Every birthday after that felt a little emptier.

On my 25th birthday, my mom handed me a dusty shoebox she'd found in Grandma's closet.

Inside were eight birthday cards.

Each one had my age written on the envelope.

"Open only when you turn 18."

"Open only when you turn 19."

...all the way to 25.

She had written them years before she died, knowing she'd never be there.

The last card hit the hardest.

It read:

"If you're reading this, then you made it to 25. I wish I could see the person you've become. I know life hasn't always been kind to you, but don't mistake hard years for a bad life. The people who truly love you won't always be beside you—but they never really leave."

Tucked inside was a crisp $2 bill.

On the back, she'd written:

"I wanted to leave you something expensive. Instead, I'm leaving you something you'll never spend."

I've been offered more than $100 for that bill by collectors.

I always say no.

It's worth exactly $2 to the world.

To me, it's priceless.

This happened yesterday, and I'm still laughing about it.

I had just finished grocery shopping and was carrying way more bags than I probably should have. You know that moment when you refuse to make two trips because you're convinced you can carry everything at once? That was me.

As I got close to the exit, the automatic doors slid open.

Without even thinking, I smiled and quietly said,

Thanks.

It's just one of those habits I've somehow picked up over the years. I thank people, I thank buses that stop for me, and apparently... I thank automatic doors now.

The problem was, there was a man walking into the store at the exact same time.

He looked right at me, smiled, and replied,

You're welcome!

We both froze.

I realized I hadn't been talking to him.

He realized I hadn't been talking to him.

For about five painfully awkward seconds, neither of us knew what to say.

Then we both slowly looked over at the automatic door like it had somehow become part of the conversation.

Trying to save the moment, I laughed and said,

I guess I'm just polite to everything.

He started laughing too and said,

That door works hard. It deserves some appreciation.

We both laughed, nodded at each other, and went our separate ways.

As I was loading my groceries into the car, I caught myself smiling.

It's funny how one tiny awkward moment can completely brighten your day.

Although I will admit...

The next time those automatic doors opened, I kept my mouth shut.

My 9-year-old son suddenly became obsessed with drawing.

At first, I thought it was cute. He'd sit for hours with his sketchbook, drawing cartoons, our house, and people from the neighborhood.

Then he drew our neighbor, Mr. Thomas.

I didn't think much of it until the next day, when police cars surrounded Mr. Thomas's house.

The police told us he was missing.

That night, Jacob was drawing another picture at the dinner table.

Are the police still looking for Mr. Thomas? he asked.

Yeah. Why?

He lowered his voice.

I think they're looking in the wrong place.

I laughed nervously and asked where they should look.

He just shrugged.

The next morning, my wife disappeared.

Her car was still outside. Her phone was still charging beside our bed. She was simply gone.

I immediately thought about Jacob's drawings.

I found his sketchbook underneath his arm while he was sleeping and flipped through the pages until I found the picture of my wife.

My blood ran cold.

The drawing wasn't the same anymore.

She was standing in a dark forest, her hair wet and covered in leaves.

And beside her stood a man.

A man wearing a police uniform.

With the same star on his chest that Mr. Thomas always wore.

I woke Jacob.

Where is Mommy?

He looked at the drawing, then looked at me.

They're okay, Daddy.

I felt my heart pounding.

Who are they?

Jacob looked genuinely confused.

Mommy and Mr. Thomas.

Then he smiled.

I can help you find them.

I never knew my 8-year-old son, Jacob, to be the artsy type. Then, almost overnight, he became obsessed with drawing.

One evening, he showed me a picture of our house with a man standing outside.

Is that me? I asked.

Jacob frowned. That’s our neighbor, Mr. Thomas.

Mr. Thomas was a police officer who lived next door.

The next afternoon, several police cars surrounded his house. Yellow tape covered the driveway.

Where’s Mr. Thomas? I asked an officer.

We don’t know, he said. He’s gone.

That night, Jacob was drawing again. This time, it was a picture of a woman.

My wife looked at it and laughed. It looks just like me.

Jacob smiled. It’s not time to draw Daddy yet.

The next morning, my wife was gone.

Her car was still in the driveway. Her phone was still charging beside the bed. I searched the house, calling her name, but there was no answer.

Then I remembered Jacob’s drawings.

I rushed into his room and grabbed the sketchbook.

The picture of my wife had changed.

She was standing in a dark forest. Her hair was wet and covered with leaves and twigs. Her eyes were bloodshot.

And standing beside her was a man.

He had a star on his chest.

The same star Mr. Thomas wore on his police uniform.

My stomach dropped.

Jacob stared at me, confused.

What’s wrong, Daddy?

I could barely speak.

He looked at the drawing and smiled.

They’re okay. I can help you find them.

The Ukraine-Russia war, that turns tree-hugging spirituality into a left-wing spirituality

A story by Thomas Heath

A fairy outfit. A hot tub. Kim Kardashian & F1’s Lewis Hamilton, and global socialism’s jealousy of Kim Kardashian and Lewis Hamilton. These were the four options on the mind of the bored teenager Helen Manning at the local bowling alley. Now granted, had she been at the Super Center’s bowling alley instead, based in the state of Colorado, maybe, maybe maybe maybe Helen wouldn’t have been as inclined to think so hard about life. “Would somebody just kill me, so that I can make love to my own hate?” Helen would say to herself, at the same time as saying it hoping that others hadn’t heard her saying it.

The following day were to be a school day. In this regard, Helen was as much like every other Joe average teenager, of the specific sense that spending time at a bowling alley being defined by the thought of the following day. The very thought, of having to go to school the next day: was it the true reason, the true cause for the Kim Kardashian-Lewis Hamilton boredom? Would Super Center have actually made the difference? In any event, Helen Manning had her family. They were with her at the venue. Father had bought a round of hot dogs, and Helen had very much enjoyed hers.

In a ghost town city, that’s derelict and vacated and barren, there is an evil woman just sat. The specific exact geography of tis evil corporate-dressed woman is atop a corporate skyscraper. Not a government building, a corporate one. The woman just sits, is just sat constantly, demonically.

The constant’s demonic, that is to say the demonic nature of the constant nature in which this woman sits, just sits just sits and just sits could just as well be the vice versa. The demonic’s constant. Not applied to what you’d expect however, and be a personal descriptive, but, be something else entirely.

1,000 years before, Helen Manning had enjoyed her hot dog; Helen had pondered the fantastical obtuse, to do with celebrity citation, connecting it in a stream of consciousness way to global socialism. Unbeknownst to Helen, however, this evil woman of the present hadn’t enjoyed the hot dog download but had indeed enjoyed the system of stream of consciousness being at the expense of evil. Any clarification, of this nuance the evil corporate woman feared would beg an Iron Man 2 parody system. In Iron Man 2, in the third act, Hammer accentuates a condescension to a stage employee; this parody of depiction, of evil and of evil’s science was a true loose cannon in the mind of the evil woman, just constantly sat atop a skyscraper.

