From Learner to Leader: Shreekant Patil Featured as MEPSC's Master Trainer Success Story Honored to be featured by the Management & Entrepreneurship and Professional Skills Council (MEPSC) in their latest feature on building India's ladder of leadership! Becoming a certified Master Trainer (NSQF Level 6) allows me to scale my impact—moving from guiding students and entrepreneurs to now training and mentoring the next generation of trainers nationwide. A big thank you to MEPSC for this recognition. Let's keep building a self-sustaining skilling ecosystem for India! 🇮🇳 Read More: - https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/from-learner-leader-how-mepsc-builds-its-own-ladder-leadership-d2jzc/

The world ground to a sudden, unexpected halt in the spring of 2020. What began as a distant news headline quickly transformed into a global reality that confined billions of people to their homes. Streets that were once bustling with commerce and laughter turned into silent, empty concrete pathways. Windows became our primary lenses to look at the outside world, and digital screens became our only bridges to human connection. At first, this sudden confinement felt like a prison. However, as the weeks turned into months, the period of isolation revealed itself to be something entirely different: a profound, collective pause that forced us to re-examine what truly matters in life. In the initial days of the lockdown, the psychological weight of the pandemic was heavy. The constant influx of breaking news, rising infection statistics, and the pervasive fear of an invisible enemy created an atmosphere of intense anxiety. Simple daily routines, like grocery shopping, suddenly felt like high-stakes missions. The academic and professional worlds scrambled to adapt to remote setups, turning bedrooms into offices and classrooms. The boundaries between public productivity and private rest blurred completely, leaving people exhausted yet physically stationary. However, human beings possess an extraordinary capacity for adaptation. Once the initial shock wore off, a quiet transformation began to take place inside our isolated spaces. Without the distractions of daily commutes, social obligations, and the frantic pace of modern life, people were left alone with their thoughts and families. This forced stillness opened the door to domestic creativity. Kitchens filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, and long-abandoned musical instruments were wiped clean of dust. People realized that productivity did not always have to be tied to economic output; it could also be about personal growth and emotional survival. More importantly, the lockdown served as a powerful mirror for our relationships. Before the pandemic, superficial interactions often took precedence over meaningful connection. Isolation changed that dynamic entirely. The phrase "Stay safe" replaced standard greetings, carrying a genuine weight of care and empathy. Digital platforms became lifelines for emotional support. Families separated by oceans gathered for virtual dinners, and friends checked in on each other with a frequency that was rare in the pre-pandemic era. We quickly learned that physical distance did not mean emotional detachment. This solidarity was most visible within local communities. Individuals stepped up to support the most vulnerable. Young people organized volunteer networks to deliver groceries to elderly residents who could not risk stepping outside. Every evening, citizens emerged onto their balconies to applaud the healthcare workers fighting on the front lines. These moments of collective gratitude were deeply moving. They reminded us that even in our darkest and most isolated hours, we belong to a larger human family. The crisis stripped away the superficial divisions of status and wealth, exposing our fundamental interdependence. On an individual level, the period of confinement forced an internal inventory. In a society that constantly urges us to achieve faster, the lockdown demanded that we look inward. Many individuals confronted feelings of loneliness that they had long avoided through constant busyness. This confrontation, though difficult, was deeply therapeutic. It taught us the art of mindfulness and the value of being present in the moment. We learned to appreciate small victories: a beautiful sunset, a good book, or a deep conversation. The pandemic taught us that true contentment is found in internal peace and meaningful connections. Furthermore, the environmental impact of the global shutdown provided a stark lesson. As factories closed and traffic diminished, skies cleared of smog in major cities. The planet seemed to take a deep, much-needed breath.This temporary environmental healing demonstrated the profound impact of human activity on the Earth. It served as a powerful wake-up call, showing us that our previous way of living was unsustainable and that a more conscious, harmonious relationship with nature is entirely possible if we choose to prioritize it. Ultimately, the storytelling of the pandemic is not just about a virus; it is about how humanity rediscovered its core values in the absence of noise. It taught us that health is a fragile gift, that community is essential for survival, and that compassion is our greatest currency. As we move forward into the future, the true test will be whether we retain these lessons or slip back into the mindless rush of the past. The legacy of the lockdown should be a renewed commitment to a kinder, slower, and more connected world.

