She is just tired, but I am sure she is ill. 100%. I am sure. Father says, “Go, your grandma alone, just go”. *** The taxi is waiting. I went, couldn't get into the car, and I looked back. Dad says, “Go, bye”. I looked back, looked at ma, she is pale, looks exhausted. I looked at the car, looked back at ma, could not get into the car, ran back, hugged her, she hugged back. I felt like she waited for this hug so long, father got angry: “Why did u hug?” shouted. I felt comfort. If that is the case, let's die together! *** When my mother got pregnant with me, she was not in good health, everyone was against my birth, and she had doubts too, but could not abort, took a risk, and now we are alive in 2020 with Covid. My whole body, each inch, is aching. I feel like I am dying today. 2026. We are both alive. We survived, like before when she gave birth in 2001, like in Covid 2020 after a little hug, and now in 2026. I am relieved we are even. We went through all these together, like in the past, like in Covid, like now.

The bazaar was a mess of voices, feathers, dust, and sun-bleached tarpaulin flapping like broken sails. Here, amidst pigeons and the metallic clink of old coins, Sergey's stall stood at the edge of it all: a stubborn table of crooked legs and flaking paint, crowned with red and gold onions piled into slouching pyramids. He sat atop an upturned crate, squinting beneath the visor of a cap that had once belonged to his father, bracing for the next haggler to insult both his prices and his parentage. She came at the hour when the shadows began to shift: a woman in black, her habit catching the light like oilskin. A nun, unusual, but not unheard of. She approached his stall with quiet purpose, eyes scanning his products. “These are bruised,” she said, selecting one and turning it over. “They're onions,” Sergey replied, arms crossed. “You want silk, try the rug seller.” “They're soft,” she continued, ignoring his tone. “Not a single one firm.” She prodded another, then another. “I'll take three,” she said at last, withdrawing a purse from the folds of her coat. “But I'll pay seven.” “They're ten.” She met his gaze squarely. “They're seven.” He sighed, muttering curses under his breath, and began packing three of the least disfigured into a paper bag. At that moment, a boy approached, no older than nine, in a shirt too thin for spring and shoes that no longer deserved the name. He hovered near the edge of the stall, silent as a shadow, his eyes wide and dark. He didn't speak. Just looked; not at them, but at the onions. Sergey noticed him and barked, “Go on, move along. This isn't a museum.” The boy didn't move. His hands stayed in his pockets, but his gaze remained fixed on the lowest row of bulbs, as though memorising their shapes. The nun turned slightly, catching sight of him. “He's not harming anything,” she said mildly. “He's not buying anything either.” “Not everyone who comes to a market has coins.” “Then they shouldn't come.” The nun said nothing at first. Instead, she knelt — slowly, gracefully — and drew a small cloth sack from the sleeve of her coat. “How much for one more?” she asked. He raised a brow. “He's not yours.” “No,” she said. “But someone ought to feed him.” Sergey hesitated. He'd heard this tone before: soft, saintly, the kind that always expected an exception. “One more's another three.” She clicked her tongue in mock indignation. “Even bruised?” “Especially bruised.” She shook her head and counted out the coins anyway, pressing them into his palm with a smirk. While he wrapped the final onion, she turned to the boy and offered the paper bag. “There,” she said. “Don't drop them. They're expensive, apparently.” He reached out with trembling hands, clutching the parcel like it might vanish. He looked once at Sergey, once at her, and gave a barely audible “thank you.” But something else had happened, something Sergey didn't notice until they were both gone. The nun had lingered just long enough to distract him, asking about his stall, complimenting his scales, inquiring about the weather. Only when he sat back down did he realize what had happened. One of the bags near the edge was lighter — the one that hadn't yet sold — he counted the onions inside. Plenty missing. He stared for a long moment at the empty air where she'd stood. The boy was already gone. The bag of onions in his hand felt heavier now. He could report her. But to whom? And for what? Theft of a bulb? He scratched his chin. “Trickster nun,” he muttered, not without admiration. He reached into the crate and pulled out the best-looking onion of the lot. He set it aside on a clean napkin, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the pigeons above, to the coins clinking down the stalls, and to the faint echo of her voice saying, “They're seven.” He didn't know if she'd return. But the onion on the napkin stayed untouched until dusk — a small, firm hope beneath the pigeons and dust.

