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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“Will we make it? Why does everyone look so worried?” My little sister had no idea what impact her words made, but they touched each of our family deeply. They poked at my consciousness like a pebble causing ripples on a still pond's surface. My backpack weighed heavily on my shoulders, yet I barely registered it as my mind wandered. The sounds of the airport became muted as I reentered the past. The past year had been a trial. My parents had decided to adopt and into my life came three teenage sisters. This particular choice led to a much larger trial than any of us had envisioned. Though being missionaries in Zimbabwe was already challenging, now strife laced our home's atmosphere. I would walk into the room, gauging the occupants' emotions based on their faces. A frown—I'll come back later. Silence—the new norm. Joy—what's that? I didn't know what caused the anger and grudges, but they existed anyway. Brick by brick, stone by stone, I felt walls being built around each family member. I did not blame anyone; the situation was simply there. Loneliness often threatened. Some of my closest friends had left, and living over an hour from the closest town left little opportunities. It is strange how cold wind often feels so much colder when one faces it alone. We lived in a hot town in the middle of nowhere, but to me it often resembled a frozen wasteland. “Sign here please.” The voice startled me out of my stupor. I stirred and stared at the customs agent. Her stone-like visage had barely shifted since we were halted in front of her desk an hour ago. Covid. Oh, covid. It was the root of everyone's problems recently. Right now, we had been given an incorrect covid test for my brother. It showed that he had tested positive, though that was a much earlier test. I could see the sweat on my dad's forehead. I loved Zimbabwe, but they were not known for their punctuality. If we had the wrong test, it was next to impossible to receive the right one within the hour. That would be too good to be true. And yet here we were, being ushered to our gate! Wow. Miracles still happen. It's not like we could afford to pay for another ticket. We started running, doing our best to catch our plane, but my mind wandered again. From physical injuries to a river of severe emotional strain, the pillar of my heart was slowly eroded. I lived on, unconsciously adjusting the the new norm of my life. Sadness and disappointment seemed all to eager to be my companions. When we were scheduled to go on furlough in 2019, Covid cancelled it. Already numb, I had taken it in. Why expect that something would go right for once? Time after time, it seemed as if the long-promised dawn of hope would be yet again delayed. Only an instinct deep inside of my refused the company of despair. I knew of little alternative; life had done its best to kill all the other options. Yet I knew that the dawn had to arrive; I knew it like I knew it takes oxygen to breathe. I just hope the dawn arrives soon. I cannot remain standing much longer. The plane was still boarding. We all got on and settled ourselves into our seats. It was not a minute too late. We had barely buckled before the pilot spoke from the cockpit and the plane took off. We reached cruising altitude, and I looked out of the window. The sun was rising, spreading its smiling rays of red and orange over the canvas of clouds and sky. The view was stunning, but to me it spoke of much more than simple beauty. “Never surrender,” it seemed to say to me. “Never give up. Hope always has a chance. Though the night be blacker than you have ever seen, though it seem as if the sun will never rise, hope will break through! True beauty and victory are found like gold once it has passed through the fire, removing the impurities. Hope will always prevail.” I looked at the clouds and smiled. My perseverant belief and paid off. Hope will always prevail.

