On a full moon night, Moon’s Son descended among humans. It had always been his desire to experience human life. That’s why he was locked in a tower of moonstone, carefully guarded until he gained understanding. However, tonight the guards were careless. He slipped away, landing on Earth with the moon’s dust.

The albino guy walked, avoiding the moonlight so that the moon guards couldn’t find him. The strong city smell stung at him. He stumbled upon a crowd and practically got shoved into a bar where, under bright spotlights, a band played loud music. It made his head spin from the artificial light and noise. Suddenly, he tripped, and images of people flashed before his bright eyes. It felt like he was suffocating.

Moon’s Son felt a painful grip on his hand. A big guy literally carried him, throwing him outside with a shout: “Do you even have an ID, kid?”

Moon’s Son leaned against the wall. Clinging to the building’s wall, an unexpected intensity enveloped him upon arriving among humans, yet it was the experience he longed for. Summoning courage, he pressed forward. It was his night.

Walking through a dark alley between buildings, he soon realized he was being pursued. The Moon’s guards were on his tail. He moved silently through the passage, went behind a dumpster, and crouched. Spotting a person beside him, also crouching, he turned to her. Placing a finger to her lips, the girl with dark hair tied in a ponytail hid from someone nearby, clearly eavesdropping.

After a few minutes like that, she gestured for him to follow. They sneaked out of the passage. He followed the girl as she skillfully sneaked through alleyways. She stopped under a low-set window. Turning towards him, she whispered something like, “Let’s go.”

The girl effortlessly jumped in and entered through the open window. Moon’s Son hesitated, then jumped and found himself in a dark room with scattered belongings. The girl rummaged, pulling out drawers and stuffing things into a backpack.

“Let’s go before Oberon and his crew return,” she said.

He didn’t know who Oberon was, but he followed the girl. She headed towards the door but changed her mind and went to the window. She jumped, and he did the same. They ran through the dark city streets. She avoided the light, which suited him. The warm vapors made him queasy. Scents filled his nostrils, from the smell of food and smoke to the heavy scent of concrete. All these sensations were a challenge to his senses, yet brought him joy. Finally, he was here, among people.

She stopped by a run-down shed. The girl bent down, pulled out a key from under the doormat, unlocked the door, and they entered a room with a pungent smell that made his eyes water. She tossed the backpack and locked the door, cautiously looking around. She sighed and threw herself on the couch.

Moon’s Son sat on a creaky chair. The girl closed her eyes. It seemed like she was asleep. Even with closed eyes, they bore traces of fatigue and excitement. He noticed thin lines around her eyes, a sign she had been through many adventures. Nevertheless, she was pretty in her simplicity, with soft facial features conveying warmth and closeness.

Attempting to draw breath, the stale air choked him. He wanted to open a window, but he knew he shouldn’t. There were still a few hours until dawn. Moon’s Son wanted to experience as much as possible, but now he was here in this smelly cabin. Maybe his pursuers had given up; maybe he had eluded them. He stood up and decided to leave.

Moon’s Son heard a car stopping next to the shed. The girl opened her eyes and jumped. He stood there, puzzled. Someone tried to open the door. The girl grabbed the backpack and pulled out a knife. Holding the knife in her hand, eyes wide open, she was ready to defend.

At that moment, the door opened with a loud bang, and a large man with long, greasy hair rushed in. He managed to catch the girl by the ponytail. She cut him on the arm with a knife. The man roared and slapped her in the face. She fell, dropping the knife. A shorter figure in a leather jacket with a scar on his face picked up a knife from the floor.

Moon’s Son stood in confusion in the darkness, uneasily observing the unfolding scene before him. It seemed like no one noticed him.

“You thought Mily wouldn’t tell me where I could find you,” snarled the bulky figure.

The girl sat on the floor, wiping blood from her busted lip.

“Oberon,” she whimpered, shooting him a piercing look.

“Where is he?” he shouted, getting in her face.

“You’ll never find him!” the girl hissed defiantly.

“No one knows. Not even Mily,” she added defiantly.

The bulky man widened his eyes.

“Mandy, you’ll tell me here and now where my son is!” he yelled.

“Never! I’ve arranged a chance for him to have a better life,” the girl said, rising from the floor.

Her eyes gleamed provocatively. The shorter man nervously watched the two of them. The bulky man reddened, grabbed her by the forearm, and began dragging her towards the door. Her slender body resisted. From the shadows, a pale figure leaped forward. Moon’s Son forcefully pushed the large figure. The bulky man, surprised, stepped back.

Moon’s Son felt pain shooting through his stomach. Instinctively, he placed his hand on his abdomen and saw the red liquid. The shorter man stood next to him with a bloodied blade. The girl screamed. The two pursuers exchanged glances.

Moon’s Son’s vision blurred, and he felt himself falling to the floor. The bulky man pressed the girl’s mouth and pushed her through the door. The sound of a departing car echoed.

Moon’s Son lay on the floor as precious liquid drained from him. He lacked the strength to rise and return home with the moon dust before the first rays of the sun appeared.

“So, this is what it’s like to be human. Difficult, stifling, dangerous, and painful,” he thought.

But he didn’t regret it. There was something so exciting about being human. This short night was the day of his life. He didn’t regret his decision. Moon’s Son felt sorry only because his fragile nature prevented him from helping the girl, who had provided him with unusual company in his escape.

Morning was breaking. He felt a strong warmth permeating his body. It was the end of his journey. He knew the search for him was over, and his father now mourned him in darkness. It saddened him for a moment, and then an unprecedented peace swept over him. In the first light of the morning, Moon’s Son felt as if he was sailing into eternity.

Dreamt of snow, a man so lone,

In the cold, like a tree unknown.

Blizzard roared, no shelter found,

Hopeless eyes scanned the barren ground.

Earth below him shook and roared,

Swallowed whole, by darkness floored.

All turned white, as if never begun,

Yet in my mind, he stands, alone, undone.

Still see him there, amidst the snow’s fierce whirl,

No shelter, no bush, just a lonely twirl.

When I close my eyes, his figure stays,

In this snow-covered land, lost in its maze.

No one tells you that starting a novel is not exciting for long. At the beginning, you feel like you finally found something important. You have an idea, maybe even characters, maybe a whole world. It feels clear in your head.

But when you sit down to write, it is not that clear anymore. The sentences are slower. The story does not move the way you imagined. You start questioning small things. Then bigger things. Then everything.

No one tells you that the hardest part is not the idea. It is staying with the idea when it stops being interesting. When it becomes work. When you open the document and feel nothing.

I thought I needed more inspiration. Actually, I think I just needed to stay.

Another thing is how quickly you get disappointed. What you write is never as good as what you imagined. And that gap is uncomfortable. You start thinking maybe you are not good enough. Maybe this story is not worth it.

And there is no one there to tell you to continue. No one is waiting for your book. No one is asking if you finished the chapter. It is just you, deciding again and again to come back.

Some days I don’t write. Some days I open the file and close it again. And some days I write a few lines and it feels like nothing.

And yet, sometimes inspiration comes like a storm. It takes over me, and I write more pages in an hour or two than I did in the previous weeks.

It only takes that one moment of inspiration. The one that pulls you in, almost like it wraps around you with something you cannot fully explain. The only thing is, I don’t know when it will come. Or what makes it appear.

So I don’t wait for it anymore. I come back anyway.

I have been thinking about how easily we start explaining ourselves the moment we feel pressure.

The biggest trap we fall into when we sense subtle manipulation is the need to explain. We believe that if we list enough reasons, clear, logical, polite reasons, the other person will understand. That they will accept it more easily.

But in the world of manipulation, every because is not a reason. It is material. Each explanation becomes a small opening someone else can push through.

I can’t because I’m tired. Then rest later. I don’t want to because I have too much work. You can manage it, it won’t take long.

The more we explain, the more we negotiate with something that already feels wrong inside us.

I am starting to wonder what would happen if I simply said no?

No long paragraphs. No defense. No performance of politeness.

Just no.

Say no to what suffocates you. Say no to what blocks your joy. Say no to dreams that are not yours, even if they are beautiful, even if they are safe, even if they make sense on paper.

Sometimes I ask myself how many times have I said yes only because I was afraid of the discomfort of saying no?

But then another question appears. What exactly am I saying no to?

Because without discomfort, there is no growth. If I say no to every difficult moment, I might also say no to becoming stronger. Some discomfort builds us. Some discomfort breaks us.

The hard part is knowing the difference.

Am I saying no to manipulation, or am I saying no to responsibility? Am I protecting my peace, or avoiding effort?

I do not have perfect answers. I am still learning to pause before I explain. To feel the difference between fear and intuition. Between avoidance and self-respect. Between ego and wisdom.

Maybe wisdom is not loud. Maybe it does not argue. Maybe it simply chooses carefully which discomfort to accept.

And that might be the most difficult work of all.

I don’t write the way writing courses recommend. I have my own process. Or, to be honest, I don’t really have one.

In theory, I start with the basics: a story idea and a few characters. Sometimes I even have a possible ending. But once I start writing, I let the story and the characters lead me. And almost every time, I end up somewhere I didn’t originally plan.

You know that feeling when you begin with a character and a simple storyline, slowly build the idea, and then the story breaks free and takes you somewhere you never meant to go? Suddenly you’re stuck in a one-way alley. You can’t move forward because the story isn’t working. You can’t go back because the old version no longer makes sense.

Meanwhile, real life keeps hitting you. Something is always happening. Responsibilities. People. Messages. Small things that aren’t really small. I keep planning to get back to writing, to turn off all distractions, to slip back into my imaginary world.

But when I finally return, I find nothing but dead ends. Characters who broke away and dragged the story somewhere I’m not even sure I want to follow.

In all of this, the most unpredictable part is how, and when, I’ll finish the story.

There’s beauty in that. The freedom. The surprise. That strange feeling that stories sometimes write themselves. But there’s also a need to shape the process a little.