If someone had asked me in 2023 what major I wanted to study at university, I would have answered without hesitation: Economics! I had imagined my future in that field and believed it was the right choice for me. However, life had a different plan. Because of the opinions of people around us, my plans changed. Instead, I chose English Education, the same field my older sisters had studied. It was not a dream I had carefully planned. At that moment, it simply felt like the best decision I could make. Looking back now, I realize that this unexpected choice became one of the greatest blessings of my life. The first weeks at university were far more difficult than I had expected. I have always been an introvert. While everyone around me was introducing themselves, making new friends, and laughing together, I struggled to start even the simplest conversation. Every morning, I quietly walked into the classroom, hoping no one would notice how nervous I felt. Most of the time, I chose a seat where I could simply observe everyone else. My English was another reason for my silence. Many of my classmates spoke confidently, and I constantly compared myself to them. I worried that my English was not good enough and feared making mistakes. Instead of speaking, I stayed quiet. During my first semester, I became friends with a classmate named Saira. She was one of the strongest English speakers in our class, and I admired her confidence. Although English came naturally to her, she sometimes found mathematical and logical questions difficult. Those happened to be subjects I enjoyed, so I was always happy to help her. In return, simply being around her encouraged me to believe that I could improve my English too. At the end of our first year, Saira was accepted to the University of Arizona and continued her studies there. I was genuinely happy for her. But after she left, I felt alone once again. For a while, I wondered if university would always feel this lonely. Then something changed… Instead of waiting for confidence to find me, I decided to build it myself. I began studying harder. I practiced English every day. I challenged myself to speak even when I was afraid of making mistakes. Progress was slow, but every small step gave me a little more confidence than the day before. Around that time, another classmate gradually became one of my closest friends. There was no special moment when our friendship began—it simply grew little by little. She encouraged me without even realizing how much her words and support meant. Whenever I doubted myself, she reminded me that I was improving and that I was capable of achieving more than I believed. Today, I have completed my third year and am preparing to begin my fourth. When I walk into the classroom now, I no longer look for the quietest seat. Instead, I look for my friends. Sometimes I think about the path I wanted to take. What if I had studied Economics? Perhaps my life would have been completely different. But I don't regret the path I didn't choose. If I had studied something else, I might never have met Saira. I might never have met the friend who quietly helped me believe in myself. I might never have experienced this warm and supportive environment or made the friendships that have become one of the greatest gifts of my university life. Most importantly, I might never have discovered a different version of myself. The quiet girl who once avoided conversations is now the one who starts them. People often say that everything happens for a reason. I didn't always believe that. Now I do. Sometimes life quietly closes one door so that it can open another we never expected to walk through. Choosing English Education was never part of my original plan. Yet it gave me something far more valuable than a degree. It gave me confidence. It gave me unforgettable friendships. And it helped me become the person I am today. Sometimes, the life we never planned becomes the life we were always meant to live…

She was ten years old the first time she understood that wanting something badly enough could make your hands shake. The acceptance letters didn't come like that. They came quietly, one after another, landing in her inbox like small answered prayers she hadn't dared say aloud. Twenty-three universities. Most of them said yes. She would read each one twice, then a third time, her lips moving slightly — making sure something was real. The Ohio State University said yes too. She printed that one. The visa eligibility letter arrived on an unremarkable Tuesday. She held it with both hands, edges creased where her fingers pressed too hard without realizing. For the first time in months, something in her chest unclenched. Then her father looked at her and said, quietly, almost gently: "If only you were a boy. Things would have been much easier." He was afraid. Any father would be — his daughter, alone, in a foreign country with no one beside her. But fear dressed as love still closes doors. She didn't drop the paper. She folded it instead, crease by crease, the way you fold something you don't know what to do with. Went to her room. Sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall until it blurred. Then she cried. Quietly. Girls who love their fathers learn early to cry that way — pressing the sound inward, keeping it small, not making it anyone else's problem. Her father had sold his car to fund the applications. Two thousand dollars. Gone — paid into fees and documents and the particular cost of chasing something enormous. She thought about that number for weeks afterward. Not with bitterness. With a grief that had no clean name. He had believed in her enough to sell something he loved. It still wasn't enough. Her teachers had been watching. Her friends had been waiting for the ending they expected. She'd been waiting too — had almost started packing in her mind. She had to unpick all of it. Watch people's faces rearrange into something careful and kind, which is its own particular grief. She sat for DTM instead. But she had spent her sharpest months chasing a different future, and the gaps showed up exactly where she needed them not to. She chose one university in the capital almost without thinking. Fate chose the capital. She packed anyway. She had always been the kind of person who packs anyway. The first morning there, she woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and lay still, listening. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. She had left a stable job — and been mocked for it. Left her best friends. Left her mother's kitchen, the specific smell of it. The friendships she'd left behind thinned slowly — message by message, until silence stretched long enough to mean something. She grew thin that year. Financially and otherwise. Some weeks she calculated meals the way she once calculated deadlines — carefully, no room for error. She was lonely the way only people who have always been surrounded can be lonely: acutely, constantly aware of the absence. Then she met her. A girl who didn't fix anything. Just sat with her in the difficulty like staying required no explanation. That kind of friendship doesn't announce itself. It just appears — and then you cannot imagine before it. She enrolled in accounting. Always wanted to. There was something in the order of it, the way numbers answered to logic, that steadied her. She built a routine. Then a life inside the routine. She called her mother more. That was the quiet revolution nobody saw. Distance did what proximity never could — made her reach, made her say what she'd kept folded up for years. Later had finally arrived. She is not the girl who held that letter anymore. That girl thought Ohio State was everything. This one knows it was a door — and when it closed, loudly, in a way she didn't deserve, she was pushed down a narrower path that led somewhere the wider one never would have. She found accounting. A friend who became home. Her mother, again. And slowly, without ceremony — herself. The version that existed before everyone else's expectations reshaped her. Some losses don't stay losses forever. What once felt like an ending slowly became something else—something I didn't have the words for at the time. My dream didn't disappear. It changed shape, and I learned how to live inside the new one.

Though it doesn't always feel like it, today is a fresh day. The world might feel weighty at times. People quarrel, the news is noisy, and issues appear to go on forever. It is simple to feel insignificant and helpless in situations like these, as if our actions are meaningless. However, I've discovered something straightforward and significant: even the little deeds can have significance. I saw an old man straining to cross the street with his goods one morning. Without slowing down, cars raced past him. I paused for a second. I had my own plans and was rather occupied. However, an inside voice told me to "stop." So I did. I approached him, said hello, and assisted him in carrying his baggage. It wasn't a major issue. It was just a few minutes. However, his grin and his humble "thank you" stuck with me. My day was altered by that event. It served as a reminder that kindness can be strong without being ostentatious. We frequently believe that in order to make a difference, we must address significant issues, yet sometimes all it takes is observing someone, paying attention, or providing a modest amount of assistance. These little deeds are like light in a world that seems divided and overpowering. They are important, but they don't solve every problem. They bring us together. They serve as a reminder that we are not alone. I've made an effort to pay more attention to my surroundings ever since. I make an effort to look at individuals rather than just walk past them. And every time I make the decision to be kind, even in a tiny way, I experience an internal victory. Perhaps we can't alter the entire globe at once. However, we can make a quick alteration. And sometimes that's sufficient.

Here I am. Another way to express myself and share my writing. Another app my ADHD will quickly allow me to forget and eventually feel horrible about when thrown in my pile of “crap I started wanting to be known OR a successful, writer” and was set on fire by the friction of unopened emails and notifications. I'm wondering if I'll ever catch up with life. I started out as a 14 year old adult. I had my pregnancy at the same time i was being prescribed the addiction. When that got used against me because I wanted to go into treatment and get better… the sky fell. Not all at once. I'll give it to you in chapters. If I remember to do that. I still have to find the money and a ride to get cat litter before I suffocate. My fuel pump went out and I'm procrastinating finishing the repairs since I couldn't afford car insurance therefore lost my license again. I actually had it for 3 months this time! Here's my point… I was sentenced to poverty by a judge. He likely wasn't aware of that finality, but if you ask me that's EXACTLY the problem. Or at least the snake head. Nobody knows what REALLY happens when certain labels or words get added to our lives. Nobody believes they can be untrue or inaccurate. Nobody wants to think we live in a world without civil rights and protections. Well.. I've had my custody taken without knowing I was losing it. I've been thrown on the streets with a minutes notice and no eviction process or time required notices. Twice! I've had employers keep my pay for themselves. I've had cops put me in a pose and use personal cells to take pictures of me in handcuffs to laugh at me. I've been bitten by a dog and refused an ambulance by the same sheriff who never wrote a report up and inevitably prevented my claim. I've been told what I could own and made to rehome pets immediately for a changed policy. But then I got housed after homeless years on the waiting list. Then I got a laptop. And I've decided… I'm telling! If I can get my shit together enough to do it.