I remember how she looked down without a hint of uncertainty; she just looked there before giving it all up. I can't forget how quiet it was after she had done it. Everyone just stared……. 24 of September 2021. It was a Friday. The day I started to like speeches…. Why? No idea. I was 13, I didn't use to pay attention to any speech before but that exact day I wanted to listen, we can say the speech itself kinda pulled me. Anyways, that exact speech was about suicide, It was the first time I felt that weird feeling… fear?.... sadness?.. No, it was a mix of disgust, surprise, horror. It was something I can't really call. After like ten minutes of that speech at my home I decided to go look out of the window which was a decision I will regret for the rest of my life; I saw people walking here and there until I saw them…. two kids were looking out of their window and playing… then they just fell….I wanted to yell, scream, tell anyone but I couldn't I was just freezing looking down seeing the two kids lying in their own blood. People were rushing there but they couldn't do anything except watch, covering their kids' eyes and rushing to their own homes. Five minutes later the mother of the two kids was freaking out, where her precious kids could disappear, she looked through the window seeing them down there I didn't catch her look clearly, but I can imagine how desperate she looked, how she wanted all of this to be a dream. In the blink of an eye, she went inside and came back standing on the edge of the window. More people started gathering screaming telling her not to do it. But no one dared to go up the stairs and save her, they didn't even try to gather down there holding anything to catch her. All they did was scream, did they really want her to be saved? Or they just wanted to make themselves feel like they did anything good. That doesn't matter, they all got quiet the moment she jumped, no one of them dared to move, to even put a hand to catch her, they just froze and covered her face after she died and left. Was this all a show to them to just watch and leave? Or just 3 minutes advertisement for death. How the people that wasn't even there dared to help victimized the only one who ran upstairs and tried to save her “HER HUSBAND”. It made me realize how selfish people are, how all they care about is how they look, how desperate they want to make their brain think they did enough while they didn't. Now I am 17 and I still can remember clearly the full accident when I look through that exact window at my house, I just remember the exact thing that happened, and I can't forget it. Sometimes I wish I just slept late that night and woke up late that day.

In the small, rain-kissed town of Bellhollow -- where thunder spoke louder than people did, and time always seemed to walk instead of run -- there lived a boy named Elias who collected sounds. Not music. Not voices. Not even the usual sort of noises people notice. Elias collected moments: the pop of a soap bubble bursting, the hush of snow settling on a roof, the squeak of old library drawers. He caught them in glass jars -- clear, delicate ones -- and stored them in rows along his bedroom walls like stars in a private galaxy. To most, the jars looked empty. But Elias could hear what others couldn't. With a careful twist of a cork, he could summon the clink of a marble dropped in a tin can, or the fading echo of a bicycle bell turning the corner. "Odd little thing," the townsfolk would murmur, though never unkindly. Bellhollow was full of quiet people and quiet lives, and Elias's habit of chasing invisible sounds down alleyways and under staircases was just another oddity folded into the town's rhythm. He was content in his orbit -- until the boy arrived. It was on a fog-laced morning when the clouds sat heavy, as if listening. Elias had just captured the sound of dew slipping off a leaf when he saw him -- a boy no older than himself, standing by the old clock tower in a soaked sweater and bare feet. His name was Cael. He didn't speak. Not a word, not even a whisper. But his eyes said everything: storm-gray, curious, and ancient in a way that didn't make sense. Elias tried asking where he was from, what he needed, if he was lost -- but Cael only tilted his head, like he was listening to the questions rather than trying to answer them. So Elias brought him home. They didn't need to speak to understand each other. In Elias's room, Cael traced the shelves of jars like reading Braille. Elias uncorked one carefully, and the sound of a paper boat being folded whispered into the air. Cael smiled -- not with his mouth, but with the corners of his soul. Elias tried again. A cork popped. The low thump of a skipping stone across the lake echoed softly. Cael touched the jar, then pointed at Elias's chest. And for the first time, Elias understood: Cael wasn't just listening. He was searching. Over the next few days, they explored Bellhollow together -- collecting. They gathered sound like treasure hunters gather clues. The ping of wind chimes, the thud of a closed book, the slow whirr of a moth's wings. Cael followed Elias everywhere, his silence filled with wonder. But Elias noticed something strange. Every time Cael held a new jar, he'd shake it gently, listen, and then sigh. It was never quite right. Not yet. One evening, as dusk dyed the sky lavender and gold, Elias asked the question out loud: “What are you trying to hear?” Cael didn't answer. But he reached into his coat and pulled out a single jar. It was glowing. Elias stared as Cael handed it to him. Inside, there was a sound Elias didn't recognize -- soft and warm, like dawn stretched into a melody. It was… kind. It felt like fingers threading through tall grass, or the pause before someone says, I'm proud of you. He uncorked it. The sound of his laugh floated out -- not the laugh he used around others, but the unguarded one that escaped when he was truly, fully himself. It made his eyes sting, though he didn't understand why. “How did you -- ?” he began, but Cael was already nodding. That was the sound he had been looking for. The next morning, Cael was gone. No footprints. No jar. Only the faint scent of petrichor and the tiniest hum in the air, like a tuning fork settling into silence. But something had changed. Elias stepped outside, and Bellhollow felt different. Not louder -- but more alive. A woman on her porch was humming an old lullaby. A boy tossed a pebble into a drain just to hear the plunk. The postman whistled. The town had begun to listen. And Elias? He kept collecting -- but now he also shared. He left jars on windowsills, in school desks, on park benches. Sounds of laughter, of hope, of things people had forgotten how to hear. And sometimes, when the wind was right, people swore they heard a voice among the echoes, saying not a word, but a feeling. Thank you.