I’m still learning how to balance the two.

Has this ever happened to you?

You start writing a story. You imagine the plot, the setting, the characters. Everything feels planned. Clear. Under control.

And then, almost quietly, one character changes everything.

At first, they are insignificant. A background figure. Someone who maybe wasn’t even meant to exist. But slowly, they step forward. They begin to take space. They demand attention. Before you realize it, they’ve taken over the story. Sometimes they become one of the main characters. Sometimes they feel so alive that they deserve an entire novel of their own.

This happens to me often.

I imagine a story and its characters, and then, like an uninvited guest, some of them break free. They escape my control. They arrive without permission and take a place that was never meant for them.

And that’s when the real question appears.

Are my characters alive?

Do they lead me, or do I lead them? Who is controlling whom?

Sometimes it feels like I’m no longer the creator of their world, but merely the one writing it down. A witness. A recorder of a reality that already exists somewhere else.

Maybe that’s the strange magic of writing.

Maybe stories don’t want to be controlled. Perhaps they want to be heard. That we stop dominating and patiently accept the moment when a quiet, unplanned character steps forward and says: Listen to what I have to say.

And maybe that’s when the story truly begins.

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Story written in response to the prompt: “Write a story from the POV of a non-human character.”

The neon “Paradise” sign on the motel flickered. The evening was cold, and the snowstorm showed no hint of letting up.

“What an irony,” he muttered, glancing at the sign as he trudged through the untouched snow.

The forecast predicted it would be the coldest day of the year. He pulled up the collar of his coat to shield himself from the snow blowing directly into his face. Somehow, he reached the motel’s entrance, stomping the snow off his boots before stepping inside.

In the lobby, an older man with completely white hair was peacefully sleeping in a chair against the wall, his mouth slightly open and emitting soft snores. He was the receptionist on duty that evening. A crooked plastic Christmas tree stood in the corner, its silver star sadly swaying, and a little angel ornament had fallen beneath it.

He walked past the sleeping man, who didn’t stir and entered a room that seemed to function as a café.

The room was nearly empty and stuffy. A middle-aged waitress with strikingly red curly hair was engaged in an intense conversation on her phone, paying no attention to him.

“I’m telling you... yeah... yeah... I don’t know... I’m a grand in the hole... how much can you get together…” The call clearly dropped, and she slammed her phone down in frustration.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said softly, clearing his throat to get her attention.

She looked up and shot him an annoyed glare.

“Do you serve dinner?” he asked, ignoring her hostile demeanor.

“Did you check in with Billy? If you managed to wake him from hibernation!” she laughed, her voice loud and hearty.

“No, I didn’t. I’m not staying here. I’m just waiting for the snowstorm to pass. I don’t want to drive in this weather,” he replied.

She shrugged silently, seeming to accept his presence.

“Dinner then, is that possible?” he asked again.

“Scrambled eggs and sausage,” she rattled off without hesitation. “That’s all we’ve got,” she explained.

“That’ll do,” he agreed. “And a bottle of sparkling water, please. Helps with digestion after a late dinner,” he added with a faint smile.

“Anything else?” she asked, suddenly businesslike, as though she had a full menu to offer. It amused him, but he kept a straight face.

“Actually, yes. The same for the gentleman over there,” he said, nodding toward a man sitting alone in the corner. “I don’t like eating alone,” he added.

“No one likes eating alone on Christmas Eve,” she remarked, intrigued, as she watched him walk to the table.

A man with brown hair streaked with gray, thinning at the crown, sat staring into the distance with a cigarette burning down in his hand. A cloud of smoke spiraled and disappeared above him. On the table sat an untouched glass of whiskey.

“Good evening. Sorry to bother you, is this seat taken?” he asked politely, though it was obvious it wasn’t.

The man turned to him with a blank expression. After a few moments, the man nodded and gestured to the chair, inviting him to sit.

He unbuttoned his coat, draped it over the chair beside him, and sat down. “Angelo,” he introduced himself.

The man gave a faint, sad smile and extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray. “Henry,” he replied, avoiding eye contact as he reached for another cigarette from the pack. After lighting it, he offered one to Angelo.

“No, thanks. I quit,” Angelo replied.

“So did I,” Henry said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “Hope it doesn’t bother you.”

“It’s fine,” Angelo assured him. “I went ahead and ordered us some dinner,” he added.

Henry looked at him, surprised.

“I don’t like eating alone,” Angelo explained.

“I’m not really hungry,” Henry said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “What brings you here tonight?”

“I couldn’t keep driving in this storm. Thought I’d take a break and grab some dinner. Hopefully, the weather will clear up by then.”

“It’s been snowing like crazy all day,” Henry said skeptically.

“It’s chilly in here. They don’t seem to heat this place well,” Angelo said, rubbing his hands together.

“It’s fine for me.”

“You’re not drinking that?” Angelo nodded toward the glass of whiskey. “If you’re not, I’ll take it. Just to warm up. I’ll order you another one when the waitress gets back. Seems like she’s also the cook here.”

“Go ahead,” Henry said, sliding the glass over to him. “I don’t drink.”

Angelo took a sip of the whiskey, shivering as it warmed his throat.

“I just got out of rehab,” Henry said, almost as if speaking to himself. “I was there for three months.”

“In that case, having a glass of whiskey in front of you must be quite the test, right?” Angelo asked.

“You could say that,” Henry replied with a laugh.

“So, I guess my offer to order you a drink is off the table,” Angelo joked.

“We’ll see,” Henry said with a smirk. “What do you do?” he asked.

“I help people,” Angelo replied, taking another sip.

“A coach?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s popular these days.”

“And you?” Angelo asked.

“Used to be a soldier. Now I’m a professional painter,” Henry said, grimacing. “Family business. I work with my dad.” Henry stubbed out his cigarette. “And you? How come you’re stuck here tonight?”

“Work. I’m just coming from work,” Angelo replied, finishing his drink.

“No place you’d rather be? Family?”

Angelo shook his head. “What about you? Where would you rather be?”

“I didn’t tell my parents I was getting out of rehab. My ex-wife and son are celebrating with her fiancé... so...” Henry spread his hands.

“So, it’s just us for Christmas Eve dinner,” Angelo said as the waitress arrived with their plates.

“Here you go, gentlemen. Scrambled eggs with sausage. Looks like you’ve already made friends,” she said, setting the plates and a bottle of water on the table.

“For digestion,” Angelo said, pouring the water into their glasses.

“Enjoy,” the waitress added before walking away.

“Doesn’t look bad. Or maybe I’m just really hungry,” Angelo said, taking a bite.

“It’s no five-star restaurant,” Henry replied. “But it’ll do.”

“You said you were a soldier?”

“Yeah,” Henry said reluctantly, taking a big gulp of water. Angelo noticed him frown.

“Did that contribute to the end of your marriage? I’ve worked with many soldiers and sailors. Long absences seem to be a common challenge.”

“Too heavy a topic for dinner,” Henry replied.

“I’m all ears. I’m stuck here for a while anyway,” Angelo countered.

“Well... it played a role, but not in the way you’d think.”

“No?”

“No,” Henry shook his head. “I wasn’t even married back then. Tessa was my girlfriend, but we got married later. After...”

“After what?”

“After everything,” Henry sighed, pausing to chew his food. It seemed like every bite was hard to swallow.

“You must’ve been through some tough things in your line of work,” Angelo said seriously.

“Yeah. And something I can’t forget. Though I wish I could,” Henry’s gaze grew distant.

“Some events change you forever,” Angelo added softly.

“There was this village. We were sent to attack insurgents. They were holding villagers hostage. The order was to go in, no matter what…” Henry’s voice trembled. “The insurgents died, but so did the hostages. I moved through the bodies like a robot. Then I saw him. A tiny boy, protected by his mother’s body. I picked him up. He didn’t cry. Just looked at me with those terrified black eyes... Wish he’d cried.”

Henry wiped the sweat forming on his brow and drank the rest of his water.

“I took him with us. Didn’t want to leave him, but I had to. The authorities took him. Never had the courage to find out what happened to him.”

Angelo cleared his throat. “I believe it turned out well for him. I know a similar story... A colleague of mine looks after a young man rescued from a warzone by a soldier. Some amazing people adopted him. He wants to be a doctor and join international missions to help others. He’s trying to find his rescuer. Hasn’t found him yet, but hopes to someday...”

“And what if he finds out his savior might also have been his executioner…”

Angelo fell silent.

“I couldn’t handle it,” Henry finally said. “That’s why I left the army. For a while, I lived as an alcoholic and a homeless man. Tessa pulled me out of it. And my parents. They sent me to rehab. The doctors patched up my soul, as much as they could. But not completely. Some nights, when I was left alone with myself, were unbearable. Still, I managed to pull myself together. I started working with my dad. Eventually, I married Tessa.”

“You got yourself back together. That’s good.”

“Yeah, but not for long. We had a son. He’s twelve now. I was so happy... until I started seeing that boy’s eyes in his. Couldn’t handle it. Thought alcohol would help. Slowly, fell apart again. Put Tessa through hell. She stuck with it for years. Then one day, she packed up to leave with our son. Finally, I had enough sense to leave instead.”

“Falling is not as hard as getting back up,” Angelo said, pouring him a glass of water.

Henry took a sip and stared into the distance. “Yeah,” he said. “But sometimes, to get back up, you need a hand. And Tessa wasn’t there anymore. My parents stepped in again and helped me get to rehab. I pulled myself together, mostly for my son. For Lucas. I got back on my feet. Until about a year ago.”

“What happened then?”

“I naively believed that maybe Tessa and I would work things out someday. But that was just my imagination. She told me she’s getting married. He’s a dentist. Successful. I’m happy for her...”

“But...?” Angelo interrupted because there’s always a “but.”

“But I fell apart again. Lucas... he gets along well with him. They go on trips together. I felt like I was losing him. I still feel that way…”

“Have you bought a Christmas gift for Lucas?” Angelo asked suddenly.