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.

Aboard the ferry were a monk, a teacher, a bandit, two antique smugglers, a mother and her child, a young couple, and the ferryman's wife. The ferryman's wife laid down a wooden plank as the two smugglers struggled to push their motorbike aboard. The tall smuggler cautioned his plaid-shirted companion: "Careful!" He wasn't talking about the bike but the cloth bundle in his friend's arms—inside was an ancient porcelain vase. As they strained, the plaid-shirted smuggler called for help. The teacher hesitated, but the young man from the couple stepped forward, lifting the fallen bike. Inside, a refined mother and her nine-year-old son sat quietly. When the smugglers positioned the bike, it grazed her leg. She frowned. The tall smuggler apologized, reaching to brush off the dirt. She swatted his hand away. Behind them, the monk spoke to the teacher about Bodhidharma: "When Huike cut off his arm to prove devotion, he pleaded, ‘Master, my mind is troubled.' The great sage replied, ‘Show me this troubled mind.' Huike searched but could not find it. The master then said, ‘See? I have already put your mind at ease.' And with that, Huike was enlightened." The plaid-shirted smuggler, clutching the bundle, sat near the monk—the safest place. The teacher scowled: "You, sir! Why squeeze in here?" The smuggler muttered: "Forgive me, elder. If this vase breaks, my life is ruined." The young man sat close to his girlfriend, his fingers grazing her belly beneath the coat. She stiffened slightly but didn't move. The boat drifted away. The sky darkened. A lone bird flapped toward the mountains. Suddenly, a sharp voice called from shore: "Ferry!" The tall smuggler waved dismissively: "Ignore them." But the ferryman's wife hesitated. A rugged man leaped aboard, splashing water over the monk. The monk flinched: "Amitabha Buddha!" The teacher muttered: "Looks like a bandit." He was. Yet he grinned politely, casually took an oar, and lit a cigarette. He winked at the ferryman's wife: "The sky is neither sunny nor rainy, yet the day has slipped into dusk." She responded vaguely: "What storm brings crows from the mountain?" The bandit laughed: "A wedding. A sixty-year-old groom, a seventeen-year-old bride." The boat fell silent. The little boy, watching the water, suddenly declared: "I see spirit fish!" The plaid-shirted smuggler smirked: "Kid, ask your mom—spirit fish or just carp?" The mother stiffened, pulling her son close. Just then, the boy reached into the smuggler's bundle and slipped his hand into the vase. His mother gasped: "Take your hand out, now!" The boy tried—but his wrist was stuck. Panic spread. The tall smuggler grabbed the vase: "Damn brat! Always causing trouble!" The mother sobbed: "What do we do?!" The ferry reached shore. A cold wind blew. Then—knives flashed. The smugglers pressed their blades against the child. The mother shrieked: "I don't have money!" Desperate, she yanked a ring from her finger. The plaid-shirted smuggler snatched it. The tall one pressed his knife to the boy's throat. A crimson drop formed. The young man clenched his fists. He ripped his own ring from his finger and thrust it at the smugglers: "Take it. Now let the boy go." At that moment, the bandit moved. With a single, fluid motion, he swung his nunchaku—shattering the priceless vase. The mother wept, clutching her son. The smugglers stood in shock. The bandit smirked and leaped onto shore. The teacher murmured: "That man... a hero! A revolutionary!" The ferryman's wife smiled to herself. She knew better. Alone in the dark, he was nothing but danger. The boat emptied. Only the monk remained. The ferryman's wife hesitated: "Master... it's time to disembark." The monk shook his head: "I've changed my mind. Take me back." She sighed: "I don't ferry people back across." The monk chuckled: "That's alright. Once, the great Bodhidharma crossed a river on a single blade of grass." The ferry turned back. Under the rising moon, the river shimmered like glass. A distant temple bell rang. The monk murmured his mantra: "Gate gate, paragate, parasamgate…"

"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.