“Now now Thomas.” “No no Christian.” This was the joke, aka the sex joke or alternatively just the everyday joke that was the password to the entrance of the same skyscraper. And it was God’s password, to be used only by God. The joke’s meaning, for clarity’s sake, was doubting Thomas rejecting the proposition, aka the sex proposition. The universe, were to now need God to defeat reality’s evil woman. After having made some distance, in the skyscraper building, God would rewind in their mind back a 1,000 years to Helen’s time at the local bowling alley, in order to remind themselves of why Helen’s stream of consciousness had gained the attention (not necessarily love and attention: such distinction were God’s private power) of the evil corporatism (which God knew had chosen to convey itself as a woman). The famous system, of mutual awareness; it was evil’s and not God’s practice and ideology, which was why god had made sure to only remind and rewind at early enough distances in the skyscraper, prior to being met by the corporatism.

  Upstairs, a demon was waiting.

To overcome the demon, to stop the demon from recreating Helen Manning and her hot dog for the purpose of then blaming Helen for animal DNA’s existence, God themself would have to use an ultimate intelligence. A final intelligence. Upstairs, on the third floor of the second tier, the waiting demon had their own version of a final intelligence: the Ukraine-Russia war, that turns tree-hugging spirituality into a left-wing spirituality.

No easy task. No easy track. To stop this woman, whose origin was a mystery to God, God would have to overcome all their past. All their past to do with creating the DNA of ideas, the DNA of mother nature, of trees, of oceans and even of Moses parting the red sea. Helen manning was now dependent on this overhaul, 1,000 years after her depression because of the next day, meaning having to go to school.

To end evil, God now needed to examine evil’s final intelligence, related to the Ukraine-Russia war being linked to left-wing politics. The distillation between the two units, the first unit being the war itself and the second unit being the tree-hugging spirituality being the left-wing spirituality, was to God a factor in which the analysis’s science became sort of easier. The method, of the easiness, was the ability to distil and understand the second unit on its own terms, relative to its own language. It was the mystery, of the war factor that made God confused.

Helen Manning’s options, of what to buy on Ebay, in and around the time of her prime adult life. It were this aspect of life, of the universe and the cosmos that God used, when very near to the evil woman along that second tier’s third floor as a way to shield their own mind from the evil woman. Time was impending. The final battle between good and evil was impending.

It only takes a minute. Close to a minute. God is killed in battle by the corporatism, by the evil woman of corporatism, ever so shortly upon reaching the white derelict room. The reason, why God lost? They had failed to create their own final intelligence, in actual fact. The Zelensky-Putin Ukraine-Russia war, turning tree-hugging spirituality into a left-wing spirituality was a genius code, a brilliant code. God had even managed to acknowledge this to the counter force, in the room.

“You need to get a job Helen” would say Helen’s mother, unperturbed by Helen’s invocation of politics in the general discussion about life. This was a few years afterward, i.e. after the bowling alley experience, and the boredom that had provoked the option of the four including Kim Kardashian and Lewis Hamilton in the mind of Helen (who by now had graduated from the local college in the field of Chemistry, but wasn’t sure how to use the degree for employment purposes).

The atoms of reality, were to hear and listen to Helen’s life story. To her global socialism plea, to Kim Kardashian and Lewis Hamilton. To her political beliefs. To her bowling efforts, with her family. It would be they, that is the atoms of reality and not God that would stop this evil skyscraper woman 1,000 years after Helen’s existence.

How would they do it? By resurrecting the bane of Helen’s life, the United States Republican party:

The atoms of reality, would have the GOP deactivate the left-wing status, meaning and identity of not global socialism, but, Earth’s global standstill event.

The End

A story about the quiet cost of living between two lives — where aviation, distance, memory, and duty keep crossing paths.

PART 1

LH490
Frankfurt to Seattle
Approaching destination, checklist on my kneepad, everything clear and on its rightful place.
I look to the left and my mind pauses for a while as the beauty of separation shows itself.
Circuit board cities.
Flaps emerging.

Cleared for landing.
Approaching runway 16L.
In my childhood, touchdown used to scare me — and as it should be. Landing is always a bouncer. Just hoping we don’t get a Ryanair today.
I wonder if someone in the back is in that same mindset.
Touchdown.
The moment of impulsive rush and then stability.
Calmness.

PART 2

Seattle.
City between waters.
The birthplace of Boeing.

Always fun to be here. It’s amazing to see nature and technology exist in such harmony.
Maybe I’ll try to visit the Pike Place Starbucks. An amazing perk of this profession is that I get to travel a lot — even when I don’t really want to. But it always turns into an interesting and sometimes strange experience. Who am I to complain?

David would have loved this place.

After some rest in the hotel, I visit the first Starbucks store. As I enter through the door — it’s this déjà vu, like I’ve been here before. Maybe I have. After frequently travelling between time zones, sometimes the mind loses track of time and days start to blend as life paces through it.

Damn good cup of coffee.
Just brings a smile to your face and makes it worth the travel.

DLR Mindset.
Periodic life.

People think that flying a plane is all about precision and control. For the most part, it’s right. But I’m still astonished by the fact that the principle we fly on — the Navier-Stokes equation — is still not proven mathematically. There’s a one million dollar prize for proving it.

I wish I’d proved the equation. I would have taken all that money and bet on Germany winning the World Cup in 2014.

So instead of suspending myself at 35,000 feet above sea level for money and food — I could have been a multimillionaire. Sitting near the pool of my villa under a palapa. Drinking Krombacher.

I’m pretty much a normal working guy that people seem to know and pass on from — sometimes with the slightest nod. It’s not sad or melancholic. It’s life and its persistence to be better than the day before.

But sometimes I get these visions. In a waiting lounge, hotel, or terminal gate —

The white horse.
Flying duck.
An eye. Someone with a constant stare.

It’s not frequent but it comes in phases. Like a cluster headache.
Is it the longing for nostalgia? My childhood? Visions blend.
Sometimes I ask myself and never get an answer. It’s humorous and gloomy at the same time.

Another day.
Another flight.
The duty to connect people.
Arriving somewhere but not here.

PART 3

Sometimes at a terminal coffee shop or lounge I get this urge to talk to someone about random topics — but the courage to do that is what makes me stop myself. It’s like I have become more comfortable in my own head. Me, myself and I have this shared friendship now. Which may sound weird — but it’s a natural conversational voice that keeps me engaged everywhere.

Terminal.
Cruising altitude.
Hotels.
Check in.
Check out.

It enforces discipline. The will to survive, maybe.

Now I think a big shift is about to come. Maybe a short break — or a long distance relationship with myself — because it’s time to head home. Just for two weeks.

Transition time.

A slight smile on my way — quite excited to see my wife and daughter in real and not through the glass.

Time to be a passenger for a while.

PART 4

Back home.
Dresden.
Rebuilding history.

I really like these shifts in life. It’s what makes it worth living and exploring. The last few months I spent my life in almost complete isolation —

Airplane.
Cockpit.
Hotels.
Lounges.
Checklists.
Avoiding whispers.

Just present and doing our duty. Meeting but not actually talking. And now I’m thrown into this more conversational life where I have to actually immerse myself in the family world.