Henry shook his head.

“There’s still time to do that.”

“There’s still time...” Henry whispered, staring at something far away.

“What does Lucas like?” Angelo asked.

“He’s obsessed with magic tricks. He even puts on shows for me. I have to say, he’s getting pretty good.”

“Have you ever taken him to a magic show? Just the two of you?”

“I haven’t exactly been the best father. Not that I didn’t try…”

“Sounds like there’s a lot you two haven’t done together.”

“I can’t turn back time.”

“What I’ve seen help my clients is when they stop trying to go back and focus on what’s ahead,” Angelo said, setting down his fork and knife and taking a sip of water with satisfaction.

“I have to say, this was an excellent dinner. I wasn’t expecting that,” he added, looking at Henry.

Henry had also finished his meal and reached for a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Angelo. This time, Angelo accepted. They smoked in silence for a while, each lost in their thoughts.

“I always thought I’d be the kind of father who supports his son the way my parents, especially my dad, supported me. And I wasn’t even a perfect son…” Henry said suddenly.

“Do you love your son because he’s perfect?” Angelo asked.

“Of course not.”

“Are your parents perfect?”

“Far from it.”

“And yet they were there for you when you needed them most.”

Henry fell into thought.

“We all have free will to make choices,” Angelo continued. “Whether to keep going in a blizzard or wait until the road clears; whether to use gifted money to pay off debts or waste it on useless things; whether to give up or keep pushing through life; whether to sleep through everything around us or try to touch someone else’s soul. It’s up to us.”

Angelo noticed a spark ignite in Henry’s eyes.

“I guess it’s time for me to head out,” Henry said, pulling out his wallet.

“It’s okay. I ordered; I’ll pay,” Angelo said firmly.

Henry nodded and stood up. “Thank you... for everything. Safe travels. And… Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Angelo replied.

He watched Henry until he left. Then Angelo took out some money and placed it on the table. He pulled out a pen and a piece of paper from his coat pocket with a list of names. He found “Henry J.” and crossed it off.

Then he put on his coat, passed by the waitress, who was too absorbed in scrolling on her phone to notice him, and walked to the Christmas tree. He straightened the tilted star on top and picked up the angel ornament, placing it on the tree.

Old Billy was still sleeping against the wall. Angelo moved past him and glanced outside. The snowstorm had stopped. He smiled, satisfied, and stepped into the cold night.

The waitress got up and walked to the table. Her jaw dropped when she saw the one thousand dollar bill on it. She picked it up and stared at it for a few moments in shock. The waitress turned toward the door, but no one was there. She folded the bill, slipped it into her shirt pocket, and started clearing the table.

Henry sat in his room, holding a gun. Up until tonight, he had been preparing to end his life. He put the gun away in a bag and picked up his phone. He looked up ‘magic shows’ and bought two tickets for the nearest one.

Then he stood by the window. Snow blanketed the ground, shimmering under the streetlights. He noticed tracks in the snow leading away from the motel, then vanishing into nothing. Henry closed his eyes and whispered, “There’s still time…”

Set against the backdrop of Christmas magic and family bonds, “Christmas Story” is a heartwarming tale of rediscovery, second chances, and the ties that keep us grounded.

Will Ethan find the closure he needs? Dive into this cozy story of love and homecoming to find out!

Chapter 1: Welcome Home

As Dr. Ethan Hook stepped out of the rented car, his cell phone rang. Shivering from the cold, he checked the caller ID and answered with a frosty voice:

“Hello.”

“Ethan, sweetheart,” Cecilia’s playful voice echoed. “Is everything okay? This sudden trip of yours?”

“Cecilia, I’ve explained everything yesterday,” Ethan interrupted nervously. “I’ve traveled for five hours from the airport, finally arrived, and now I’m freezing on the street. I’ll call you later. Please understand.”

“Alright, dear. I’ll go to Richmond’s celebration alone, but you’ll make it up to me when you’re back.”

Ethan heard her familiar, husky laughter and ended the call. Surveying his surroundings, he saw snow-covered streets in a town he hadn’t visited in about ten years. It felt like time had stood still. Dusk was setting in, and Christmas lights slowly illuminated the houses. If there was one thing he had to admit, it was that this town always had a festive spirit during this time of the year, and it seemed that hadn’t changed.

Approaching the front door, he rang the bell. Footsteps approached, and his heart pounded in his chest. Memories overwhelmed him. His parents used to bring him here as a boy, and after the accident, he found solace in this place.

The door opened, revealing his aunt Milly’s smiling face. A slender, gray-haired woman with a wrinkled yet gentle face warmly embraced him. Aunt Milly had a knack for heartfelt hugs, and he remembered her warm embraces that could melt his innate reserve. This time, he hugged her back just as tightly.

“Come in. It’s cold out there,” she chimed.

Ethan stepped into the familiar foyer and whispered, “Yes, it feels like time has stood still.” He caught a whiff of apple pie and remembered how long it had been since he felt genuinely hungry and satisfied. Caught up in the daily grind at the pediatric clinic, he often ate irregularly, forgetting the true sense of satiety and hunger.

“Where’s...” he began.

“Your uncle is in the room downstairs. He was upset because I told you everything, but I couldn’t keep it from you any longer,” Milly’s deep blue eyes filled with tears.

“Leave your things in your old room upstairs and go to him. He’s waiting for you.”

Carrying his bag, Ethan climbed the creaky wooden stairs, which seemed louder than before. He opened the door to his old room and entered. The freshness hit him, and Aunt Milly had washed everything and put on new bedding, anticipating his arrival. Tired as he was, he resisted the urge to collapse onto the bed, leaving the lights off, and headed to his uncle’s room.

Three days ago, his aunt had called. From her tone, he sensed something was wrong. His uncle, a stalwart man, had lung cancer. They had kept it from him for a few months. The latest prognosis wasn’t optimistic, with less than a month to live.

Taken aback by this news and weary of his fast-paced life, Ethan made a decision. He called the clinic, took leave, and decided to be there for his uncle until the end. The decision surprised him as if it had been lurking within, waiting for the right moment to surface.

Stepping into his uncle’s room, he saw the weathered face of the silver-haired man looking at him with that familiar warm gaze. Semi-reclined on the bed and connected to an oxygen tank, his voice, unexpectedly strong, greeted Ethan.

“Ah, your aunt; I told her not to tell you anything.”

“Uncle, we won’t talk about that now. I’m here, and you can be as mad as you want; you won’t drive me away.”

He sat next to him, taking his uncle’s hand. He knew he had made the right decision.

“You’ve always been a stubborn boy,” his uncle chuckled.

“And that hasn’t changed,” Ethan laughed.

“It runs in the family. Your late mother was the most stubborn person I knew,” his uncle added.

Aunt Milly entered the room and smiled upon seeing them together.

“Old man, Ethan traveled a long way. I’ve set the table for dinner, and later you can continue your conversation.”

“You should always listen to your wife, believe me. That’s the most important lesson,” his uncle slapped him on the arm.

“Go, have your dinner.”

Seated at the table with all his favorite dishes, Ethan was delighted but found himself too full to eat more than a single slice of apple pie.

Aunt Milly shared how, until late summer, his uncle had been strong, but fatigue and coughing set in. He refused to go for a checkup until she practically dragged him. The bad news came suddenly, and everything changed in an instant.

“Tell me about that girl.” Aunt Milly scrutinized him.

“Which one?” Ethan feigned innocence.

Aunt Milly looked at him as she used to when he, as a boy, lied or omitted something.

“My fiancée.”

“What?,” Aunt Milly exclaimed, as if choking.

“I’m not of such a restless spirit, dear aunt.” Ethan chuckled a bit sarcastically.

“But we can discuss that another day. Right now, I’d like to take a stroll through the town center and help my stomach digest this meal.”

“Alright. Just dress warmly; it started snowing heavily.”

He put on his jacket and stepped outside. Snowflakes landed on his face, and he remembered how, as a boy, he would stick out his tongue, trying to taste their coldness. A smile played on his lips as he thought about it, and he resisted the temptation to do the same now.

He got into the car, intending to visit a particular place. He drove to the Library. No, it wasn’t a traditional library, or maybe it was, but it was undoubtedly a place of cult significance from his early youth. Old Coldman ran a cafe library where they used to hang out after high school, and in the summers, weekly competitions for writing the most romantic poem were held.

The café was still in its old place. He approached the door but found it empty inside. He noticed a faint light and a person who shut off the light and came out, almost colliding with him. A woman’s scream pierced the air.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ethan stumbled, uncharacteristically flustered, as he was accustomed to keeping everything under control.

A slender woman with a cap on her head stared into his face and gasped in astonishment.

“Ethan!”

Then she composed herself a bit and added more calmly:

“Ethan, is that you?”

It was Emily. Ethan felt a strange surge through his body.

“Yes, Emily,” he whispered.

An eternity seemed to pass before he could bring himself to speak.

“I’m here because of my uncle. He’s sick,” he said, regretting how much it sounded like an excuse and how he surprised himself by saying it.

“How is Ron?” she asked quietly.

“You know about it?”

“Yes.”

He observed the strands of her wavy hair peeking out from under her hat—the same strands that used to make his head spin a long time ago.

“He is not feeling well. But he doesn’t give up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ethan nodded.

“How did you end up here?”

“Here? I work here,” she said, a bit confused, turning to lock the door.

“You always wanted to work in a library,” he added.

“Well, in a way, my wish came true.”

“How are you, Emily?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And you? I heard you became a pediatrician.”

“Aunt loves to brag, it seems.”

“A bit,” Emily said with a smile.

“I have to go now,” she whispered.

“How did you get here? Do you want me to drop you home?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll take a walk. You know I live a few streets down.”

“I know,” he said.

He watched her until she disappeared into the darkness.

He used to love the scent of her hair and the taste of her lips!