If I remember my childhood, I was mostly a very belligerent and cheerful child. Almost every day I came home with a bleeding nose and a torn shirt. Every time I used to gossip behind the backs of my schoolmates who fought, I thought my decision was right. One day, a boy and I got into an argument about picking fruit from an ordinary tree. That boy insulted me in front of my friends, and I got angry. I couldn't control myself, and when he turned around, I threw a stone at him. The stone hit the boy on the head, and blood started to flow from his face. My friends around us ran away in fear. I was in a hurry and wanted to run away. But I decided to help him. The boy did not say anything, took out a handkerchief from his bag, and held his head. Fortunately, the wound was not serious, and the bleeding stopped after a while. As I washed my hands in the ditch near the tree, my anger had subsided, and I was thinking about why I had thrown the stone at him, because at that moment I realized that I had almost lost my mind. The boy dusted his clothes and started to leave without saying a word, picking up his bag. I was shouting after him to stop. He did not look back and walked slowly along the side of the road. The boy's curly hair glistened, either from the trail of blood or from the rays of the setting sun. I didn't know what to say to the boy as I walked by him. Both of us were walking together in silence. The boy and I were returning home together when he entered a restaurant at the beginning of the road and took out two samsas. He gave me one of the samsas. I was very surprised because I hadn't even apologized to him yet. Later, I found out that his mother worked as a simple dishwasher in that restaurant, and the boy gave me the samsa that he got from his mother for no reason. I went home and thought for a long time. I couldn't say sorry to the boy's face. I wrote all my words on a piece of paper and gave it to him during the break. He forgave me. Later, we became very close friends with him. Sometimes I think that he could take revenge on me, but he never did. Even though he was poor, he was always kind to me. But I know for sure that even if he were rich, he would not take revenge on me. But he is now dead, and I miss my friend very much. It was the greatest experience of my life. Currently, I have successfully resolved many conflicts; I have turned enemies into friends; I try not to make a decision when angry in any conflict, not to be jealous of someone, and to do good to my enemies. This experience was given to me by a friend.

There is not a single day here in the village of Maroź. Night followed by constant night is all the townspeople know. Daytime is a myth, a legend at this point. Not a single soul alive has seen, or felt the sun on their face. Cold dreary days are all that we have to look forward too. Until the prophecy of old is fulfilled that is. The elders in our village have passed down this tale for decades. A young man on his 21st birthday will come into his magic and enter the spirit realm where he will stand the test against time. He is to save the Sun Goddess who has been lost to the spirit realm, a prisoner of the dark spectral world. She has been gone for so long, no one believes in her story anymore. The start of the end of this tale, begins now. The rain was beating so hard upon the ceiling, the wood slats couldn't squeeze tight enough for the moisture to not penetrate. The liquid, making its way down the posts, dropped onto Koulders face. Waking him for the tenth time that night. He just wanted to sleep past midnight and get his birthday over with. Ever since his mother passed away he has not had much motivation to enjoy these days. He decides to sit up and think. It was all he was good at anymore. It didn't get him very far nor did it get his mind off hard subjects. Trauma was his way of life, all he knew. All he would ever be. He would have laid back down and drifted off had it not been for a short rap on his door. Filled with a sense of anxiety at a social visit, Koulder made his way to the door. There stood a hooded figure drenched from the nights torrents. Koulder slammed the door shut and locked it. He didn't know who that was and he wasn't prepared to find out. He just wanted to go back to sleep. Another rap much louder then the first sent him throwing the door open and demanding the visitor state his business. The hood came down. There stood a woman of middle age, with long brown locks tied up in a bun. She stated she was cold wet and hungry and asked if Koulder could help her. Unable to turn the poor creature away he invited her in. Once inside the woman was no longer a mere woman. A sorceress, old and evil and of the spirit realm had just entered his domain, knowing very well who Koulder is and the prophecy he doesn't know, that's about to kick in. She attacks Koulder with his back to her, holding him by his neck against a wall. He doesn't know what to think