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.

In a quiet neighborhood where winter mornings arrived wrapped in fog, a small light used to turn on before sunrise. It wasn't bright. It didn't shine far. But every day, it appeared in the same window — steady, patient, almost stubborn. Inside that room sat a young man with tired eyes and a hopeful heart. The world outside felt heavy. News headlines spoke of conflict, rising prices, uncertainty. Friends moved away chasing better opportunities. Some dreams felt postponed, others quietly abandoned. There were days when the silence in the room felt louder than any noise. But the light still turned on. Every morning, he would open his laptop — not because everything was going well, but because he believed something could go well. Some days he learned a new concept. Other days he fixed a tiny bug that no one else would ever notice. Sometimes, he just stared at the screen, wondering if any of this effort would matter. It didn't look like progress. It looked like repetition. Like slow steps in thick mud. Yet something was changing. One evening, after a particularly difficult day, the electricity went out. The room fell into darkness. No laptop, no internet, no quiet tapping of keys. Just stillness. For the first time in months, he leaned back and looked out the window. The neighborhood was dim, but not empty. He noticed lights in other windows. A mother reading to her child. Someone cooking. A student studying by phone light. He realized something then. Everyone was fighting their own silent battles. The next morning, when electricity returned, he didn't just turn on the light — he opened the window. Fresh air rushed in. The fog was thinner than usual. For the first time, sunlight reached the corner of his desk. That day, he wrote something different. Not code. Not notes. Just a few lines: "I don't need the world to change overnight. I just need to keep showing up." Days passed. Weeks passed. Small opportunities appeared. A freelance project. A message from someone who read his blog. A thank-you note from a beginner he had helped. Nothing dramatic. Nothing viral. Just small confirmations that his quiet persistence mattered. One evening, he walked outside. The air smelled like rain. He looked back at his building and saw his own window glowing — not lonely anymore, but part of many lights across the neighborhood. He understood then that inspiration isn't always loud. It doesn't always come with applause. Sometimes, it's just a small light in a small room, turning on every morning despite uncertainty. And somewhere, maybe across the street, someone else looked at that light and felt less alone. Because hope is contagious in the gentlest way. You don't have to change the world in one moment. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to keep your light on.

Every night at exactly 11:47 p.m., Liana became someone else. Not louder. Not braver, not in the ways people could see. But behind the soft glow of her phone screen, in the quiet that wrapped around her room, she became real. By day, Liana was forgettable. She sat in the third row by the window, where sunlight touched her desk but never quite reached her. Teachers described her as “good” — the kind of word that meant quiet, obedient, invisible. At home, it was no different. Her parents spoke in expectations, not conversations. “Study more.” “Your cousin got a higher score.” “You can do better.” Liana nodded, always nodded. Her voice had long learned to stay where it was safest — inside. But at night, she wrote. Under the name Midnight Truths, she told stories people were too afraid to say out loud. Secrets about pressure. About loneliness. About pretending to be someone acceptable just to survive. She never used real names. Never details that could trace back to anyone. Except feelings. Those were always real. And people noticed. What started as a quiet page turned into something bigger. Messages flooded in from strangers. “It feels like you're writing about me.” “How do you understand this so well?” “Thank you for saying what I can't.” Liana read every message in silence, her chest tightening in a way she didn't understand. It felt like being seen… without being exposed. For the first time, her words had a place in the world. Then one night, everything shifted. A new message appeared. “You shouldn't have written that.” Liana stared at the screen, her fingers hovering but unmoving. Another message followed. “I know who this is about.” Her breath caught. That night's post had been different. Too close. Too honest. She had written about a girl whose life was measured in grades and comparisons. About a home that sounded full but felt empty. About love that came only with conditions. She hadn't meant to write about her own life. Not directly. But truth had a way of slipping through. Her heart pounded as more messages came in. “Take it down.” “This isn't just a story, is it?” For the first time, Liana felt something unfamiliar. Fear. Not the quiet, familiar fear of disappointing someone. But the sharp, rising fear of being known. The next day at school, everything felt louder. Glances lingered longer. Whispers seemed heavier. Did they know? Or was it just her? By the time she got home, her hands were shaking. She opened her laptop. The post was still there. Thousands had read it. Hundreds had shared it. Her truth was no longer hers alone. Liana sat