She was the most popular girl in high school, and he was the kid she never noticed. That’s why he fell head over heels for her when she approached him at a party and kissed him in his final year of high school. He was so in love with her that he could barely summon the courage to go for pancakes afterward.

As if it were happening now, he saw her in a blue dress with a navy beret on blonde curls, sitting with him in the Library, eating pancakes. Then she looked at him mischievously and asked,

“Well, Ethan Hook, what now?”

He felt a lump in his throat, and he coughed a little. Quickly regaining his composure, he whispered:

“Now, I’d kiss you if you want.”

She pursed her lips, and he kissed her gently. He felt like he had conquered the peak of an impassable mountain.

As memories played in his mind, Ethan realized it had been a long time since he had been in close contact with his emotions. The snowfall intensified, but he enjoyed the cold winter air. His footsteps made a crunching sound in the snow, and the Christmas decorations brought the quiet town to life. He decided to visit the town square nearby.

Each step carried an additional scent of winter. Houses along the old streets were adorned with lights; windows were illuminated with candles; and Christmas decorations adorned the facades. Scenes from his childhood became a reality, and every detail of the streets conveyed the warmth of the holiday spirit.

Passing by shops with lit windows showcasing colorful decorations, the aroma of roasted chestnuts wafted from a street vendor’s stall on the corner. Notes of Christmas songs emanated from the square, creating a harmony that filled the air.

Reaching the square with the Christmas tree, Ethan paused to contemplate the light radiating from the balls and a star atop the tree. It was a moment of magic, where light conquered the darkness of the winter night. People gathered on the square, sipping tea, eating roasted chestnuts, singing Christmas songs, and sharing warmth and smiles.

Returning to his uncle’s house, a mixture of melancholy and excitement filled him. Upon entering the living room, he felt the warmth of the home that Aunt Milly created with her presence. His uncle rose from the bed and sat in the armchair. An expression of joy and nostalgia appeared on his face as he saw Ethan.

“Ethan, I thought you might change your mind and run away,” his uncle said with a smile.

“I wouldn’t do that, uncle. I went for a walk around town and ran into Emily,” he paused, not wanting to delve into details and surprising himself by mentioning it.

“Emily? That sweet girl from your past? How is she?”

“She works at the cafe library we used to visit.”

His aunt and uncle exchanged glances.

“She works there? No, Ethane, she bought that cafe after old Coldman passed away,” Aunt Milly said, emphasizing the word ‘bought’ theatrically.

His uncle nodded, looked at Ethan, and said,

“Welcome home, Ethan!”

***

If you’d like to read the full novella, it’s still available for free on Wattpad.

Dr. Dag Johnson stood in the living room of what was once his home. Everything looked the same, yet nothing was. He felt the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. Wiping them away with his hand, he sat down on a chair.

Just this morning, his world seemed so ordinary. He headed to work at the Center for Physical Examinations, kissed Mary goodbye, and dropped off Jack at school. Their black cat, Merlin, with one eye blind, sat on the windowsill, keeping an eye on him with the one eye he had left. Merlin was thirteen years old, and Dag hoped with good care he’d live a few more years. He had found him one night coming back from the city, just a little kitten with head injuries. Since then, Merlin has become a beloved member of their family. Only the loss of his left eye served as a reminder of the cat’s rough start.

Arriving at work, Dag noticed his team was on edge.

“The director called for an emergency meeting in 15 minutes,” Lina said, tying her wavy blond hair into a ponytail.

Warren paced back and forth, chewing his lip.

“Okay, it might not mean anything,” Dag replied.

“It’s happening,” Lina looked at him meaningfully with her green eyes. “They don’t summon us like that.”

“I never thought they would,” Warren added thoughtfully, running a hand over his bald head.

Five years ago, the Secret Emergency Response Division was formed. They were the backup team. That’s all they knew. They didn’t even know who made up the main team and couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Every day, the team did their usual jobs. They just spent a few days each month in an incredibly well-equipped laboratory located on the ground floor of the building. The team performed all sorts of experiments and simulations of saving the planet and the world they lived in. Sometimes their tasks seemed like products of fantasy, but they used their gray cells to try to solve seemingly unsolvable problems. Along the way, they had some fun too.

“Anomaly,” the director said. “They’ve encountered an unexplainable phenomenon at the heart of a gigantic black hole—an anomaly of unimaginable power that threatens the very structure of the multiverse. If it were to engulf us, space and time would adopt an incomprehensible rhythm, and the laws of physics would cease to exist.”

Dr. Dag Johnson absorbed his boss’s words in silence, feeling the ground slowly slipping from beneath his feet. An anomaly at the heart of a black hole sounded like something out of a science fiction novel, but this time, it was a reality they had to confront.

“So, what’s our role in this?” Dag asked, trying to maintain composure in his voice.

“Your role is to provide assistance to the main team currently investigating the anomaly,” the director replied. “Deep understanding of quantum physics and quick reaction capability is required. Your team has been chosen for its expertise and readiness for challenges.”

“It’s going to be busy at work, I’ll be back late. You’ll have to pick up Jack. Love you,” Dag said breathlessly, feeling a lump forming in his throat.

His team’s quick steps followed him as they hurried towards the laboratory located beside a large hangar. Though they were excited, they were completely focused on the mission ahead.

“Anomaly at the heart of a black hole,” Dag thought. “How is that even possible?”

“They’re dead. Or they’re gone,” Lina said thoughtfully.

Dag and Warren snapped out of their thoughts and looked at her.

“The main team. Something must have happened to them,” she added, sounding scared.

They were alone in the laboratory. It was always like this. They’d enter the lab, and all requests would come in through the computer chat. They hoped to find someone this time, but no one was there.

The team quickly got to work. Lina scanned the data collected by satellites, trying to detect patterns in the anomaly’s behavior. Dag sat at the desk, reviewing graphs and diagrams. He pondered the incredible forces that shaped the universe. But this anomaly was something new, something beyond what they had known before.

A red dot appeared on the chat. The message had arrived. Lina opened it. She read it, and for a few moments, she was silent. Then she got up and opened the hangar door where the simulator was located. She looked at them. With a pale face, she said, “We have to go in.”

“Into the simulator?” Dag asked.

“This is no longer a simulator,” she said quietly.

Dag and Warren got up. In front of them stood a new Quantum Omnidirectional Transmitter, capable of manipulating quantum fields and traveling through space and time in all directions.

Warren approached the device, his eyes shining with excitement. “This is our chance to change the course of events, to stop the catastrophe before it’s too late,” he said with sudden determination in his voice.

Dag nodded, sharing Warren’s conviction.

“With this spacecraft, we have the power to manipulate quantum fields and influence the flow of time and space. If we can properly calibrate the parameters, we can create a counterbalance to the force of the black hole and prevent its catastrophic expansion,” Warren said.

“But we’ve only worked on the simulator so far,” Lina said, surprised by Warren’s sudden boldness.

“Let’s get to work,” Dag said, determinedly putting on his protective suit and oxygen mask. “There’s no time to waste.”

They took their seats, their hearts pounding. This wasn’t a simulation. They didn’t know what had happened to the main team, or what awaited them.

Dag looked at them. Warren and Lina nodded, and Dag pressed the red launch button. They were all aware that the responsibility to save not only their own world but all other worlds within the multiverse rested on their shoulders.

Their spacecraft approached the dangerous black hole, aiming to prevent the catastrophe threatening the entire multiverse. Warren was at the controls, adjusting the spacecraft’s parameters according to Dag’s instructions. Lina analyzed the data, trying to find a weakness in the black hole that they could exploit.

As they neared the black hole, the tension in the cabin became almost palpable. Their hearts beat faster, aware that the burden of enormous responsibility lay upon them. When they found themselves at the edge of the black hole, they felt the incredible power it emitted. But their determination didn’t waver. Dag gave the signal, and Warren activated the device. Light surged through the cabin, and their spacecraft plunged into the darkness of the black hole.

As they struggled against the immense forces surrounding them, they managed to properly calibrate the device and create a counterbalance to the black hole’s force. After stabilizing the situation, the spacecraft slowly began to emerge. Their hearts were filled with relief. Now, as they returned to their world, they were aware that they had accomplished an incredible feat and prevented a catastrophe that could have forever altered the course of the multiverse.

They landed in the darkness outside the hangar. But the hangar was no longer there. Dag looked around. Everything looked similar, but nothing was the same. They took off their masks and tried to catch their breath.

“Did we land in the wrong place? The devices must have gone haywire; I’m not surprised,” Lina said.

Since they couldn’t find the hangar they were supposed to go through to get to the laboratory, they couldn’t change out of their uniforms, so they rushed to the parking lot. But their cars were nowhere to be found.

“Something’s not right,” Warren said with apprehension.

They ran to their respective homes. When Dag arrived, he felt his legs giving out. He tried to enter. It was locked.

Dag rang the bell, but there was no response.

In panic, he ran to the basement window and smashed it with a large stone. It was dark, and he hoped no one from the neighborhood would see and report him to the police. After all, it was his house.

Dag broke all the glass from the window and entered. He climbed the stairs and rushed into the bedroom. Mary was nowhere to be found, nor was Merlin curled up at her feet.

In a panic, he burst into Jack’s room and then was left breathless. He barely composed himself and sank into the living room.

Daf knew what had seemed odd to Warren in the parking lot. All the cars there were over 10 years old. Dag wondered if it had been several more years because there was no Merlin anywhere. He looked around and saw parts of old furniture he had replaced long ago.

“Damn,” he said angrily.

He turned around to find the remote to turn on the television. Dag wanted to find out at least what year it was. In which world he had landed, he didn’t know.

He found the remote under the couch and pointed it at the TV, but at that moment, a dizzying fog sucked him in. It seemed for a moment he was disappearing, and then he crashed to the ground. Dag was in shock.

He found himself on the ocean shore. The vast expanse of water stretched out before him. Behind him were palm trees and dense island vegetation. Dag couldn’t believe what was happening to him. How many times in life had he thought he’d like to be on a deserted island and rest from everything? And now he was there, and he didn’t want to be.