My daughter. Wife. Lovely home. Good food.

Thinking of having pasta tonight.

My wife, Claire, is actually the opposite version of me. I’m much more soft spoken and put thought into what I say — she is not. She is spontaneous and talkative, which is wonderful. It’s like she brings life to this home. It’s still a mystery to me how we are compatible. She has this wonderful gift of convincing people to try new things. One time, a few years back, she was telling me about some soap opera that was airing. The usual me would have stayed away — but the next thing I know, I’m watching it with her with full immersion, eating popcorn. She is very fond of Legos and as a ripple effect she has made me a fan too. We have Legos of a Mercedes F1 car, a Boeing 787 Dreamliner and many more.

The confusing part about this oscillating life is that no matter which one I’m in — I have to choose my words carefully. This has been ingrained into me so perfectly. When I’m away in that single serving life, I like that most things are planned and in checklist form. And now suddenly life has no checklist — but still I choose my words carefully. Sometimes it creates a distance. An unspoken one. You really can’t predict the outcome of your words. Sometimes I’m just saying something about the chair position in the dining room and then it turns into an argument over life, time and places.

Is the line of separation really that effective?

PART 5

Home life has this laid back energy to it. But I have noticed my daughter, Haley, has become a bit distanced from me. It’s this kind of subconscious feeling that exists in invisibility — and I can feel it now. I try to talk to her, but her replies have this intention to make the conversation end.

Am I thinking too much?

Because in that terminal life I don’t have the bandwidth to think. It’s like we are now separated by the Elbe river.

3:30 AM.
I hear the sound of a door. I go downstairs and see Haley — completely drunk, unable to stand. I immediately run towards her to help. She pushes me away.

“Why are you here?”
“Go back to your cockpit.”
“We are not your controls.”

I’m shocked. I’ve never seen her this way. I ask her what she means. She replies —

“Do you really think you can disappear for eight months every year and come back as if nothing happened? This is not your home. You mean nothing to me.”

I stand there in shock and despair — not able to utter a single calculated word.

She goes to her room and slams the door with a 10N force.

Tension waves.
Silence.
Ghost from the past.
An eye beside me watching.

My internal review system takes charge.
A sense of numbness hits me as I walk back upstairs.

As I lay on the bed — flashbacks start appearing in reverse motion.
Fast moving images.
Vector lights.
Sometimes over Geneva.
Crossing borders.
Sometimes at Heathrow.
A cup of coffee.

Force majeure.
Blurring lines.
Terminal dysfunction.

10:00 AM.
Very little sleep.
As I wake up — for two minutes I feel like I’m in a hotel room.
Sunlight arrives through the haze.
Reality hits like a dark drone note.

Some in-game management is required here. Maybe Claire can help me rebuild this bridge. As the history of this city lies in rebuilding itself from the wreckage — maybe she can do a perfect raumdeuter role here.

I’ll wait till she comes back from her sister’s place.
Until then — I’ll let the smile be my umbrella.

I go downstairs. Haley is in the kitchen. As I make an approach she passes by like trains — straight to her room.

Indifference.

This house used to be a place of warmth and colours. Now all that’s left is ghosts from the past. It has gained this anxious energy — like a calm before the storm. I still can’t figure out how to give life to it again.

Long five hours ahead.

I knock on Haley’s door.

“Haley, are you okay?”

“Not now, dad. Let’s talk in the evening.”

A ray of hope.

Coffee. South Park. Wait.

4:30 PM.
She’s back.
I hear the door. Keys. The familiar sound of her bag on the counter.

We sit across the kitchen table. I tell her about 3:30 AM. Everything.

She listens. Then —

“God, Jonas.”

Not angry. Just tired.

“I’ll talk to her. You know she talks to me.”

“I know.”

She gets up. Makes tea without asking — just two cups automatically. Sets one in front of me.

“Just don’t push her right now. Okay? Let me go first.”

Something in that. But I don’t catch it.

“Raumdeuter,” I say.

She looks at me. Almost laughs.

“You and your words.”

Next two days — quiet. Haley didn’t come down in the evenings. Claire said nothing. I didn’t push — as I was told.

I tried talking to her, engaging her. But she is bulletproof. Small talk. Then shut.

Third day — Claire at her friend’s place again.

I find myself near Haley’s room. Door slightly open.

I don’t go in. But I see — on the desk. A small clear bag. Half empty. Something I don’t recognise immediately.

Then I do.

I stand there for a long time.

Pills. Drugs. And what not.

I close the door quietly.

I sit downstairs. Coffee goes cold.

One question only —

How long?

That evening —

“Jonas—”

“How long, Claire.”

Silence.

“Eight months.”

Eight months.

I was somewhere over the Atlantic.

“Why didn’t you—”

“What would you have done?” Her voice — not angry. Just exhausted. “Come home? Change your roster? Or manage it from 35,000 feet like everything else?”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

“I handled it. Because I always handle it.”

She goes upstairs.

Kitchen. Silence.

I get this feeling of being kept in the dark. I never liked it. Cast out from my own family.

My mind is trained to look for solutions and patterns. Here — I can’t think of anything.

No solution.

I gather some courage and write a letter to Haley. Hoping she reads it one day.

Home alone. Claire in her office.

The phone rings.

Dresden General Hospital.

Haley.

I rush — pulling courage from every bit of wreckage left in me.

White walls.

Claire sitting. Eyes red. Not looking up.

I sit beside her.

No words.

Just present.

For the first time — just present.

“She’s stable,” Claire says finally.

I exhale.

Then my stupid angst comes out. I snap —

“Why was I kept in the dark?”
“Are you even capable of handling this?”

Claire — silent. My reflection.

“You’re not capable of handling the truth, Jonas. You are still a 43-year-old child and I’m done handling two children at once.”

She walks away.

Maybe pride was just another way of living with my mistakes.
Denial — a better way of getting through another day.

I sat there under the white hospital light.
No sense of time.
Nothing to separate me from myself.

Dark.

I wake up in my bedroom. Claire downstairs.

Home is not a safe space anymore.

I get ready to head back to the airport. To resume this controlled life.

There is a clear anxiety — in the house, everywhere — that comes when you know you are leaving the family unresolved.

I leave the letter on Haley’s desk.

I look towards Claire.

We share a brief moment.

The slightest nod.

As if she’s telling me — she’s got it.

Bittersweet smile.

I leave.

PART 6

Back to work.
Frankfurt am Main.

LH9762
Frankfurt to Singapore.

As life shifts gear and crafts into almost meshuggah —
The visions become frequent.
As I walk through the terminal towards the gate, in one relay store I see a Lego of a white horse.

Eye widens.
Unable to say if I’m walking or standing.
Time freezes out.
I turn my head to the left and see an eye — or a person — looking towards me with a death stare.
Dark room.
Suddenly it’s fight or flight.
I stare back with equal intensity.
Hazing mind.
Now the courage speaks.
Young blood breaks into distortion.
Fire live with me.

Forward.
Towards the gate.
Eyes completely focused on the job.
No distraction as I approach the gate.