there, staring at the blinking cursor. Delete it. Pretend it never happened. Go back to being invisible. Safe. Her fingers moved. But not to delete. Instead, she opened a new post. For a long moment, she couldn't breathe. The silence in her room felt heavier than ever before. Then, slowly, she began to type. “I never meant for anyone to recognize themselves so clearly. I thought if I hid behind a screen, I could tell the truth without consequences.” She paused. Her heart was racing now. “But the truth is… these stories come from somewhere real.” Her hands trembled, but she didn't stop. “They come from me.” She stared at the words. There it was. No hiding. No distance. No second life. Just her. She hit publish before she could change her mind. The silence that followed was unbearable. And then— notifications. Dozens. Then hundreds. But this time, they were different. “Thank you for being honest.” “You're not alone.” “This made me feel less invisible.” Liana blinked, her vision blurring. She wasn't exposed. She was understood. For the first time in her life, being seen didn't feel like something to fear. It felt like something she had been missing all along. Outside, the night stretched on as it always did. Quiet. Endless. But inside, something had shifted. Liana set her phone down and leaned back, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She wasn't two people anymore. She didn't have to be. For the first time, one life was enough.

If you moved around for so long like me, you'd know that people start to blur. New city, new school, new introductions. Same questions that accompanied the same careful curiosity that never quite crossed into knowing. After a while, I stopped storing faces properly. They layered over each other like tracing paper -- eyes borrowed from one person, laughs from another, intentions copied and pasted. Adults called this weird outlook of mine “adaptability”, but I called it efficiency. If everyone was basically the same, then losing them didn't feel like a loss -- just continuity. Nostalgia was never a thing for me. I didn't get it when people would mourn the past, reminiscing of younger days in strawberry fields or dim-lit sleepover nights. I'd sit around at lunch and ignore any conversation until it became familiar again. I didn't want to create new memories when I knew I'd inevitably move again. Every event was just the remake of a previous one but with different-looking people and maybe with an extra quirk or two. An example of a quirk that younger me would have given you would be my cousin. I tutored him after school, mostly because no one else wanted to. He was younger, awkward in the way kids are when they haven't figured out where to put their hands yet. At first, he fit neatly into a category: bad at maths, easily distracted, and temporarily arrogant. We sat at the same table every afternoon. Same workbook, same mistakes, and the same sigh when I erased his answers and made him try again. He had a habit of rubbing the eraser flat against the page until the paper thinned, as if he could wear the wrong answer away completely. I used to stop him and take it from his hand. His consistency was what made him so easy. But after a few weeks, his mistakes changed. Not disappeared, just shifted. He stopped guessing randomly and started overthinking. He asked why formulas worked instead of just memorising them. He corrected me once, quietly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to. That annoyed me more than it should have. I kept expecting him to stay the same version of himself I'd already filed away. Instead, he kept arriving slightly altered. More confident one day. Quieter the next. Frustrated in ways that didn't match his age. I realised something uncomfortable: he was developing in real time, and I was still treating him like a fixed draft. The moment that stuck wasn't dramatic. He solved a problem on his own -- not perfectly, but honestly -- and looked up at me like he was waiting to see if I'd notice. My hand had already reached for the eraser. I stopped when I saw the paper; it was intact, no smudges, and his numbers were written carefully this time. And I almost didn't. Not because he needed my approval, but because I'd been acting like people stayed still long enough to be summarised. Like growth was optional background noise. I would have corrected him back into the version of himself I already knew. He wasn't a “quirk.” He was a process. After that, I started paying attention -- not just to him, but to how often I decided too early who someone was. How quickly I closed the file and moved on. I still move. I still leave. That part hasn't changed. But I don't pretend people are finished anymore. I often wonder had I had a slow childhood, allowing myself to watch people grow along with me instead of leaving them before the breeze could even shift, maybe I wouldn't have wasted so many potential connections with my cynical views. But now, I stop myself from sorting people too quickly, from labeling them before they've had the chance to shift. The last time I packed my things, I thought of my cousin's page -- his numbers precise, uncorrected -- and I left it just as it was, letting him, letting everyone, be more than the file I once made of them. Some people aren't meant to be remembered as snapshots, they're meant to be noticed mid-change. I've learned to wait a little longer before reaching for the eraser.