But was it really deserted? Uneasily, he looked around. But there was no one. Dag had read a book long ago, the name of which he couldn’t remember now, about a man who, like him, ended up on a deserted island. It had taken him years to be saved. At that moment, it didn’t seem comforting to Dag.

He only knew one thing. He and his team had messed up somewhere. Their entire familiar universe was in chaos. Dag was desperate. He felt defeated, both as a man and as a professional.

Suddenly, he felt as if a powerful vacuum cleaner was sucking him and the whole expanse of water into a powerful whirlpool. Dag closed his eyes. He felt like he was suffocating, and struggled with some invisible force. Suddenly, everything calmed down.

Dag opened his eyes. The familiar surroundings made his heart rate slow down. He was in his bed. Mary slept peacefully beside him.

“Thank God,” he whispered.

He got up and went to Jack’s room. Without turning on the light, he approached the bed. In the moonlight filtering through the window, he saw a sleeping child’s face. Again, he felt a panic attack. He leaned closer to the bed. Hugging a teddy bear, a little girl slept.

Dag, breathless, rushed to the bedroom and grabbed his cell phone. Then he ran down the stairs, getting dressed along the way. He wanted to call Warren, but his number wasn’t in the phone’s memory. He called Lina. She answered sleepily.

“What’s going on, Dag?”

“It’s good that we found each other. I was on an island, and now I have a daughter. We messed up something,” he said breathlessly.

“Are you okay? I don’t understand anything,” Lina said.

Dag hung up.

“How stupid of me! That’s no longer her. That’s not my Lina from my world!”

A flash suddenly lit up his vision. Dag was on the street in an unknown city. There was a newsstand nearby with newspapers.

“Who still sells newspapers?” he wondered.

Then he approached and looked at one in an unknown language. In the top corner, he saw the year.

“2025!” he exclaimed.

The year when everything went wrong and the whole world collapsed. It took 50 years for things to return to normal. And then this day happened.

Dag felt the whirlpool sucking him in again. This time, he didn’t resist.

What if you wake up and everything feels heavy, even the things you love? You try to remind yourself of all the good, the roof over your head, the people who care, the small comforts, but it just doesn’t land.

Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you’ve been showing up for too long without a pause. Maybe your heart just needs a break from holding it all together.

Gratitude is beautiful, but it’s not meant to be forced. It’s not a rule to follow or a mask to wear when things hurt. Sometimes, it takes silence for gratitude to find its way back. Sometimes, it hides in the ordinary, in the warmth of your blanket, in the rhythm of your breath, in the simple act of getting through another day.

You don’t have to be grateful for everything. Some moments just need to be felt, not fixed.

Maybe today, it’s enough to just be here. To let yourself feel what’s true, even if it’s messy or uncertain.

And when the noise quiets down, when life softens just a bit, gratitude will find you again. Not because you forced it, but because you made space for it to return.

If someone had looked out the window early this morning, they would have seen Mr. Williams, as usual, neatly dressed with a hat on his head and a bouquet of flowers picked from his garden, heading to the cemetery. Dressed in his wool suit, he sat on his bicycle and rode to Mrs. Williams’ grave, who passed away six months ago.

They had spent their entire lives in this small town where they were born. She worked as a teacher, and he taught math. They had no children of their own, so they considered all the children as theirs. The kids felt their extra love and responded with attention. After years of dedicated service at school, they retired and lived peacefully in their home. She took care of the flower garden and him. Every morning, he would go to her garden, pick a fresh bouquet, and place it in a vase before she woke up. And so it went until one morning, she didn’t wake up.

He continued to care for the garden as if she were still there. But instead of placing the flowers in a vase on the table, he now placed them in a vase at her grave.

This morning, he removed the wilted flowers and replaced them with fresh ones. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the black marble tombstone with a white rose engraved on it, his Dolores’s favorite flower.

This morning, John Williams sat on the bench beside the grave and told his wife how he spent yesterday. He was convinced she still listened somewhere, and by the rustling of leaves, he would guess if she was sending him a response.

There was something he had been keeping from her for days. Now, he could no longer keep it to himself, and the old man hesitated. He cleared his throat, trying to start, but couldn’t manage. His throat felt drier than ever. Finally, the old man gathered the courage to speak.

“My dear Dolores, do you remember that dance when I first saw you in that yellow tulle dress? I don’t know if I ever told you how breathless I was when I saw you. Your black hair tied in a bun and those hazel eyes of yours enchanted me instantly. I knew no other girl could capture my heart. It belonged to you from that moment. You just didn’t know it yet.

I admit, it was hard to watch you dance with Robert all night. I must tell you, with a heavy heart, you two would have made a beautiful couple. I thought I didn’t stand a chance. But when you glanced at me near the end of the dance, hope was revived. I summoned all the courage I had, and the last dance of the evening was ours.

It felt like a dream when you said yes just three months later and became my wife. My everything. There wasn’t a happier man than me back then, and I promised you I would do my best to make sure you were never sad.

That’s why my heart broke whenever I saw you secretly crying. You didn’t want me to know, but I did, and it troubled me. You desperately wanted a baby, but it didn’t happen, and I was crushed. The morning I saw you with a packed suitcase, my heart nearly stopped. You held a doctor’s report in your hand like a final verdict. You would never be a mother, and that’s why you were leaving. You didn’t want to be a burden to me. You wanted to free me to find happiness.

Oh, how I didn’t die that day! I fell to my knees. I thought you knew you were my happiness. I remember telling you that from that moment on, all the children at school were ours and I needed nothing more. I don’t know if my words convinced you or the fact that I was kneeling before you, but you didn’t leave. We could be happy again. I know I was. I hoped you were too.

Until that morning, the morning that changed everything. I got up to cut white roses from the garden and put them in a vase. You were peacefully sleeping. I’m still sure you were breathing calmly. I don’t think I was gone for more than half an hour. I put the flowers in the vase and made green tea. I waited for you to come down, but you never did. Something pricked at my heart. I went up to the room and saw you with a smile on your face. You looked so serene, and I didn’t want to wake you. Then I realized you would never open those hazel eyes again. I was left alone and lost.

People were so kind to me, I’ve told you that before. Neighbors dropped by every evening to see if I needed anything. Ruth regularly brought dinner and worked in the garden. I was grateful for their attention, but I told them I had to go on alone.

I found strength in memories of us, of you. I couldn’t allow myself to let you down. I did everything I could to keep things going as if you were still here. In a way, you still are; I can feel it.

So, I wonder, do you know what I’m trying to say? Before I met you, I’d sent my application for postgraduate studies at the University of Göttingen in Germany. We were already married when I received a response saying I’d been accepted. I struggled with how to tell you. I was determined to do it that night, but you beat me to it and said you thought you were pregnant.

You were so happy in our little house, with the flowers all around. I was ashamed of my selfishness. How could I take that away from you? I sent them a reply saying I wouldn’t be coming. Even later, when you found out you weren’t pregnant, I never regretted that decision. You were happy, and that was all that mattered to me.

But a month ago, I found a letter among your things. Your letter, dated the day you wanted to leave. The letter you meant for me to find after you were gone. The letter you never gave me. This letter.”

Mr. Williams pulled the letter from his inner jacket pocket. It was folded, and his hands trembled as he straightened it.

“My dear, by the time you read this, I won’t be here. The doctor’s report has come, and if it’s accurate, I will never be a mother. But you can be a father, and I don’t want to take that away from you. I’ve already taken enough from you. Maybe right now you regret me, but you shouldn’t.

A while ago, you received a letter. From Germany. I took it and held the envelope over the steam rising from the pot. I carefully opened it. It was in German, which I don’t speak well, but what little I do was enough to understand that you were accepted for postgraduate studies. I put the letter back in the envelope and carefully sealed it. Then I placed the envelope among the other letters and waited for you to find it.

I saw you set it aside and put it in your jacket, probably to read it when I wasn’t watching. I didn’t know what to do. My world was falling apart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I could already see you leaving with a promise to return soon. I knew you would genuinely believe that at the moment. I could also clearly see you coming back less and less often. Becoming a famous scientist, for whom a sweet teacher from a small town was no longer enough.

I had to do something. I noticed you were preparing to tell me, but you hesitated at the last moment. That evening, when you said you wanted to talk about something, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. That’s why I told you I would say something first and announced that you would be a father. Yes, in those words - you will be a father. I saw you were speechless, then you got up and hugged me tightly and kissed me. I didn’t ask what you wanted to tell me, and you never mentioned it again. Not even later, when I told you there wouldn’t be a baby, that I had been mistaken. I had hoped I could get pregnant, and my lie would never be revealed.

But it’s time you know the truth and that we each need to follow our own paths that fate has set for us. I recently ran into Robert. He was visiting his parents. He told me he had gone into the hotel business and joked that if I ever got tired of provincial life, I should give him a call. I contacted him the day I got the doctor’s report. He said I could start by working as his assistant.

Although it’s hard for me to leave you, I’m excited about a new beginning. Lately, I’ve blamed myself so much for not being able to create the home I dreamed of that nothing made sense anymore. Not even my little flower garden brought me joy. I stopped believing this was the path I was meant to take. Robert says he always knew I was meant to be something more, not just a housewife and teacher in a small town. Maybe he’s right.

It’s not too late for you to write to the University in Germany and go there. Or wherever you wish. Life is waiting for you.

Yours forever, Dolores

P.S. Don’t be mad, but I never liked white roses. I told you that the night you brought me a bouquet of them on our first date. I didn’t have the heart to tell you then, and later, it was too late. I grew them among the other flowers just for you. I didn’t want to shatter your illusion. I didn’t want to make you sad. Forgive me.”

The old man folded the letter and placed it back in his inner jacket pocket. Then he took a deep breath.