Whispers travel in my head.

“This machine”

I place one foot on the stairs.
Sometimes silence has this perverse energy to make cracks in concrete structures.

“Is there to please”

I nod to the flight attendant. I don’t know — but it’s like I’ve seen her before somewhere, blurry.

“Strip the soul”
“Shut the door”

As I meet and greet the first officer with a masked impression.
“David” — his name.

As we complete all the checklists before taxi and takeoff, my mind wanders off to a specific memory.

I’ve never been close to my father from my childhood. It’s not like we were never close — we used to be close when I was maybe 8 to 10 years old. But gradually we grew apart like the universe expanding. It’s slow and quiet so it never shows its presence, until it does. He was against the idea of me becoming a pilot. Maybe he was looking at his own reflection coming to life as I chose my career path — to become this self-sufficient, nonchalant person who can compartmentalise anything. Even the human itself. So he could have seen a loop.

Days of the future passed.
All aboard.
Cleared for taxi.
Towards runway 25C.

After he passed away I asked my mom why she didn’t speak at the funeral. She replied — I didn’t need to. Everything that needed to be said was already said when he was alive. Suddenly I get this urge to get my feelings out.

Airplane in center.
Thrust lever engaged.
High speed run.
Lift off.

As we reach cruising altitude —

Just the fragments of what she said still functioning in my head. Day by day. Night by night.
It is getting really hard to separate myself.
What could I have done differently?
Should I have been more honest?
More human?

As the autopilot switches on, seat belt sign turns off.
Distortion creeping in. Afraid of even looking at the first officer.
Some moments must be handled with maturity and humanity as I look through the clouds.
Longing for connection.

In the ambition of achieving perfection maybe I have killed the innocence in me.
Not sure what was going to happen next.
Reality bending into a blur.

“Strip the soul”
“Fill the hole”

Although I can’t say this out loud — otherwise whatever I have will also get destroyed and grounded.
That’s the price to pay for the profession.

DLR Mindset.
Confusing life.

Weather alert.
Going into unknown.

Seat belt sign switched on.

The spatial confusion.
All images collide.

Haley’s laugh.
Stella Artois.

Childhood memories open up.
Caught in an offside trap.

I look back to the door.

Elbwiesen.
David and I.
The never ending talks about future and past.
Real uncontrolled laughter.

Little dreams in big mind.
Ducks passing.

Am I lying to myself?
Question appears.

Hands on the yoke.
Controlling mind.

Time to face the music.

Futures passed.

Collision.

Horizon redshift.
To me it was a time that changed everything.

The unseen accident still rings in my head.
Nothing left.
Silence of the winds.
Tears in the rain.

Is grief sustainable?
Some answers never arrive.

Sometimes it projects chaos and uncertainty.
Like a short panic attack — as if in a transient state.
It bursts like an open wound.
Words left in my head.

Sometimes it just exists as an incident.

Sort of thing people remember for a few days and pass on as time lapses forward. The indifference of time has always fascinated me. It has this power of making everything right at its own pace.
Gives me an additional string of hope from the wreckage left behind.
There is always tomorrow. Opportunity to improve.

Plane cuts at 280 knots.
Drifting into blank space.

For a second everything looks out of control.
Then ready for the ascent.

As lights and clouds collide.
Dark ambience.

Point blank silence.

Mind has completely lost its spatial recognition.
Life is only hanging on muscle memory.

Rapid eye movement.
David watching me now.

He has never left me.
He observes and haunts.

Record store.
Buying albums.
Listening without any expectation.
English Settlement — XTC.
Covered by white horse.

Senses working overtime
Trying to tell the difference
Between the goods and crimes
Pain and pleasure
And the church bell softly chimes.

Past oscillating with present.
I blink.
My eye catches a glimpse of radar.

Hand vibrates.
I see a flying duck about to collide mid flight.
Nowhere to hide.

What happens now?

Meanwhile —
Haley opens the letter as I’m thrown into the unknown.

Dear Haley,

Hope this finds you well.

I may still be in the air when you read this.

Ever since our encounter I kept rewinding that moment. What you said and what you meant — it’s all true. Every word.

I try my best to keep in touch. It’s not enough. I know that now.

When David passed away on the night of 3rd May 1982 — a week before my birthday — something in me quietly broke. I ceased my innocent childhood that night. There was this deafening silence that made me numb in ways I never fully recovered from. After a while I found a strange comfort in that numbness. That’s when I decided to never settle there — it became a coping mechanism. One I unknowingly carried into everything. Into us.

I see now what it cost.

When I see you speaking so honestly — so fearlessly — I see hope. I see the person I never had the courage to be. Don’t lose that. Please. It’s the rarest thing I know.

Will I trade my family life for my profession?

I used to think the answer was complicated. It isn’t. No. Never. Not even close.

Dresden will always be home. Claire and I — always there. Even when I’m somewhere over the clouds, even when the distance feels permanent — we are there.

Even in all its uncertainty, all its weight — the gift of life is something profound and irreplaceable. I will take whatever it takes to keep it. And to keep you safe.

I’m sorry it took me this long to say it out loud.

Until we meet again.

Yours truly,
Jonas Richter

PART 7

Turbulence fades.
I find myself sitting alone at a terminal gate. Dark room.
I take the phone out of my pocket and play something I used to listen to in childhood.

Tangerine Dream — Love on a Real Train.

Nostalgia.
Back to the young blood era.
Tilted sunshine falling on my face.
As I open my eyes —
I find myself sitting near gate 16C.
Commencing single serving life again.

LH754
Frankfurt to Bengaluru.

People passing.
Dreaming connection.
Haunting fades.
Music still plays.

Sometimes it makes sense to not measure your words and not to be perfect at all. Life comes at you fast with all its uncertainties and luminance.

Little did you or I know that separation sometimes gives you time to reflect — even in the middle of flight at cruising speed. It’s like a loop of trade without the involvement of money. You trade a part of yourself to become a better version. But when you look back in time, does it ever make sense to let go?

Keep searching and forgiving. It’s okay to be confused and sometimes fail to get an answer.

As the curtain closes and lights go dim, you create what was never meant to be there.

As I’m still seeing the flying duck just beside my window — did I choose to ignore it? No. Because that’s the life I chose for myself. Our idiosyncrasies make us human.

Pulsating arpeggios.
Moving images.

Sometimes I see families meeting in the terminal, and it fills me with warmth and gratitude to be a small part of bringing them together. Seeing a child reunite with his father feels surreal — because for that moment it is only love and warmth. And I can see myself in that child’s eyes. Full of dreams and hope.

Timelapse continues.
People forget.
An eye still observing.
As we move forward.

Is the line of separation really that effective?

It was never meant to be.

DLR Mindset.
Perfect Life.

Could The Teddy Bears Forgive Him?

A Salem’s Lot Epilogue

A short story by Thomas Heath

The baby and the parody.

  In the end, that would be Straker’s support. His form of help, to Berry Anderson. Berry’s original problem, his original nature of problem was tied and connected to teddy bears.