Introduction Every particle in the universe has its place, and every event has its order. Creation began with the very first "script." Every invention and emotion takes shape as thoughts before they touch paper. We are made of writing—from DNA codes to the lines of destiny. Man is the most intricate masterpiece in the library of the universe. Every breath is a comma, every decision a new sentence. We are born to write, leaving indelible lines for the future. I. The Inequality of the "Starting Line" The book of life doesn't begin on the same page for everyone. Some start at point "100" with ready-made wealth; others start at "0" without even a pen. Is this a predefined "System" or a test of resilience? What matters isn't where the book began, but what is written within. Writing an epic of heroism from zero is more sublime than leaving blank pages from a hundred. We cannot choose our starting line, but what we write on that field is our own will. II. Human Nature: The Unchangeable "Code" Human nature is our internal law. I believe it is unchangeable. We don't learn goodness; we are born with it—the "signature" of the Creator. This world balances light and dark. Even "monsters" are characters in a script designed to test our virtue. The greatest art is to remain an "innate good person," regardless of the world's destruction. If our nature is gold, it remains gold even in mud. A writer must not change their style, no matter how much the world tries to edit them. III. Destruction and the Technological Trap Humanity is both creator and destroyer. In a world of "mega" and "premium," we lose our time and the meaning of life. Technology was meant to lighten burdens, but it has made us busier and distanced us from one another. We complete "tasks" but forget to "live." To reach spiritual maturity, we must slow down. If greed continues to prioritize profit over the soul, the world will end before our spiritual eyes truly open. True progress is returning to the value of human connection. IV. The Philosophy of Distance Society is a system of mutual benefit, but for spiritual survival, distance is essential. Helping others is a debt, but maintaining distance is mental security. Like letters on a page, meaning only emerges when there is a space (a gap) between them. Human relationships are the same: only those with healthy distance remain meaningful. We cannot abandon people, but we must ensure their chaos does not infect our nature. Solitude is the workshop where our script is refined. V. Destiny and Responsibility Being born a writer is a mission. It is about perceiving life with depth. My destiny is to witness injustice, remain human among "monsters," and leave these experiences as a "script" for future generations. We leave behind the "path of life" we have written. Others should read our scripts to learn how to remain good in a difficult world. We are the guardians of meaning. Conclusion Humanity may end before reaching maturity, but this is just a transition to the "next level." If we live worthily and keep our "writing" pure, we fulfill our duty. The Creator is the Supreme Reader waiting for the conclusion of a great work. We are the pen, life is the paper, and every step is a letter. Until the final page, let us compose every line with humanity, patience, and wisdom. Only what we have written—love and truth—will remain forever.

The nightwolves and shadows moved quietly. The forest creatures kept a watchful eye; when the wolves appeared, the winds howled, warning them of the grave danger approaching from the flesh-eating predators. “Quick, run and hide! The nightwolves are out hunting." The ground below rumbled as the animals ran helter-skelter. Oh, the animals rushed to escape the vile predators. Unfortunately, some were not lucky and got caught within seconds. Their screams broke the quiet of the night as they struggled to free themselves from the deadly wolves. However, in a swift strike, they were killed and devoured. The tall, dark shadows watched, delighting in the bloodied melee. The nightwolves were at their behest as they tore the poor animals apart. They left behind a trail of blood and a heavy stench of rotting flesh. The forest animals now lived in fear. The nightwolves grew in numbers and returned often to hunt for food. One morning, Tabby, the squirrel, ran to the King of the Jungle, Lion. He was worried sick about what was taking place. He ran between trees and foliage deep into the forest until he reached the waterfalls. He saw the lion resting on a rock nearby. Lush verdant vegetation created a magical facade around the waterfalls, while the sunlight danced on the waters trickling below. “What blissful haven!” Tabby was envious. His part of the forest had once been as blissful, but not anymore. The nightwolves prowled the area often and killed many of his friends. He had to find a way to eliminate their threat. The King of the Jungle sat up as the squirrel approached him. Tabby bowed in respect. The clouds shifted in the sky above, blocking out the sun. A sudden gloom overcame them. “Ah, Tabby! What brings you here? It's been a while,” the lion greeted cheerfully. He noticed Tabby's worried face. “What's the matter?” His voice echoed through the forest. Birds flew from nearby branches, eager to