“My dear Dolores, after reading this letter, I couldn’t sleep all night. I’ve been thinking about whether our whole life was nothing but an illusion. Not just any illusion, but a perfect one. We both kept important things from each other. Partly out of a desire not to disappoint one another, and partly out of selfishness. But after all these years, I’m no longer sure who I am, or who you really were. Who were we, really?

I’ve put the house up for sale. I’m leaving, Dolores. Forever. For the first time, I’m leaving our town, far from our little house surrounded by flowers. I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t be saying goodbye to anyone. I don’t want to justify myself to the neighbors or see their faces saying I’ve gone mad from grief over you. And I no longer care what happens to the garden. Last night, I watered it for the last time. Tears streamed down my face as I said goodbye to each flower individually. After all, those plants were part of our lives; it’s not easy to leave them knowing they might soon wither if the rain doesn’t come.

My bags are packed, Dolores. When I return home, the taxi will come and take me straight to the airport. I’m heading first to Germany, to Göttingen. And from there, wherever I decide. I won’t be coming back here. I’ve given instructions to my lawyer to have me buried in whatever city I find myself in. It doesn’t matter to me where. If our life was an illusion, death doesn’t have to be.”

Mr. Williams stood up and slowly walked toward his bicycle. Then, suddenly, he turned toward the grave and, looking at the black marble tombstone, said, “I don’t know why, Dolores, but of all things, what hurt me the most was that you didn’t love white roses.”

You know that feeling when things just don’t go the way you thought they would? Yeah. That’s disappointment. It sneaks in quietly. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s just there, in the back of your chest, making everything feel heavier than it should.

You tell yourself you’re ready. You tell yourself you’ve lowered your expectations. And still, it hits. Because deep down, you were hoping. And hoping hurts when it’s not returned.

It’s funny, in a sad way, how much disappointment shows you about yourself. About what you care about. About what you wanted more than you even admitted. And yes, it stings. It reminds you of the gap between reality and what you imagined.

But here’s the thing, there’s a tiny gift in that sting. A little lesson. You learn patience. You learn perspective. You learn that you can fall and still get back up. That even when a door closes, another one might be waiting. Or maybe you just need to build your own.

And the hardest part? Feeling it fully. Letting it sting. Saying, “yes, this sucks” and then still choosing to move forward. That’s where the quiet strength lives. Not flashy, not loud, just steady. Showing up. Again. And again.

I don’t usually find inspiration in big, dramatic moments. For me, it lives quietly in the small, everyday things.

Sometimes it’s the soft hum of rain against the window, or sunlight filtering through leaves. Other times, it’s a stranger’s smile, a sound that feels familiar, or a memory that suddenly wakes up.

I also wander through old notebooks, reading fragments of thoughts I wrote years ago. I’m always surprised by what still resonates. Inspiration hides in little gestures, whispers of the world around me, even in moments that seem ordinary.

Writing teaches me patience. It’s about noticing these gentle sparks and letting them grow. Every story begins somewhere small, a feeling, a scent, a memory, and slowly becomes something someone else might recognize, or feel, or smile at.

Inspiration is all around. I just try to stay open, pay attention, and let the world quietly whisper its ideas into my notebooks.

I’d love to know, where do you find your inspiration?

Once I was happy. Not just once, as a moment, but once as a period of time, long ago. I just didn't know it. So, I went searching for happiness.

I close my eyes. The plane has already left the runway and soared into the heights. I used to be afraid of flying. Not anymore, after spending so many hours on planes. I got used to it. Habit numbs you. The first time you experience something new, it tickles your stomach and brings satisfaction. But once you get used to it... that's another story. You become like stone. Cold and insensitive. Sometimes, that's better.

In three hours, I'll be there again. I haven't been there in twenty years. Since I left the town of H. Not even to visit Aunt Adele. When she got sick, I sent for her and placed her in a nursing home near me. Yes, near. As if I was ever really at home. I wasn't by her side when she closed her eyes forever, and that will haunt me eternally.

I was surprised when Maria told me a month ago that I had an email from a certain Luisa. Luisa is my high school friend. We used to be quite close. In my previous life. She wrote that she had been trying to contact me for a long time through my official social media, but without success. Now she's contacting me through my work email and joyfully informs me that there's a reunion of all of us from high school in a month, 20 years after graduation. I have to admit, at first I decided not to reply to her. But, a moment later, for some reason, I don't know why, I replied to her saying that I'm happy she found me and that I'll gladly come if my schedule allows.

And here I am now, flying there. And I can't shake the feeling that I decided to go just to confirm that I succeeded, that I didn't make a mistake that day when I packed up and set out into the world alone.

I never met my parents. I grew up in foster families. I arrived at Aunt Adele's when I was three, and she's the only one I remember. An energetic woman with lively black eyes. In pictures, I looked so different from her - pale, skinny, and tiny. But she was my only support in those days. With her, I felt safe.

Many children passed through her house, but I stayed. We had a special bond, so when I was six, Adele decided to officially adopt me. I used to call her Aunt Adele, and she didn't insist on changing it after adoption. Even though she was the only mom I knew, she remained my aunt till the end. And that word meant she was everything to me.

I was a shy child and didn't make friends easily. I was often the target of teasing by other children. I don't know why the red-haired, freckled Luisa took me under her wing. It happened when Mitch was laughing at my bangs, which I had impulsively cut myself. Luisa stood in front of me and suddenly stuck her tongue out at Mitch. We were both, Mitch and I, left bewildered in that moment.

Anyway, from then on, Luisa and I became almost inseparable. We often slept over at each other's houses. She loved my vivid imagination and when I told her made-up stories that I allegedly read somewhere. And I loved following her into adventures I would never have had the courage for. Like when we sneaked into Bill's orchard, a cantankerous old man, and picked a basket full of apples. Or when we sneakily entered her teenage sister's room and read giggling her diary full of love woes caused by a certain Rob.

Our relationship didn't change much over the years. I stopped telling made-up stories and instead wrote them down in a notebook that I never showed anyone, not even her. But I still enjoyed jumping into situations I wouldn't have had the courage for alone. Like when we secretly entered the old cinema hall, locked up for years, and discovered the forgotten movie reels. Or when we broke into the old church bell tower and rang the bell in the middle of the night just for the thrill of it.

However, deep down, I always felt like something was missing and eluding me. That happiness was out there somewhere, and I had to find it. But I didn't want to go after it. From early childhood, I sometimes felt a dull ache in my stomach, reminding me that I wasn't in the right place, that I didn't have a home, and that if I didn't go on my own, life would force me to wander and search. But what, I didn't even know.

I didn't have any special ambitions. Secretly, I wanted to become a writer. But apart from writing out of love, I didn't take any steps towards it. I drowned in the life of a small town. I guess I desperately wanted to belong somewhere, and I nipped in the bud the possibility of standing out and making a name for myself. But that's not why I married Freddie. On the contrary, I loved him.

After high school, I got a job at the bookstore. So I was surrounded by books, surrounded by what I love. Apart from naive teenage loves, I didn't have any serious relationships. I didn't even think about it. Luisa was already engaged to Paul, the local firefighter. Of course, I was chosen to be her maid of honor.

One day she invited me camping by the river. Besides Paul and her, his colleague, who would be his best man, was supposed to come. That's how I met Freddie. I remember only the mosquitoes from that camping trip, which bit me all evening, and the endless depths of Freddie's blue eyes. That's when I plunged into them and didn't want to leave. I would have stayed forever in his strong embrace if I had had my say. But, as usual in life, I didn't.

Soon, after Luisa's and Paul's wedding, it was Freddie's and mine. I remember Aunt Adele's teary eyes and Freddie's smiling face, proud, standing with broad shoulders, and looking at me with love. He told me I was the most beautiful bride he had ever seen. I knew I wasn't, but I believed he thought so because he loved me.

I was sure that my life would proceed as usual from that moment on. I had finally rid myself of that silent suspicion that would condemn me to eternal wandering. I would live the life of an ordinary woman in H. I would be bathed in Freddie's love. We would have children. I would work at the bookstore. Maybe I would open my own. Everything would be ordinary and beautiful.

And it was. In the first year of our marriage, I was in paradise. Nothing spectacular happened. But I radiated happiness. It was there, and it was mine. I breathed in the smell of the linden tree in the spring and fell asleep without a care in Freddie's arms. Everything was so simple. Happiness was like that. It exuded ease, something I hadn't known until then.

Luisa gave birth to her daughter Emily, and I could see in Freddie's eyes how he melted as he looked at her. I knew he would be a wonderful father, and I wanted us to become parents soon too. But when you're happy, you don't rush. You let happiness carry you. I didn't know how to surrender. I made plans, as if happiness required a to-do list to follow.

I remember that afternoon well. I was preparing lasagna for dinner when I heard sirens in the town. Freddie was at work, and I hoped these sirens didn't mean he would have to go and wouldn't make it home in time for dinner. But he didn't come home. I turned on the TV and searched for the local station, but they weren't reporting anything. For a moment, a dull ache pierced my stomach, my old acquaintance, who hadn't been there for a long time, but I dismissed it. I decided not to have dinner and to wait for Freddie. I took a book to pass the time.

The doorbell woke me up. I didn't know when I fell asleep with the book in my hand, or how much time had passed. It was already dark outside. I jumped up and opened the door. It was Paul and Luisa. Meeting their red eyes, I immediately realized what had happened, and everything turned black before my eyes. I fell into darkness. I'm not even sure if I ever woke up.

A fire broke out in the fireworks factory in the industrial zone. Freddie went there with the team. The guys risked their lives to save the employees. There were injuries among both the workers and the firefighters. But only one lost his life. My Freddie.

It's an understatement to say that after his death, I became my own shadow. I didn't want to see anyone, not even Luisa and Paul. Their happiness hurt me. I quit my job at the bookstore. Good Aunt Adele saw me spiraling and suggested I come back to her house. I firmly refused.