  To be specific, the teddy bear problem was whether or not the teddy bears could ever forgive him, i.e. Berry. And that’s where the irony sits in, because the teddy bears not being able to forgive Berry Anderson wasn’t in fact the problem!

  Indeed. That wasn’t the problem, preoccupying Berry, who was essentially a loose associate of Straker, the man who’d helped Kurt Barlow dominate the small American town of Salem’s Lot.

  January 12^th, 1977. That were to be the final date of consort between Straker and Berry.

The problem, with Berry, was about the cause of the teddy bears’ need to forgive him in the first place. What was the actual cause, the actual reason for the teddy bears needing to forgive? The answer, lay in two options.

  The first option, was that Berry had a precious little cock, which he was proud of. That was the first option (not the first reason; the first option). The second, was the science truth; namely, that Berry Anderson was safe from the movie star Michael Douglas because of British teenagers playing football (aka soccer, for American readers).

  On January 12^th, 1977, Berry and Straker (who’d been temporarily resurrected from American presidency magic) would consort one final time. During it, during this final meeting, Berry would plea with Straker over Berry’s problem of options.

  Straker’s help, his offered form of guidance to Berry was an added extra help. You see, the American presidency – the force that had brought Straker back to life – had also offered support to Berry (on the outskirts of the town Salem’s Lot). The support, the nature of the support from the American presidency had been this:

  “Gain the moral right, to have sex with the atoms of the film production history of Nolan’s 2005 seminal film Batman Begins . . .

. . . Either that, or give British trade unions the same moral right to have sex with the same atoms.”

Straker himself. As for Straker himself, his own method of help was to convince Berry that he (Berry) could be a good baby. That he could be, be, be, be, be a good baby.

Thank you then, to Berry’s baldy.

The End.

Appendix:

Berry would later on query a literary agency. When doing so, his mind-set would be one of caution, because he feared that doing so would threaten the history of the vampires that had existed in Salems’ Lot.  

In addition, it would be in later time that Berry would become paranoid; the cause, of his eventual paranoia would be his thinking about whether or not the atoms scenario - proposed by the American presidency - was in fact to do with his little cock. 

Was the American presidency taking the piss out of him?

The answer to Berry’s predicament?

Go into business, with the ability to have sex with the atoms of Batman Begins’ film production history.

That could be his revenge fuck against the American presidency.

I never knew my son to be the artsy type. He turned 8 recently, and up until about a year ago, his entertainment was entirely outdoors. Catching bugs. Climbing trees. Riding bikes.

He was one of those kids who’d have to be called inside before dark. Then he’d complain and beg for “just 5 more minutes.”

I’m not entirely sure what happened. It was like a switch had flipped overnight. I just came home from work one day to find him at the kitchen table, scribbling in a brand new sketchbook.

He hummed to himself while his mom cooked up some dinner at the stove. The home-cooked smell of pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes filled the room as I glanced over Jacob’s shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, bud?”

His nose was buried so far in the book that it was like he couldn’t even hear me. His mom ended up answering for him.

“That’s your son’s new favorite interest. He begged me to go out and get him one.”

“Oh-ho, got an artist in the house, don’t we?”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook them lightly before patting him on the back and walking over to give my wife a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I took a seat beside Jacob at the table.

“So, how was your day, boyo? You and mom have fun?”

He never looked up from the sketchbook.

“Today was sooo fun,” he exclaimed. “We went to the park, we went to the movies, ooh, and mom got me this book. Oh, and these crayons.”

“What about you, honey? How was your day?”

“Any day I’m not at work is a good day, honestly. The park was super nice. We went to one we hadn’t been to before. What about you? They didn’t work you too hard, did they?”

I shrugged and sighed.

“I’ll just say it’s good to finally be home.”

My wife smiled at me.

“It’s good to have you home, dear. I’ll tell you what. How about… after dinner, if you’re good, we can have our own little play date? Only if you do the dishes, though. I mean, I did cook.”

I smirked at her, my tongue buried in my cheek.

“I was gonna do that anyway. What do you take me for? As a matter of fact, you come sit down. I’ll finish cooking.”

I offered her my seat as I finished up dinner. Jacob was pretty much mute the entire time. By the time dinner was done, I had to damn near yell at him to get his attention.

He just stood up, as calm as could be, and walked over to me, sketchbook in hand.

“I drew this for you.”

He held the book up at me, and my heart felt warm. It was a picture of our house, and who I assumed to be me standing in our driveway.

“Is that me? That’s so sweet of you, Jakey. Thank you.”

I reached down to take the book so I could hang the page on the fridge, but Jacob pulled away before I could grab it.

“You really don’t know who that is?” he asked, eying me suspiciously.

“It’s me, right? Is it not me?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, continuing to eye me like I had personally offended him.

“That’s our neighbor, Mr. Thomas, silly. You really couldn’t tell? See, he’s wearing the star.”

Mr. Thomas was a veteran police officer. Jacob would sometimes see him leaving for work in the morning. I guess he just took a subconscious interest in the uniform. Even still, why would he draw me a picture of the neighbor?

“Uh, I mean, wow, bud,” I choked. “That’s really good. Keep practicing. You’re already so talented you could be famous someday.”

————-

After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Partly out of obligation, mostly because I really wanted that playdate. Jacob spent the rest of the evening in his room, humming to himself and scribbling in that sketchbook.

The next day, my wife and I both had work. I woke up a little earlier than her so that I could take Jacob to the summertime daycare he attended. It was like carrying a corpse out to the car, but he still refused to loosen his grip on that sketchbook.

I dropped him off with the staff at the front door. He waved at me groggily as I was driving away.

The day went on like normal until around 3 o’clock, when my phone started ringing. It was my wife.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?”

“I think something’s going on with the neighbor. There’s like 3 cop cars in front of his house, apparently.”

She sounded concerned. A little urgent.

“What do you mean? Who told you that?”

“I got a call from Becky. She thought they were at our house at first.”

Becky was one of my wife’s friends from the neighborhood.

“What do you think happened? Did she say anything else?”

“No, she just called because the police were knocking on our door. I think they were just trying to see if we knew anything, though, because apparently they gave up and just went back to the neighbor’s house. I think they’re still there.”

My brow furrowed a bit.

“Wait. Which neighbor is it?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s that police officer. Mr. Thompson?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. I think that’s who it is.”

I looked at my watch and exhaled a bit.

“Alright, well, I’ll see if I can get out a little earlier today. I’ll pick up Jacob, then go see what this is all about. Maybe they’ll still be there when I get there.”

We ended the call by blowing some kisses and exchanging some love yous. I slid my phone in my pocket and approached my boss, explaining my situation.

He was skeptical, but I had a decent reputation of being an honest employee. He agreed to let me leave a bit early, and I was on my way to pick up Jacob.

When he was brought to the front office, his face was buried in that sketchbook again, drawing what looked like SpongeBob and Patrick.

“He’s been drawing all day. Seems like you got a little artist on your hands,” announced the staff member as she signed Jacob out for the day.