everything happened so quickly. She is too strong to pry off of him and the evil dead stare in her eyes was all too much for him Koulder passed out from the anxiety of the situation. Waking up, Koulder is surrounded by a thick white fog. He is not in the dwelling he knows so well. Feeling full of energy all of a sudden, he gets up to investigate. As he stands he here's a woman scream. Wanting to investigate he heads to where he heard her. Flying ghostly apparitions appear left and right, Koulder is realizing he is in the spirit world that his master had warned him about. Go head to head with a Banshee and she could send you to the spirit world where it's hard to remember who and why you are while she she dines on your body in the waking world. Koulder was lucid enough to remember his masters words. His magic hadn't grown in him yet so he was unprotected in a hostile world. Reaching the area he heard the scream he is blinded by a light so bright he can't even comprehend what it is. Behind the light, the silhouette of a very beautiful and naked woman stood trembling. She sees Koulder and begs him to leave before the Tempest returned. An evil old banshee more powerful than the simple monster he has encountered. Seeing her standing there vulnerable broke something inside him. In just a short time Koulder, who has surely turned 21 by now, was rudely awoken by the angry leaking sky, attacked by a banshee and sent to a creepy land to come across a beautiful naked angel and she is terrified. Too much has happened to make him just turn away. Focusing and breathing, he can feel the power surge inside him. Something is awakening. He won't run. He will get his peace and rest. He will save this woman. Knowing the realm has a portal from past stories, Koulder and the mysterious woman set out to find it. Aware the tempest could catch them at any moments notice. Before the left he set a trap for the old banshee so she wouldn't be able to follow them. The bright woman told a story as old as time itself tho it felt like hours to her. She was kidnapped from her home in the sky. Forced to live in darkness so the banshee could have full domination in the dark. She was the Sun Goddess. Recognizing Koulder was the man to fulfil the prophecy, the bright lady touched his forehead. Power shot out of his head and into the sky above him, illuminating the space between them. He was the lamp to her light. Thru the portal she kills the banshee and together they bring the sun back to a world lost to the dark for way too long.

"So, you've finally caught up, huh? It took you agents quite a while. As for your 'kings and queens,' they're probably too busy lounging in their opulence to care about the real struggles of the people," she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. The agent tightened his grip on the weapon, a glint of irritation in his eyes. "Watch your tongue! You're in no position to provoke. We're here to deliver justice, whether you like it or not." The woman, undeterred, maintained her defiant stance, shielding her family with the strength born out of desperation. Her eyes glared at the agent, a fire of defiance burning within her. "Justice? You're just puppets dancing to the tune of those in power. You won't find justice, only oppression," she retorted with a steely resolve. Her mind raced, searching for any opportunity to shield her family from the looming threat. The agent, unmoved by her words, signaled to his comrades, tightening the grip on his weapon. "Enough talk. Your rebellion ends here." The atmosphere grew tense as the woman braced herself, ready to face whatever unjust fate awaited her. The lead agent's voice reverberated through the room, a stern declaration of charges that hung heavily in the air. "Ezzah Edison, you are under arrest for plotting and leading a rebellion against the government, a treasonous act that undermines the very fabric of our society. Your involvement in initiating a conspiracy against the I-Landers, spreading false rumors, engaging in hate speech, and attempting murder can no longer go unpunished. Surrender yourself voluntarily, and justice will follow. Refuse, and we will use force to uphold the law."The weight of the accusations pressed on Ezzah like an unrelenting force, but her eyes never wavered.With a defiant gaze, Ezzah stood tall despite the circumstances. "Arrest me if you must, but know that the rebellion will not cease with my capture. You can imprison my body, but the spirit of resistance will endure," she declared, her words cutting through the tense atmosphere. The children, wide-eyed and terrified, clung to each other, absorbing the gravity of the situation. The lead agent, unmoved by her rhetoric, motioned for his team to secure Ezzah. The room became a battleground of wills, a clash between the enforcers of authority and a woman determined to defy the chains of oppression. As they approached her, she couldn't help but notice the trembling hands of