hear what Tabby had to say. A deer perked its ears. “It must be important,” it opined. “Your Highness, the nightwolves have been terrorising our part of the forest, killing the animals and coming back each night to hunt for more.” “The nightwolves and shadows?” Lion demanded to know in an angry tone. He thought for a moment. Tabby's habitat was once renowned for its peaceful ambience. A great sage had lived in the resplendent environment. When he died, his soul returned to live in his prized habitat. “Don't worry, Tabby,” the lion assured him, “The Enchantress will get rid of the nightwolves for us.” “The Enchantress?” Tabby asked, confused. He had never heard of her before. The Enchantress was the daughter of a deposed King whose reign ended abruptly when an avaricious King seized his throne. The old King had fled into the forest. There he fell in love with a liminal being—a beautiful spirit incarnate who lived among the will-o'-the-wisps. The Enchantress was their firstborn and possessed her mother's magical powers. Lion related how she had once destroyed a fire-breathing dragon. Her melodious voice made the feared creature fall in love with her, and, lovestruck, he met his fate when she shot him with an arrow between his eyes. “Hurry, let's not waste any time,” Lion said. “She will destroy the nightwolves for you.” Lion offered Tabby a ride on his back as they hurried there. The birds followed discreetly, gliding on graceful wings of flight. The Enchantress was sunbathing with the mermaids by the riverbank when they arrived. As the visitors approached, the mermaids disappeared deep into the river. Their tails created a mighty splash as they dived. “Ah, Your Highness. What brings you here this mid-morning? And who do you carry on your back?” the Enchantress greeted with good cheer. Tabby was speechless when he saw the Enchantress. Her incredulous beauty astounded him. “This is Tabby from the other side of the forest. The nightwolves are attacking his habitat every night. We need your help to stop them from killing all the animals there.” Lion replied. “The nightwolves are protected by the evil shadows,” the Enchantress informed quietly. “The moon will be out tonight; I will entice them with a song. Then, strike them dead as I did with the dragon.” As darkness fell over the forest that night, the moon appeared to gloss over the clouds. The Enchantress began her hypnotising melody. Hearing her, the nightwolves stopped in their tracks. “Who's that singing?” The wolves questioned. The shadows hurried ahead of them in search of the soulful voice. They saw a beautiful woman on a cloud of mist under the moonlight by the mermaid's stream. The magic of her voice enticed the wolves to fall in love. Filled with rage and jealousy, they began to fight over her until the entire pack lay dead at her feet. Tabby and his friends were finally freed of a deadly menace. The forest was at peace once again. The End.

Ten-year-old Diwa sat folded into the quiet corner of her room with her back pressed against the cool, unyielding wall as if she needed something solid to lean her small world against. In her hands, two dolls dangled, one in each palm. She lifted them gently and her lips parted without sound, shaping the words she wished they could speak. Diwa didn't like making noise. Not because she disliked her voice, and not because she was shy. Simply because silence was the safer option. “PUTANGINA! GAGO KA?” Diwa froze. The dolls slipped slightly in her hands and a tight feeling bloomed in her chest. She didn't think. Her body moved before her mind did. She set the dolls down with trembling care and pushed herself up from the floor, leaving the wall that could no longer anchor her. Diwa was scared, but only the words scared her. She wasn't scared to walk towards the sound, nor was she scared to help her mother. She creaked open the bedroom door and saw what she was used to seeing. It didn't happen every day, but it happened enough for Diwa to know her “routine”, the one she never named but had memorized in her bones. She slipped through the doorway and rushed forward. She grabbed the nearest pillow with both hands and darted towards her mother, holding it up like a fragile shield. It wasn't much, but it was what she had learned to do. Diwa wasn't the type to fight back. She didn't have the confidence to raise her voice or her hands, especially not against her own father. But it wasn't only the lack of confidence that held her still, it was belief. Belief that her father wasn't truly like this, that he didn't mean to be. That the man behind the fists and violent words was someone gentle, someone she could someday have a real relationship with, like the kind all her friends seemed to have without trying. And despite everything, she still loved him. Despite the cruel words, the sharp corrections or the way he struck her hands with the edge of a pencil whenever she wrote the wrong answer. She still opened her math books with hope, reading her science chapter carefully hoping to see a once in a blue moon smile, and a soft, “Good job, Diwa.” It never came. Now, Diwa was seventeen. Her relationship with her father hadn't gotten much better but it hadn't gotten worse either. She was applying to college now, a milestone she had