After a period of deep sorrow, the feeling of anxiety that came in waves returned. Initially vague, and then stronger and more persistent. Happiness, which I thought I had found, wasn't there. It was waiting for me somewhere else, and I had to go after it. This time, I decided not to resist.

I applied for several jobs in distant cities. They called me from D. for an interview for a secretary position at a publishing house that was just starting to make its mark. I stood before Freddie's grave that day before leaving and shed tears, with which I had cried out a part of my soul and left it there. I packed, determined not to return even if they didn't hire me for that position. I decided to sell the house where Freddie and I had lived so beautifully. I took all my savings and, without notifying anyone, not even Aunt Adele, I left the town. I only contacted her later, when she had almost gone mad with worry, almost reporting my disappearance to the police.

I don't know what would have happened if they hadn't hired me at the publishing house, but they did, and I started working as Tom's secretary. He was a very ambitious, older, bald gentleman who demanded great dedication to work from everyone, including me. Since I didn't have a private life, I could fully meet his demands. This allowed me to progress as the publishing house's success grew. After a few years, I became Tom's right-hand woman, and then something more.

After Tom bought a well-known TV station in D. and became a media mogul, I became Mrs. Harrison. It had barely been a year since his significantly older first wife's death, so there was no big wedding, nor did I want one. Just a private wedding at the villa in Italy with a few select guests. Aunt Adele couldn't come because of her health, but she wished me luck. And I felt like, instead of getting closer to happiness with every step, it kept slipping away from me a little.

I don't know how I became the ice bitch, as the employees call me behind my back, but it was difficult to maintain the position when you're surrounded by people who seem like friends, but you're never sure if they really are. What I learned from Tom is that I must never show weakness. If they sense you're vulnerable, if the beasts smell blood, you're done. I feel like I've been living in a constant battle for a long time now, and currently, I'm winning. If I falter, everything changes.

Sometimes, when I stay awake in James's embrace after our passionate nights, I think I could bare my soul to him. But I quickly dismiss that moment of weakness. He's just my charming head assistant, hungry for success like I once was. And he learns fast. Whether we'll be on the same side tomorrow or bitter rivals, only time will tell.

Tom stepped back from the business last year and left everything to me. I'm aware that, if my health holds up, I have many prosperous years ahead. But it's good to have someone by your side, like Tom had me, whom I can teach everything I learned from Tom. Only, one must choose wisely. And be lucky. And that's my weak spot.

I was never bothered by the knowledge that Tom had mistresses. I knew from the start that I wasn't the only one. But I was the one he chose to share the most important things with him: business secrets, wealth, and success. That's not love, but a wise choice. And maybe that's how Tom shows love. Like his good student, I also chose my lovers for interest or amusement. And now I have to decide wisely. I still have time because Tom is holding up well, but time inexorably passes, and when Tom is no more, I must have a ready choice.

I believe everyone in the small town of H. thinks I've succeeded and that perhaps Freddie's death, as horrible as it sounds, was my lucky turning point in life. I think of all those men and women in the town who gave up on their big dreams, occasionally reading some news about me and feeling envy. They can't even imagine that sometimes, in quiet evenings with a glass of wine, I allow memories to return to the days when I melted into Freddie's embrace. I feel the smell of the linden tree growing right outside the bedroom window and my lips tremble from the forgotten kisses. I return for a moment to the lost paradise, and tears shine in my eyes, which I don't let fall.

It's been a month since I received Louisa's email, and I've been contemplating how I should stop searching for happiness. Perhaps I once had it and won't find it anymore. Aunt Adele's house is still in my possession, and no one lives in it. I've never had the courage to go there, neither to the house nor to the town of H., and confront the past, probably to avoid realizing that this whole journey in pursuit of happiness has been futile. Maybe the happiness has always been there beside me, just changing forms. I wished to find my old notebook with stories I used to write in Aunt Adele's house. Now, I could publish them and fulfill the dreams of the young girl who didn't even dare to dream.

I open my eyes. I have the privilege of flying on a private plane without anyone interrupting me while I wander in my thoughts. I've gotten too used to solitude. One more habit. I have another hour's drive to the town of H. I'll go first to Aunt Adele's house. I've already arranged for it to be cleaned and prepared for my arrival. I don't know how I'll deal with my emotions when I step in there, but I have enough time to gather myself by tomorrow and meet up with the gang from school.

Another meeting is breaking me. Okay, not quite a real meeting. I've arranged for flowers to be taken to Freddie's grave every year on the anniversary of his death. Today, for the first time in many years, I'll go there and lay a wreath of linden branches. I'll allow myself to feel a touch of the past just for a moment. And to realize who I would have been if I hadn't become what I am now. To try to answer those questions that haunt me - would I truly be happy if the tragedy hadn't occurred, or would I realize at some point that happiness is forever beyond my reach?

Then I'll put on a smile and meet Luisa and Paul and the other townsfolk eager to see for a moment what their success would look like if they had the courage to dare and pursue their dreams. And, in fact, they won't even know that they might already be happy and living in their own little paradise.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I had been born a few centuries earlier. Would I feel the fullness of a calmer life, or is that just the trick of nostalgia woven into our DNA?

I do appreciate all the achievements of modern times, and I’m well aware of how much harder life would be without them. But if there were just one button that could take me back to a time when information traveled slowly, when time itself seemed to move more gently. To quiet down all the noise around me and within me, and dive into a silence that heals.

It occurs to me that maybe that button is inside us, only misplaced, forgotten.

Is it time to search within and shuffle through everything in me to find that reset button?

Or maybe it’s enough to just close my eyes for a moment.

He didn't want to open his eyes. Life...this was his entire life. He breathed in the scent of the forest. She was his, and he belonged to her with his whole being. Harsh and gentle at the same time, just like himself. She gave life, yet could take everything away in an instant. It seemed to him that he knew every corner of her, yet she still filled him with awe and respect whenever he found himself within her. Only towards her was he humble. He didn't know any of her secrets, but she knew all of his.

Raviola's voice was lulling him to sleep. He wanted to open his eyes, to start moving, but he knew he wouldn't be able to until she allowed it. They hadn't seen each other since Mohora announced that it was time for the cold season. When he was woken up by the gallop of a horse early in the morning, he stood up and saw Yara on a white horse disappearing into the sun's rays. He knew that Raviola was calling him. He rode his faithful companion Yabuka and flew towards the Forest, which came to life after the snowy season.

When did he first see her? He returned in his mind to the time when as a young man he chased around the forest slopes. A strapping young man who was expected to become the new Gohorod, the leader of the Velenor tribe, wild and fearless, defiant, he dashed into the woods to hunt some game for dinner.

He tied the horse to a tree and stepped boldly into the forest. Until then, he had always come with his father and the other men, but now he dared to do it alone. His father had once told him, when the forest calls you, you will know. He felt that now. He walked slowly and felt the defiance in his stomach disappear. He held the arrow drawn, when he thought he saw something. A deer ran past, and just as he was about to shoot the arrow, he heard a song that paralyzed him.

That was the first time he saw her. The most beautiful of the most beautiful. She approached him, with her bright skin, golden hair, and ample bosom. He didn't move. He felt the smell of flowers and her touch. He sank into her softness and was intoxicated by the nectar from her lips, and a haze floated before his eyes, but a fire burned in his body. He didn't return with his catch that day. He called her Raviola, but he had always known that it was her, the Forest, the mistress.

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Motherland

I’ve always loved silence, even when I didn’t know why. It was something I couldn’t name, something I only felt.

There’s a calm in silence that feels like breathing for the first time after being underwater. It’s the quiet in a room that lets you hear your own heartbeat. It’s the pause in conversation that doesn’t need filling, the space where thoughts settle without pressure.

For a long time, I didn’t understand it. I thought maybe I was just being strange, or too serious, or too still. But silence has its own language. It teaches you patience without words, reflection without effort, and presence without doing anything at all.

Now I cherish those quiet moments, the ones where the world softens and everything that matters feels closer. I still don’t always know why I love it so much, but maybe that’s exactly the point.

Jenna stood at the door of her grandmother's house in the village, which had become hers after her grandmo's passing. She took a deep breath. She had gone far away from everyone. Back to the past. Starting over. All she needed was to recall old dreams and figure out when everything went downhill.

Jenna settled into the worn-out armchair and closed her eyes.

"This house will need a major cleanup in the coming days," she thought.

She saw herself as a five-year-old girl in the same room. She wore a white, frilly skirt with pink polka dots. The rhythm of "Lambada" echoed in her memory, and she could almost hear the music. The five-year-old girl danced. Her heart was joyful. She could smell pancakes topped with maple syrup that her grandmother used to make.

Later that day, or maybe another, she stained the same skirt with oil she found in a can in the garage while playing. She could now see her grandmother washing the skirt with homemade soap she claimed was the only one that could remove stains. No one believed Grandma could do it, but the skirt ended up clean and as good as new.

"Grandma always has magic," she used to say as a child.

Grandma's hug was healing when her father left with another woman. Her mother became cold and distant. Jenna felt like her mom couldn't even look at her because it reminded her of him. So, she eagerly waited for the holidays to heal her sorrow in her grandmother's arms. She believed her father would come back, and everything would be as it used to be. He never returned. Not then, not ever again. Did everything go wrong back then?

"Serial cheater!" Mark, her boyfriend, yelled. Now, he was an ex.

"I didn't believe it. I let my feelings deceive me like a kid. I believed in your dreamy eyes and that sweet face. I thought jealousy spoke through others. She cheats on her own, steals others' boyfriends, husbands – they told me. I didn't listen."

Jenna remained silent. She didn't want to defend herself.

"Why? And why with him?" he asked, staring angrily at her.

Jenna didn't answer. She didn't know why with him or why at all. Just like she didn't know why she constantly did it to guys who cared about her.

"Did you know he's like a brother to me? I don't know who disappointed me more, you or him."

Mark left. She stood there for a while, staring at the door.