her children and the anguished expression on her husband's face. Ezzah Edison, once a pillar of strength in her community, now faced the harsh reality of the consequences of her actions. The intruders closed in, their movements deliberate and unyielding. The sound of metal restraints echoed in the room as they prepared to take her into custody. In that moment, Ezzah glanced at her family, finding solace in their eyes despite the fear. She whispered words of reassurance to her children, promising that the fight for justice would endure. As the agents restrained her, she cast one last defiant look at the lead agent, a silent vow echoing through the room. "Fear not, my cherished ones. Fear not, my beloveds. In the shadow of adversity, the robin and swan shall stand guard over the sanctuary of our souls," Ezzah whispered tenderly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother's unwavering love and a rebel's undying spirit. The arrest unfolded like a somber dance, a struggle between an individual's quest for freedom and a system determined to maintain control. The children, now forcibly separated from their mother, clung to the remnants of familiarity, their world forever altered by the intrusion of authority. The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the bustling village outside—a stark contrast to the turmoil within the Edison household. "As I tread the path to trial, know this – I am the embodiment of truth, and you stand on the wrong side of history. The grim reaper may soon beckon, but the flames within my spirit shall endure. Fire, my friends, cannot be extinguished with more fire," Ezzah declared with a serene yet resolute demeanor, leaving the gathered villagers with a lingering sense of defiance.

I only remember that dark, windy night. The accident. I was having a dreadful headache. I hit the wrong pedal, I accelerated. From there on, I can't remember anything, just me waking up in an ambulance. I couldn't hear anything, just my own breath hyperventilating. Immediately, I arrived at the hospital and the nurses took me to a private room to be checked. It was bizarre that they checked me constantly, which led me to believe I was very injured. I was trying to sleep when I heard a doctor entering the room. When I opened my eyes, I saw a tall man with a white coat. He said that I needed to be transferred to another hospital where I could be monitored by specialized equipment. They took me to a black van where I couldn't see anything through the windows. They started talking. I couldn't hear any words from the stress I was experiencing. Abruptly, I started feeling very dizzy. —Do you know where you are?— That was the first thing I heard after waking up. I was sitting in a chair looking at the wall, zoned out. I just got transferred or at least that was what they told me. Apparently, there was an accident; I can't remember anything. —Pass patient 16 to a room, he is not answering— No, no, no. What room? Get me out of here. I got to the room. I want to get out of this place, yet I don't even remember my name. I just want to get out. —Get me out of here— I repeated to myself while the people in white coats were connecting stuff to my body. I don't want this, make it stop! —Get me out of here— I yelled, but apparently, no one heard me. —Get me out of here— I cried out for help, again no one heard. I was trembling. I couldn't feel my body, which to be honest, I didn't even recognize as mine anymore. My heartbeat quickened. Tick tock I heard a clock. —Get me out of here!— Tick tock. —Get me out— Tick tock. —Get me— Abruptly, everything went dark. Silence. I wasn't dead, I couldn't be. —Patient 16– then everything was bright again. —You blacked out— said the man in a white coat. Then everything went back to normal, if normal is the word to define this whole situation. The past days, the doctor said I've made improvement both physically and mentally. I don't know how I made progress if I never felt off. However, I do experience nightmares, and I don't like the looks I am getting from the people in white coats. They seem as if they are hiding something. The doctor said fresh air would be good for me and that I needed to go for a walk. I don't like going for walks, it scares me. The voices in the halls scare me; nevertheless, I'll go later. I don't know where I could end up. I evaded the halls; I couldn't help myself. They're too scary, so I made my way through the garden. I ended up in a forest with yellowish-leaves. I lost track of time. There were stones on the ground with names of people, also there was a big hole that looked as if it was going to be filled up soon. I panicked; I don't like to panic because of the voices, the voices that come from nowhere. They talked about death. I refuse to think I'm going insane because if there is one thing I am is sane. Rain poured down, it felt like acid. As the rain showered on my shoulders, I ran. ——— My phone rang; I picked it up wondering what could've happened so late at night. —Dr. Collins here— I answered. —Yeah Collins, I've got a patient here; he's outside. He's at the yard, you know, the yard— he emphasized, it was obvious he was at the graveyard, but why? —Also this patient doesn't match any of the files I have here, Is he a…— —Patient of mine?