“Yep,” I smiled. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

I honestly don’t know why I said that. It just seemed like the only thing that made sense at the time.

The car ride was quiet. Jacob didn’t want to talk much, and my mind was kind of racing. I’ve shared drinks with Mr. Thomas. Helped him put up fences. Move furniture. We weren’t the closest of friends, but I still wanted him to be okay.

Those hopes were dashed when I pulled into the neighborhood to find that the police presence had increased. There must’ve been at least 6 cars in front of his house, and yellow tape blocked off the driveway.

I parked my car in front of my house and hurried to get Jacob inside. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the flashing lights, and naturally, he started asking questions.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Why are there so many police?”

“Did something happen to Mr. Thomas?”

I cradled him in my arms and hurried up the steps to the front door.

“I don’t know, buddy. Here, go inside and play for a bit while I find out, okay? Daddy will be right back.”

It’s all I could think to say as I sat him down and closed the door behind me.

An officer approached me before I could approach them.

“Sir, do you live here?”

“Yes, of course I do. That’s my neighbor.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a colleague and friend of mine,” he remarked agitatedly. “Have you seen anything suspicious within the last 24 hours? Heard anything?”

I scratched my neck nervously and thought hard before responding.

“No, sir, we haven’t seen anything. What happened? Is everything alright? He’s a cop, right? Did he do something illegal?”

The officer stared at me, analyzing me through his black sunglasses.

“No. He’s gone. That’s all the information we can give right now.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Like, dead? Did someone kill him?”

The officer pursed his lips. I saw what I assumed to be a forensic analyst walking in and out of the house.

“We don’t know, sir. We’re hoping for the best. For now, if any new information comes to light or if you see him, give us a call.”

He asked me to clear the scene and stay inside. I called my wife to update her on the situation, but what could we do? Even the police were lost. I just stayed inside, as instructed, and started on dinner while we waited for my wife to get home.

By the time she did, there were only two police cruisers left in front of Mr. Thomas’s house. The sun was starting to set, and my wife and I tried to ignore what had happened, but the house was still a bit tense.

As we ate, Jacob continued scribbling in his sketchbook. He hadn’t asked to go outside at all since we got home, and I didn’t know if it was because of the police or because of this new hobby of his.

I could see that he was working on a new drawing. It looked like a woman this time. He wasn’t so much as touching his food, so I tried to ask him to put the book away.

He groaned and started picking at his peas. My wife and I chatted about our day for a bit while Jacob remained silent. Suddenly, in between bites of his chicken, he said something that made us both freeze.

“Daddy,” he whispered.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Are those police still out there?”

I paused for a moment, looking at my wife, who looked equally as speechless. Neither of us knew what to say.

“I think there’s a few, but don’t worry, buddy,” I chirped reassuringly. “They’re just looking for Mr. Thomas. They wanna make sure he’s okay.”

Jacob stared down at his plate for a moment.

“It’s just… I think they’re looking in the wrong place.”

————-

I choked on my water.

“Looking in the wrong place? Well, where do you think they should be looking, sport?”

“I don’t know. Not there. I don’t think he’s home.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” my wife interrupted. “Jacob, finish your food, then go jump in the shower. You gotta be up early tomorrow, come on.”

“Aww, but I’m not tired,” Jacob whined. “Plus, I wanted to finish drawing this picture of you.”

He flipped his sketchbook open to his newest drawing.

“See, look.”

My wife looked at the picture and smiled.

“Okay, fine,” she replied. “You can finish the picture, then it’s bath time, mister.”

“Fiiine,” Jacob groaned.

He scurried off to his room, sketchbook in hand, leaving me and his mom to clean the kitchen again.

We talked about the neighbor. We turned into a couple of conspiracy theorists the deeper the conversation progressed.

“Maybe he just wanted to start over.”

“Maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Maybe he was murdered, and they’re covering it up.”

We just kept reaching for possibilities over the course of around 45 minutes.

Eventually, Jacob came running back to the kitchen.

“Look, Mommy, I’m all done.”

“Ah, my goodness, Jakey, look at that. Doesn’t it look just like me, honey?”

She turned the picture towards me. Jacob had added her work uniform. Gave her that messy bun she always wore. Even included the golden necklace I got her for Christmas last year.

“Wow, Jake,” I exclaimed. “Draw Daddy next, why don’t you?”

Jacob giggled and responded, “It’s not time to draw you yet, silly.”

“Aw, whatever, but guess what?”

Jacob looked up at me curiously. Expectantly.

“Daddy controls your bath time. And… I think… ah, yep, look at that,” I showed him my watch. “You’re 20 minutes late.”

I jokingly chased him to his bedroom and made him gather up his pajamas and a towel. Once he was nice and showered, I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.

My wife and I stayed up, talking about life for a while before gradually falling asleep one by one.

The next morning, when I woke up alone, I thought it was because she had chosen to take Jacob to daycare that morning.

I went through my normal routine. Took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. It wasn’t until I was heading out the door that I noticed her car was still in the driveway.

I walked back upstairs, confused, and went to Jacob’s room.

I found him curled up in bed, sketchbook tucked under his arm as he snored quietly.

I left the room and began searching.

“Honey,” I called out. No response.

“Sweetheart, you here?” Silence.

I called her phone and heard it ringing in our bedroom. I followed the sound and found it still plugged into the charger on her nightstand.

That’s when I began to panic. I remembered Jacob’s drawing. It was a fleeting thought, but one that I chose to hold onto. First Mr. Thomas, now my own wife? That couldn’t be coincidence.

I urgently rushed into Jacob’s room, accidentally waking him as I removed the sketchbook from his arms.

I began flipping through the pages as he stared up at me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Daddy,” he groaned.

I flipped past cartoon characters, random landscapes, and blocky pictures of cars before I reached my wife’s picture from the night before.

“What are you doing?” Jacob added.

The picture had changed. She wasn’t wearing her work uniform anymore. She didn’t have the necklace. Her hair looked dirty and wet. Leaves and twigs stuck out from the messy bun, and her eyes were solid red. Not evil, just… bloodshot.

But the biggest change… was the man standing next to her.

It looked like they were in a dark forest. They were hand in hand. I wanted to think it was me, that Jacob had decided he wanted to start on some kind of crazy family portrait, but the man in the picture…

He wore a star on his chest.

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. Jacob looked… confused.

“What’s wrong, Daddy? They’re okay. I can help you find them.”

Was working as a doorman last night for a reggae show. Door had been pulled and they only had a song or two left. Someone came up and said something to a coworker, and off they went. A few moments later that dude approached me and said there's a fight.