Serial cheater. That's what they call her now. That's who she is. And she wanted to be a dancer, then an actress, then a teacher. There were more aspirations. Then, she just wanted her dad to come back. Then, she didn't want anything anymore.

Jenna opened her eyes. She looked around. No one had lived in the house for a long time. A lot of work awaited her in the coming days to get things in order.

"Hello, Jenna. I'm glad you came," Paula, her childhood friend, said, holding an apple pie in her hands.

Jenna was painting the fence. She had done a lot that day and was hungry and tired. Paula's arrival cheered her up.

"This house is in chaos," Paula said, peering into every corner of the house while Jenna enjoyed the apple pie.

"I'll tell George to drop by in the next few days to help you sort this out."

Jenna looked at her questioningly.

"Do you remember little freckled George we used to tease as kids?"

Jenna nodded while still eating the apple pie.

"He's my husband now. Who would have thought?" Paula said, sitting next to her, laughing loudly.

Jenna watched his broad shoulders and messy black hair as he fixed the wooden fence that had collapsed in one place. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled a familiar scent. The scent of a man.

"There, it's done," George said, straightening up.

"Coffee?" she asked him sweetly.

"Sure," he said, casually blowing a rebellious strand of hair away from his eyes.

"How did you plan to fix all this by yourself?" he asked, sipping coffee on her terrace.

Jenna shrugged. She didn't really plan anything. She just came. Packed up without telling anyone.

Only her boss. She told him she was leaving indefinitely. She ended the call before he could respond. She had savings for a few more months, but she didn't think about what would come after. It was an instinctive decision.

"Are you staying longer?"

Jenna felt George's gaze on her skin. She trembled.

"It depends," she replied, teasingly.

"On what?"

"On many things. I follow my instincts."

"Interesting. It's nice when someone lives like that," George said, putting down the coffee cup he had just finished.

"How?" she asked, smiling.

"By one's own will," he replied.

"Can one live differently?" she countered, looking him straight in the eyes.

George shook his head.

"I'll drop by in the next few days to see what else needs fixing," he said as he left.

That night, Jenna could barely close her eyes. She had the chance to start over. Why did she rush to ruin everything again? Should she have gone to the desert to avoid all temptations?

"I can handle this. I'm here in my grandma's house. Grandma always has magic," she thought.

In the following weeks, George occasionally came to help with the cleaning, sometimes with Paula, sometimes alone. In the last few days, it seemed to her that he visited more often and stayed longer. At that moment, he was there and was just coming down from the attic they were working on.

Jenna made lemonade. She put ice cubes in a glass. George thirstily drank a glass. He sat in his blue work pants, wiping sweat from his forehead. Jenna adjusted the strap that kept falling on her green dress. She poured him another glass from the pitcher.

Jenna handed a glass to George. Their fingers lightly touched. She felt tingling all over her body. Heat rushed to her head. Her lips started to tingle. She put her hand on his chest. She felt his crazy pulse. For a moment, her head spun.

As if electricity passed through her hand. Jenna jerked and swayed a bit.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Jenna met his bewildered gaze. He sat holding the glass of lemonade, which he then placed on the table.

"Are you okay?" he asked, jumping up to support her.

"Yes," she said almost inaudible.

"Probably the heat. I would like to stay alone for a while to rest,” she added.

"Alright. But be sure to call if you feel unwell. Paula and I are your neighbors. We're here to help," George replied and left.

It took Jenna a few minutes to gather herself, then she got up and rushed into the bedroom. She took out her bag and started frantically packing her things. Then she stopped. She sat down and cried. Big tears rolled down her face. She hadn't cried in a long time, and now audible sobs echoed through the room.

It was already evening when a knock woke her up. She went downstairs and saw Paula at the door.

"I called you on your cell phone, but you didn't answer. George told me you weren't feeling well today, so I came to check if everything was okay," Paula said, worried.

"Oh, I fell asleep in the room upstairs; I didn't even hear my phone ring," Jenna replied honestly.

"You're probably exhausted. You haven't stopped working for weeks. Maybe you should take a few days to rest. You've already done a lot," Paula suggested.

"You're right. In the next few days, I'll just rest," Jenna agreed.

Paula exited soon after making sure Jenna was okay. Left alone, Jenna went out on the terrace and breathed in the air. There was no need to run away. Wherever she went, her head would go with her. There and then, she would be the new Jenna. Or the one she wanted to become.

She had her grandmother's house and good neighbors. She spent the beautiful days of her childhood there. In that village, she wasn't a serial cheater. There, she could be anything she wanted. Few have the opportunity to start over. She could.

The cold of the evening cleared her thoughts. She shivered. At that moment she made a decision not to run away anymore. She would stay to become the new Jenna. Or the one she used to want to be. The one before everything went wrong. The one who, in a skirt with pink polka dots, danced the Lambada.

In a green dress and with a strap firmly in place, Jenna, once again, danced in her grandmother's house, free from the weight of the past. Because Grandma always had magic.

It's been my second year on Svalbard, and this marks my second polar night. I love the darkness enveloping me; it makes me feel closer to my essence. When the sun shines, I'm exposed to the gaze of others, and it's not pleasant. But now, here, far from everyone, I feel like I can finally breathe. Especially when the enduring night falls, every vein in my body seems to relax.

I step out onto the cabin terrace where I live, not far from the town. I'm greeted by the cutting-cold air. Despite the chill, it feels good. I inhale the scent of snow. I lift my head, and I'm in luck. Above me unfolds the magnificent spectacle of the Aurora Borealis. The celestial vault is filled with peculiar lights dancing in shades of green, purple, and pink. It shines like a cosmic fireworks display, creating an indescribable beauty that illuminates the polar darkness.

Green strokes of light form waves above the horizon, as if narrating their own story of mysterious worlds beyond our comprehension. Purple threads weave through the green, creating a celestial collage of colors blending in perfect harmony. Pink hues add a new dimension to this light show, creating a magical and almost surreal feeling.

The Aurora Borealis is like invisible art revealed only during the polar night as if nature decided to show its magical face only then. The scent of snow in the air mixes with this shimmering display, creating a moment where I feel connected to nature in a way I haven't experienced anywhere else.

As I stand on the terrace, I am a witness to a celestial spectacle that reminds me of my inner journey. The Aurora Borealis seems to tell a tale of beauty born from dark moments, reminding me that even in the coldest parts of the world, light can bloom and bring warmth.

Descending deeper into the night, enchanted by the scene, I'm not far from the cabin. I didn't bring a rifle; it's mandatory here due to the danger of polar bears. However, since I've been here, not a single incident has occurred.

I wish you were here, Mike. But you chose your path. I don't even know if you'd enjoy being in a snow-covered place. I know you love summer and the sound of the sea, and I acknowledge that's beautiful. However, tonight is enchanting. It's like stepping into a fairy tale. The sky dances with light, and I dance with it.

Under the northern lights, my steps turn into a gentle dance following the melody of the sky. I feel the warmth of light waves touching my skin through the night's coldness. The Aurora Borealis performs its elusive dance, creating a magical ambiance where I am just a small figure in a magnificent show.

My hands reach toward the sky, capturing every ray of green, purple, and pink light. With steps following the rhythm of the sky, I feel like I'm floating between heaven and earth, connected to the mystical energy pulsating through the polar night.

The celestial vault above me becomes my dance floor, and the light that plays in this unreal moment becomes my partner. Light waltzes in a harmonious symphony, creating enchantment and waves of colors that intertwine. It's a dance of light born from darkness, like a love encounter between the sky and the earth.

Each moment turns into a unique note in this celestial composition. I forget about time, space, and all the worries that accompanied me. I am just part of this magical dance, where the boundaries between reality and fairy tales are unclear.

The Aurora Borealis becomes my dance partner, and the polar night becomes the stage for this magical performance. At this moment, there is nothing but light, the sound of footsteps, and the silence speaking through the starry sky. As the dance under the northern lights continues, I feel grateful to be part of this otherworldly spectacle.

I become aware of someone's presence. While I gaze at the sky painted in colors, I know someone is there. I continue to dance. My heart tightens. I don't want to interrupt the magic. Is the other waiting for the performance to end?

Without taking my eyes off the northern lights, I turn like the most skilled dancer. I dance in the snow. I don't feel the cold. As I dance under the northern lights, aware of an invisible spectator, it feels like my movements have become part of an ominous story, something mysterious, something that came to witness my dance.

The sky continues its enchanting dance above me, but in my heart, discomfort grows. My legs slide through the snow as I try to maintain grace, but the feeling that this is my final act overwhelms me. The play of light becomes more intense, but in my world, a shadow of uncertainty grows.

I'm not alone.

How much time do I have left? I become aware that I am dancing my final dance.

I feel the presence of something or someone watching me, something that has come to see the end of my waltz under the northern lights. The light guides me towards the end, as if destiny has its plan and I am just a player.

Each step comes with the sense of something being there. My heart races as I try to match the rhythm of the sky, but a shadow of uncertainty clouds my joy. Is this the last act of my life? I keep dancing, but it's getting more mysterious. My eyes look for clues in the dark, but only lights and shadows dance around. Suddenly, I feel the winter's cold on my neck, but there's nothing to see.

I keep dancing under the northern lights, but now it's a dance with something I can't see. I know the end is near. Will that something take me to the mysterious sky world? I feel like I'm watching my own destiny, a character in a story unfolding between the earth and the sky.

I lower my gaze. Suddenly, I see it. It's enormous and white. It stands and observes me. It's close. I almost feel its warmth. I bow. The performance is over. This dance has been played out. I'm strangely calm. I accept my fate. The peculiar spectator is aware of the end of my game. Did it enjoy it?

It approaches me very slowly. I don't move. How magnificent it is.! Majestic! A polar bear. And it fits so perfectly into this evening as if it's part of it. Suddenly, I hear its snorting. It opens its jaws. I'm not afraid. It's here, just a step away from me. The world has stopped. I gaze toward the Aurora Borealis and feel that I'm joining her in a never-ending dance.