— I interrupted, anyone could be hearing. —Yes, yes he is. I'm on my way— then I hung up. Before I left I checked on our latest operating procedures on our “volunteers”; most of them were still in progress. I went quickly to the main lobby. Once the door opened, the cold wind of late autumn night flew through my coat, down the hall Dr. Bailey spotted me. —Collins!— she called my attention. —Bailey— I responded. —Our procedure with 66 was a succes, yet there is a patient outside, patient 16– she stated. It couldn't be 16 he was… —I'll hurry, thank you— I interrupted my thoughts and arrived at the CCTV room. —Stephan?— —Hello sir, you see the patient, he's been staring at that stone for at least ten minutes— I then saw him turn around. When he saw the camera, he ran into the woods. I had to go. —Sir, there's a gate, after our last escape we reinforced it— I left without answering. ——— I felt scared, the eye on the wall, it looked at me. I ran into the woods. The voices kept screaming, sounds of pain. Someone screamed. I felt whimpering, the voices were no longer there, no more screams. There was a thunderstorm. A shower of lighting hit the ground. As the last strike hit, so did my body, and everything went cold.

While rummaging through his op-ed notes, which he had barely jotted down, as he stood up to leave, Rufus sighed, as his mind or rather what was left of his sanity began to take a plunge into the abyss of what he called ‘the nihilist's cave'. It had been a rough day, as he had been staring at the blank Word document for hours, just waiting for the divine intervention after which he could start summoning his magical word prowess but all to no avail; the only highlight of the day remaining to be that of the scuffle he had with the Executive Editor-in-Chief of the newspaper, about his previous article being provocative. Rufus had come out with blazing guns, all pointed towards the Editor, declaring him as a threat to the ‘real' journalism; yes, Rufus was extremely protective of his work, be it good or bad. Anyways, now he was reminiscing and thus, going down a rollercoaster of emotions, with clouds of emptiness and a grief unbeknown surging throughout his heart, making him feel nauseous. He clinched the edge of his desk as hard as he can, such that his hands were soon red as a freshly pluck cherry. His mind gradually filled with doubts: was his work really magical or did he even have a passion for journalism? Amidst the war raging through his mind, he felt like a loser, as simple and as basic as that. ‘Your work is losing its quality, Rufus.' ‘Your articles don't exude that energy anymore.' ‘Don't you think that this career may not be the right choice for the person like you?' Colleagues' rants, boss' remarks, and a part of his own soul were simply breaking him into shards of nothingness, at the moment. The cab that he had booked had left after waiting for half an hour. Yet, here he was, alone in the office, slowly succumbing to despair. He remembered the Sales Manager job, Dad had told him about, just a week ago, when he had asked him for some money to pay the rent, because his writing job at the local newspaper hadn't been paying him much, as he hadn't been able to feature for some weeks now. He thought that maybe he should apply for that job, with a dilapidated state of mind. The prospect of writing down the resignation letter for his current job, soon surfaced up. Putting his op-ed notes back, he switched on his old Dell laptop, which at least took ten minutes to light up. Navigating the cursor, through the tiny alleys, surrounded by app icons, he finally reached his destination: the same blank Word document which he had stared at, the entire day. As he was going to complete the first sentence of his resignation letter, his phone beeped; it was an Instagram notification. A woman named Philly had direct messaged Rufus, while sharing one of his written pieces, which he had uploaded on his blog page. ‘OMG, I am in awe of how beautifully you write!!! TBH, I think you have made my day!' As he read the message, tears swelled up, his mind cleared and remembered his Literature teacher's words, ‘Rufus, People won't necessarily read what you write, let alone like it. So just remember that you just have to write on and on. That's what makes out the best of the writers.' The divine intervention that he'd sought the entire day for writing had finally come; it was simply a two-liner message on Instagram. He couldn't thank Philly more. Whenever he rethinks about resignation, Rufus remembers that day and Philly. It is the smallest of messages which may mean the whole world to anyone.