“She's sick, surrounded by hypocrites, her life is a tragedy.” “A tragedy? Spare me. Does she even have a heart?” “Right — and only you do...” The women spoke loudly in the crowded bus, oblivious to everyone else. The passengers looked away, each hiding behind their own indifference. I glanced at them, trying to escape my spiralling thoughts. Rain trickled down the window. Grey coats, grey faces. A dreary world soaked in hopelessness. It had been a month since I shut down my company, a draining and disappointing grind that barely paid the bills. I was exhausted from doing work I didn't love. Trapped in a life that felt like a dead end. I felt more ghost than person, each day blurring into the next, numbed by regret and fatigue. “Don't crowd at the front!” called the conductor. “Next stop: Railway Station.” As the bus slowed, a man at the back suddenly shouted, “Open Sesame!” What a charming soul, I thought, and smiled. Open Sesame. The magic phrase that unlocks the cave of treasures. Who knows what's waiting just around the corner? What surprise this gloomy April day might bring? Yes. I would carry with me that phrase. My personal spell. And of course, I would go to Shanghai. To hell with fear. I was going. A flicker of light warmed my chest. The fog inside me began to lift. “Achoo!” sneezed a little boy from the front seat. Thank you, little one, for the blessing. I got off the bus early and walked home through the drizzle. With trembling fingers, I turned on my computer and wrote to Trevor Wilson: “Yes. I'm coming.” Trevor was a New Zealander, a university lecturer teaching English as a second language in China. We had met through an online forum connected to my now-defunct training company. We communicated through Google Translate, as I spoke no English just the remnants of the German I had learned at school. He had offered to pay for my travel and invited me to visit. I wasn't sure... until that moment. Something unseen was pulling me east. In my imagination, Shanghai shimmered with Chinese gondolas, fragrant gardens, and birds singing freedom songs in vibrant colours. The air smelled of mandarins and mangoes. I could almost hear the bamboo flutes. Trevor booked me into the Howard Johnson hotel, an elegant, sunlit place where I felt like a visiting queen. The lobby smelled of citrus and wood. The sheets in my room whispered with freshness. Each evening, we dined somewhere new. Trevor's eyes sparkled with gentle mischief as he introduced me to dishes I couldn't pronounce, patiently repeating their names until I could say them with confidence. He was kind and generous, romantic in ways I hadn't expected. The city stunned me. Skyscrapers and neon nights loomed above unfamiliar streets, yet something tugged at me. It was as if I had lived here before, left, and now, somehow, was finding my way back—to this city, to Trevor, to myself. English was my only obstacle. Trevor helped me through it. His encouragement dissolved my fear. I spoke with clumsy courage, and to my surprise, people listened. I began to feel I belonged. At the hotel, I met a Japanese receptionist Emiko, graceful, and bright. She carried the patient grace of someone who believed that every conversation, no matter how halting, was a small bridge across the world. Warmly, she encouraged me to visit Buddhist temples and shop for silk and spices in the old town. There was something familiar about her — the eyes, the gestures, the quiet way her smile lingered. Then it came to me: Julia Roberts. It amazed me how someone from a different world could resemble the American Cinderella from Pretty Woman. I found excuses to talk to her. Emiko patiently corrected my English and repeated difficult expressions. One day she asked, “What's your native language?” “Russian, like most Soviet people, regardless of ethnicity,” I replied. She smiled, intrigued. The next morning, my hotel phone rang. I picked it up. A bright voice with a strong accent said, in Russian, “Good morning, madam! Are you awake?” It was Emiko, my Julia Roberts. She stretched every syllable like a singer, filling me with joy and sending me into helpless laughter. In that moment, the once-distant world opened its arms. And it spoke my language. Now, more than twenty years have passed. I have become an author, writing historical novels and nonfiction books — in English. Recently, I published my first book on Amazon — a little guide to personal growth, illustrated with my own drawings. And I am writing this story with heartfelt gratitude and tender memory of that Open Sesame moment…for my husband Trevor, although he won't be able to read these lines while he is still alive. His love was the first page of the story I was meant to write. Because the magic of that day lives on—in my words, my journey, and in the love that opened every door. Some treasures, once found, remain forever open.