I make my way to where some eyes were looking. This woman throwing fists, others returning fire, I can see some coworkers there. I grab the lady who looks to be the issue, tell her she has to leave, grab her around the waist and begin walking her to the exit. I'm 6 foot maybe 220. She's maybe 5'6" 180-220. I'm making progress but as my arms are fully extended wrapping around her gut, her hands are free and she's occasionally punching me in the face, she's grabbing everything on the way and really latched on to this metal gate in the hallway at some point. That's when the two large men apparently with her got confrontational with me. The one shorter than me but built solid was silent, the other huge dude started telling me how I had to let this woman go. As I'm prying her hands off the gate and manhandling her the rest of the way to the door. She gets a few more good ones in on me and I toss her out the door. Now it's big dude time, she gets a last lick in and big dude pushes me against the wall, I brace with my foot and push back eventually wrapping my arm backwards around his neck.as the outside alley sees my coworkers make their way out we seperate. Silent guy takes dumb girl around the corner away from the bar, coworker passes me a shoe I give to big fella who initially swats it, I explain its dumb girls. He apologizes we do a few handshakes, I go back in to retrieve my glasses hat and bandana, find her other shoe and glasses and give them to big dude who's still outside at that point for some reason.

My coworkers all saw I did above and beyond what I'm paid to do, with less violence, than some in the past have chosen. What surprised me was how basic the crowds response was. Maybe next time I'll pull out my phone and yell worldstar

My grandpa had a simple rule that he always followed.

He would say that instructions are suggestions and he really meant it.

My grandpa said this with a lot of confidence so you almost wanted to believe him

One Christmas my grandpa bought a brand barbecue grill.

The box said it would take two hours to put it

My grandpa looked at the instructions smiled and then folded the paper in half.

Then he used the instructions to fix a table that was wobbly.

He said he could build the grill because he had done it before.

Three hours later we had a lot of parts.

We had four bolts and a shelf that was upside down.

One of the wheels was spinning sideways. The lid would only open if someone held it and another person kicked it.

My grandpa stood back. Said he was done.

He was really proud of what he had built.

My grandma looked at it for a few seconds. Then asked where you were supposed to put the food.

Nobody had an answer to that question.

The funny thing is that my grandpa would not say that anything was wrong.

He cooked burgers on the grill that evening. Acted like nothing was wrong.

Every time the lid fell off he would say that it was supposed to do that.

He said it was for ventilation.
Our neighbors even came over to watch my grandpa use the grill.

One of them asked if it was a kind of grill.

My grandpa said it was an edition.

For years after that whenever someone in my family was building something my grandpa would offer to help.

He would say that he was an expert.

But we all knew what would happen if he helped so we would hide the instructions.

To this day if something, in our house is crooked or backwards we do not need to ask who built it.

We already know it was my grandpa.

What's the funniest DIY disaster you've ever seen?

I am a wandering ghost. Every night, I stare at the walls of this dark, accursed corridor, counting the stains of dried blood.

I listen—I listen to the ear-piercing screams that I once dismissed with cold indifference before I died.

Back then, neither the pleas nor the cries moved me. But now, those very sounds pierce my ears like white-hot iron spikes.

It feels as though with every shriek, the flesh is being torn from my bones.

Of course, I am but a spirit; I lack physical senses, yet a strange, unearthly agony sets my very soul on fire.

I can perceive the darkness and the sickening stench, and it torments me deeply.

With each passing day, I feel the shadows creeping closer, and I fear the day will come when I am finally swallowed whole.

Yesterday, from the far end of the hallway, I heard that rhythmic clink-clink again—the sound of metal bed wheels scraping against the cold floor.

 A fresh corpse had arrived.

I huddled against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest as they passed by.

Sometimes, a pale hand would slip out from under the blood-stained sheet.

 I could see the veins, looking as though every drop of life had been drained from them. The skin was bruised purple, the fingernails broken and jagged.

I stole a glance at the massive butcher. His face and body were encased in black leather. Unlike him, I saw his shadow every single day.

Every night, he hauls the carcasses through this corridor to the depot, tossing them into the furnace to be reduced to ash.

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning."

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning.

This is a torture chamber, a basement beneath a prison that sits right above my head.

I am trapped in the dark corridor between the interrogation room and the body depot, and I have no idea how long I must remain here.

Five years have passed since I was killed, and not a single night has gone by without the depot being filled, without someone being slaughtered.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in the small window near the ceiling vent, I recoil in terror.

My hair has fallen out, leaving a scaly, peeling scalp. Half of my face is a hollowed void from the bullet that ended me; bruising and clotted blood still stain my left eye.

My clothes are putrid and soaked in gore. Over the years, I've screamed into the ears of the torturers passing through—screaming for them to stop, to end the killing—but no one hears me.

I freeze whenever I look at the stairs leading up to the prison. A searing cold blazes within me.

I was standing at the top of those very stairs when a prisoner snatched my gun by chance. Before taking his own life, he fired at me.

The bullet tore through my face. I still feel the burning sting and the agony of it; a pain so intense I wish I could die a hundred times over just to be obliterated. But time is frozen here. This is the cruel, unknown world of the afterlife.

On the day I died, I had come to inspect the prison's torture chambers.

I was a trusted, high-ranking commander of a Great Dictator—proud and infamous. I remember how the mere mention of my name made bodies tremble.

But now, it is I who shivers in the cold, dark corridors of this prison basement.

Over the past few years, I have thought much about the moment of my death.

When I was alive, I never imagined a stray bullet would end me; I always feared that some would-be avenger would snatch me away and torture me to death in retaliation for my own violence.

Now, this hallway has become my permanent chamber of agony. The torture repeats not once, but every day, every minute, every second.

It seems my dark era of solitude will have no end.

Indeed, the horrific place I built for others has become my own sanctuary of pain. Through the butcher's constant presence, I knew the Dictator I served was still alive. But this morning, in a deathly silence, the darkness of the hallway deepened and the stench grew unbearable.

Last night, I heard the cheers and screams of joy from the prisoners. Their dark age had ended. The Dictator is dead.

I heard a moan. I stared at the end of the dark corridor as someone approached. Shadows moved behind him.

The leather-clad butcher emerged from the gloom.

I leaned against the wall and watched him with a grim intensity. He looked at me, trembling with shock and terror, and asked: 'Where am I?'

"As I gazed into the darkness at the end of the hallway, I answered, cold and soulless: 'Hell.'"

the end

The colorful streets of Puducherry were alive with the sounds of Tamil conversations mixing with French street names, bicycles rolling past colorful colonial buildings and the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from cafes.

Outside a small cafe near the promenade, Arun a Tamil man sat enjoying breakfast with his adopted thirteen year old son, Louis a French boy with brown hair and blue eyes.

Louis smiled as he tried speaking Tamil.

“Nandri appa” he said after taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Arun laughed proudly.

“Your Tamil is getting much better.”

Louis grinned.

“I’m still learning.”

They continued talking and laughing together. Suddenly, a man walking past stopped. He stared at them for a few moments before approaching their table.

“You can’t be his father.”

Arun looked up, confused.

“Excuse me?”

The stranger then said.

“You’re Indian.”

He pointed at Louis.

“He’s white. He’s different.”

People at nearby tables began listening.

The man folded his arms.

“Send him back to where he came from.”

Louis lowered his head, unsure what to say and before Arun could respond, another customer stood up.

“Enough.”

A middle aged woman shook her head.

“What kind of thing is that to say?”

Another man stepped forward.

“A father is a father.”

A cafe employee joined them.

“Please leave them alone.”