On a rainy day, the drivers hooked their horns while waiting for the traffic to flow again. Nearly 45 minutes to 60 mins of cars backed up from the highways, and the drivers began to be impatient with each other until the patrol police officers controlled the traffic, allowing people that get to their destination. Over by the pizzeria, Nicholas' Seeker, I begin my work shift by checking to see if screens need to sort out, restacking the boxes, grabbing sauces from the coolers, and refilling the parmesan and powder sugar shakers. As hours pass through the evening, orders flood the screens within minutes; Simon, the general manager, told us to kick into high gear. When I saw the food items flowing out from the oven, I suffered from a panic freeze and silently imagined daydreaming. Rosa and Lisa saw me freeze in my imagination and woke me up with a musical shake on my body. Immediately I woke up and witnessed food items dropping on the ground like a gumball machine. While they work on new and remake orders, Lisa, Rosa, and I speed us boxing orders as road runners dodge the coyote's traps. After four to five hours of rush orders, the screens started to clear, and everyone took a short break while eating, snacking, or drinking. While some days can run smoothly, there are days where it's out of control and let course take its wheel. That's why I kept pushing and let my mind run free. Next time we have rush orders, I'll bring my lucky pants and hat.

A peaceful and rapid rain poured over the State of Texas. People hook their horns to the nearest front cars while waiting for the green light to turn on. The ground begins to create puddles that spread wildly like a portal. Over by the pizzeria place, Nicholas' Seeker, Kyla clocked in to prepare for her shift. She placed her purse inside the office while grabbing her drinks from the oven. Kyla checks to see if anything needs to complete before starting her day. She became one of the recognized employees the customers enjoyed seeing daily. Everyone loves the smile on her face, which helps them keep faith that their day runs smoothly. One of the managers, Rosa, waits for her to take over the oven and layer a chicken box and bread box. "Hola!" Kyla shouted. "Hey, mama. I'll be back. I need a smoke break," Rosa said before walking away. "Gotta it. Leave it to me," Kyla said. The general manager Simon returned from the restroom and washed his hands before jumping onto the makeline and telling the workers to load the three ovens. The orders flood the screen, triggering the workers to kick into high gear and make these orders quickly. "Kyla, we're loading all three ovens. Let us know if you need help," Bella said. As the food items pile close together, she breaks a sweat and immediately needs assistance at the oven. Brie and Lisa ran to Kyla's aid to help her. "Brie, read the tickets, and I'll help Kyla," Lisa said. Brie nods and begins reading the tickets. Even with three workers, the oven pushes the food out like a vending machine dropping candy or snacks. Kyla's speed could be better, which makes her feel low self-esteem and silent from speaking. "Come on, Kyla. Let's push forward and worry less about everything else," Brie said. "How nice of you, Brie? I want to go fast like Sonic or Road Runner, yet I can't kick into high gear. I'm like a sloth, who sleep all day and night, and come to work feeling like a zombie," Kyla said while laughing softly. "Oh, yea? I didn't sleep last night because my neighbor committing a mistake in front of my house was okay. I came in two hours late from my shift time after finding out what they did," Lisa said as she laughed. Kyla and Brie couldn't contain their inner laughter and release it. As the last food items were boxed and sent to the customers, Rosa returned from her break and saw them sweating off their bodies. "Rosa? I thought you left," Brie said shockingly. "You said you promised to come back and left me to dust with these orders," Kyla said. "Well, excuse me, miss! I came in early this morning and carried these heavy boxes myself without help. Afterward, my back hurt, and I dislocated my ankle went I slipped onto the floor," Rosa said. The ladies looked awkward and walked away for a short break before another round of rush orders. Kyla sighed as she barely survived the short period of food items coming out quickly; however, with the help of her coworkers and managers, she managed to do little work while they picked up the slick.