imagined would feel freeing. But there was one problem, Diwa didn't want to major in STEM like her father demanded. She sat with that truth for weeks, the question pressing her mind, How do I tell him? Do I even tell him at all? But Diwa had a stubborn mind, one that refused to spend the rest of her life trapped into her father's idea of a “perfect child.” So she told him. “I want to major in English.” The outburst was immediate, exactly what she had imagined would happen. “I didn't raise you like this, anak.” Surprisingly, Diwa remained calm. “Why can't you be more like your cousins?” he snapped. “They do what they're told without being asked.” Diwa steadied herself with one breath, then a second, her frustration slowly easing. “Every child has their own capabilities,” she finally said. “Their own desires. Their own dreams.” She held his gaze. “And if you're so fond of people who aren't your children, why have children at all?” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “If you want something you can control so badly, then breed horses. Why have children?” Her father didn't say another word. Diwa turned and left the house, her steps echoing in the hallways she had known for all her life. Weirdly, she felt like she had “won”, even though she now had to face college tuition and finding some sort of shelter on her own. She knew life would get impossibly harder after cutting off her only source of family. Happiness had seemed unreachable with no money, no home, no freedom. But maybe that was the point, to take the first step toward a life that belonged entirely to her. With no hope, she reached out to friends she hadn't spoken to in months, due to being locked in her home under study and expectation. Unexpectedly, they welcome her in. Diwa was surprised at how forgiving people could be. They welcomed her back as though no time had passed, as though distance and silence could be erased with simple kindness. For the first time in years, Diwa also got to visit her mother's grave. Forbidden for so long, she now stood before the moss-covered stone. Strangely, she didn't feel sadness, only relief. Relief for herself and her mother. Both had escaped the “hell” they'd been trapped in. Reconnecting with friends and meeting new people, she discovered life brimming with possibility. Diwa even found love, a guy named Max, who reminded her the world was bigger than fear. She had left the cage, the mold and for the first time, she felt the exhilarating truth, she belonged to no one but herself.

He never talked. He never moved in a weird way. He only stared. He spent hours and hours looking at everyone in that mysterious way. At that old bench. Dressed all black. Just looking. I didn't have any reasons, but he scared me. A lot. I don't know why. Don´t ask me. In the way from school to my house I need to walk across the park where he sat. I just didn´t look at him. Period. I just walk away as quickly as I could. But one day all was different. One day he did not just look. That was the day when I nearly die. It was a normal day, bad stuff at school, nothing else. The moon and, with her, the night were starting to appear. I was very concentrated and focused on what I was doing. That day I was not paying so much attention on everyone else. And he noticed it. I was looking at my book when I walked across the park, a bit slower than other times. He was there, as always, just staring. I did not notice that, for the first time in probably ages, he stood up. He moved and started walking behind me, very calmly. I was not noticing at all. I walked through one and even two main streets, but in my way home I needed to cross a little and lonely passage. It has only closed shops and no one can look at it without being physically in it. That was when he decided to act. He stopped walking and he moved his mouth. -Hey- he said. I stopped my way, cold as ice, and, in a very slowly way, I turned around. It was him. Again. And he was not in the bench, his was walking to me. I froze, couldn´t move. I started to run, but it was too late. He reached me with his big arms and brutally pushed me to the wall. A very cold wall. He then decided to take out his clothing, one by one, while with one hand was grabbing my neck. I tried to shout, but, for this time, my mouth was shut, it was impossible to me. I just couldn't do it. I had to see a very unpleasant vision of an adult man without any clothing. And it was my turn. I tried, somehow, to resist, but it was impossible. I was without any clothing. My brain was trying to react, but I stood still. Then I did shout. Damn, of course I did. It was the mixed feeling of the beginning of a trauma and the unpleasant experience that I was being forced to have. All of a sudden, everything finished. He dressed up and he vanished. I was devastated. Then, I just cried. I threw all the tension and fear I had been feeling the last ten minutes and, don't ask me why, I ran back home. After that, everything changed. I, one way or another, turned out to be more mature and, also, more suspicious about everything, and everyone. That day, I began a new life, I was a new version of myself. Just ten years after the first had started. That was the day, when I died.

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