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.

Walls are like the background music of a room — we often don't notice them until they're out of tune. A few months ago, I realized my home needed more warmth, more life… but I didn't want to repaint everything or renovate from scratch. That's when I started looking into wallpaper options. I had no idea how much was possible — from soft neutrals to bold prints, even textured panels and wooden styles. Living in a city that appreciates design, I quickly noticed how popular Wallpaper Dubai options had become. After browsing through a few local collections, I came across Decorio. What stood out to me wasn't just their product range, but how easy they made everything. No complicated decisions, no confusing catalogs — just simple help and beautiful designs that fit my space perfectly. We added a grey marble wallpaper in the lounge that completely changed the mood. In my daughter's room, the playful patterns brought color and energy. Even the kitchen got a touch of charm with a tile-style wallpaper — who knew it could look so chic without actual tiles? I'm not usually the type to share home decor tips, but this change made such a big difference that I had to write about it. If you're thinking of updating your home without breaking walls (or the bank), I genuinely think wallpaper is worth exploring. It's one of the easiest ways I've found to make a space feel like your own. You can explore more at https://decorio.ae

The final horn blew… The war was over, but the cost was beyond counting. It didn't feel like victory. Exhausted soldiers in torn uniforms with empty stares stood in silence. The guilt and grief of surviving were the heaviest burden on them all. So many friends were buried beneath the cold soil. Rafe stood frozen, not from fear or cold but from emptiness. He had lost everything: his family, his happiness, his hope… The only thought that kept him alive was to return to his hometown and reunite with his love, Ellis, who brought colour into Rafe's grey world. At dawn, Rafe packed what little he had left. He folded letters Ellis had written to him and put a small silver ring into his pocket - the one he had promised to propose to her when the war ended. He wondered if she was waiting for him or if she was even alive… Four days. Rafe walked with no sleep or rest. Not really. His coat was soaked through. His boots were torn, but nothing could stop him now. Finally, he approached the hill that overlooked his hometown. His heart pounded harder the closer he got to the town with every step. He whispered, “Please, let her be there.” The moment he saw the smoke, he froze. The town was nothing but ash and ruins. He ran even though his sore legs barely held him. Not a single soul remained. He wandered around the ruins and screamed her name. But there was no answer. Only silence. He just stood there, blinking as if trying to wake from a dream. Fifty years had passed. The war had been forgotten by the world, but not by him. Rafe, now an old man with grey hair and a walking stick, visited the ruins of what was once his hometown. The promise ring was still inside his coat. It had never belonged to anyone else because no one else ever felt right. He stood where her house used to be. He had nothing left except memories. At that moment, with the last hope still inside him, he whispered, “If you survived, I hope you found the reason to live and smile again. If you didn't survive, I hope your soul is waiting for me to meet again.”