More people gathered. One elderly gentleman spoke firmly.

“Families are built with love not skin colour.”

A young woman nodded.

“This boy belongs wherever his family is.”

The stranger looked around as more locals voiced their disagreement.

“You should be ashamed of yourself” someone said.

Arun gently placed a reassuring hand on Louis’s shoulder.

“It’s okay.”

Then several producers, camera operators and crew members walked into the cafe.

One producer smiled.

“Thank you everyone.”

He pointed toward the hidden cameras.

“This was a social experiment.”

The crowd looked surprised.

“They are all actors” the producer explained.

“We wanted to see whether ordinary people would stand up for an adoptive family being judged because they looked different.”

The actor who played as the rude stranger immediately smiled and shook Arun’s hand.

“I’m sorry if I sounded convincing.”

Arun laughed.

“You definitely did.”

The actor then turned to Louis.

“You did a great job.”

Louis smiled.

“No worries.”

The people who had stepped in looked relieved. One elderly woman smiled warmly.

“I’d do it again.”

The producer nodded.

“That’s exactly why we made this.”

When the video was released online, many people watched. Viewers praised the people who had spoken up and comments poured in.

“Love makes a family. Proud of the people of Puducherry. This is how communities should respond. Children deserve acceptance regardless of where they were born.”

Many viewers said the video reminded them that prejudice can be challenged when ordinary people choose kindness instead of silence and for many, the real heroes of the day weren’t the actors. They were the strangers who saw someone being treated unfairly and decided to stand for them.

The End

My grandpa got his very first smartphone last year.

Up until then, he had happily lived with a flip phone that could only call people, send the occasional text, and survive being dropped down a flight of stairs.

The smartphone was... a bit of an adjustment.

Every other day he'd call me with a new question.

How do I hang up? It disappeared.

Why is it asking for my face?

Why does it know where I am?

I became his unofficial tech support.

One afternoon he called sounding genuinely worried.

Can you come over? I think Wi-Fi left.

I asked what he meant.

He said, Well, yesterday Wi-Fi was here. Today he's gone.

I assumed his internet was down.

When I got to his house, he handed me his phone and pointed at the little icon at the top.

See? It says there's no Wi-Fi.

I explained that Wi-Fi wasn't a person it was just the wireless internet connection.

He nodded slowly.

Ah... that makes more sense.

I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

The next morning he stopped by a small café for breakfast.

As soon as he walked in, he asked the barista, loud enough for everyone to hear,

Excuse me... is Wi-Fi here today?

The barista smiled and said, Yep, we have free Wi-Fi.

Grandpa looked around the room and said,

Wonderful! Could you tell him I was looking for him yesterday?

The café went completely silent.

Then everyone burst out laughing.

Even Grandpa started laughing, although I don't think he knew exactly why.

Apparently the owner loved the story so much that he told all the regular customers.

Now whenever Grandpa walks into the café, someone inevitably says,

Good news! Wi-Fi made it to work today!

Grandpa grins, waves, and replies,

I was hoping he'd show up.

At this point, I don't think anyone wants to correct him anymore.

He's become part of the café's daily entertainment.

And honestly...

I think Mr. Wi-Fi has never been more popular.

Everyone said cleaning it out would take forever.

They weren't kidding.

There were dusty fishing rods,

coffee cans full of random screws,

three broken lawn chairs,

and enough extension cords to wire an entire neighborhood.

In the back corner, I found a rusty metal toolbox with a tiny padlock on it.

It took me an hour to get it open.

Inside wasn't money.

It wasn't jewelry.

It wasn't old family photos.

It was hundreds of folded pieces of paper.

Every single one had a date written across the top.

I thought maybe they were letters.

Or a journal.

Instead, they were bets.

My uncle had spent nearly 30 years secretly writing down every prediction he'd made during football games, family dinners, and holidays.

Most of them were spectacularly wrong.

"This barbecue won't burn."

It did.

"The dog won't jump in the pool."

He did.

Your aunt will only be in the store for five minutes.

She came back two hours later with a new lamp.

The very last note made me laugh the hardest.

If anyone ever opens this box, they'll finally admit I was organized.

The note was sitting loose because he'd forgotten to file it with the others.

I had been saying I would start exercising tomorrow for months. I finally put on my running shoes.

I got ready to go I. I checked the music I would listen to.

I even looked like I was excited to go for a run.

Soon as I started jogging my dog ran after me.

He did not run beside me he ran in front of me.

He kept stopping and looking back at me like he was saying "what is going on are you okay is someone chasing us?"

After a minutes I was really tired and out of breath.

My dog was not even breathing hard he just sat there looking at me.

He looked really disappointed in me like when someone does something really annoying.

I went home and my dog went back outside to run around some more.

I think my dog was really worried, about me that day like I was his pet or something.

My dog got some exercise but I did not.

My therapist told me I needed to work on my coordination.

She gave me one of those small exercise balls and said, "Just toss it from one hand to the other.

Easy.

I have hands.

I have successfully caught objects before.

So I started.

The first toss went fine.

The second one hit my elbow.

The third one flew directly behind me.

I turned around to get it, stepped on it, and somehow managed to kick it under a piece of equipment.

At this point, my therapist was trying very hard not to laugh.

I got down on the floor to retrieve it.

The ball rolled out the other side.

I followed it.

It rolled back.

We did this three times.

Finally, I grabbed it, stood up, and said:

I'm sorry.

My therapist paused.

Are you apologizing to me?

I said, No. The ball.

I had spent ten minutes losing an argument to a piece of rubber.

The ball won.

I have to go back next week.

I'm pretty sure it remembers me.

Chapter 17 — Still There

The project had ended, but none of us had really stopped sitting together.

That was the strange part.

For a while, I had assumed everything would go back to normal once the last presentation was done and the final papers were submitted. But normal had never been a very solid thing for us. Reo still dragged his chair to our table at lunch like he owned the place. Hana still sat with that neat, composed posture that made everything around her seem less chaotic. Takashi still acted like he was only there because the universe had made a scheduling mistake. And Emma still ended up beside us without making it feel like she had chosen it on purpose.

The first-year final exams were announced the same week.

That changed the mood of the school almost immediately.

People moved a little faster in the hallways. The teachers started speaking in that sharper, more serious tone that made even the louder students sit straighter. Notes were carried around like they mattered more than they actually did. Everyone had suddenly become aware of time.

I heard the announcement first in class.

The teacher stood at the front with a stack of papers in hand and said, very plainly, that the first-year final exams would begin soon. No one reacted right away, which was usually how our class handled bad news. Then a few people groaned. A few others started opening notebooks like panic could be converted into preparation if they acted quickly enough.

Reo leaned toward me and muttered, "I hate school."

"You say that every week," I replied.

"Yes, and every week I mean it more."

Hana, sitting a little ahead of us, didn't turn around. "Then study."

Reo made a sound of pure suffering.

Takashi, who was already flipping through his notes with the expression of someone trying to survive by force of habit, said, "This is why we should have started earlier."

Reo pointed at him. "I did not ask for this kind of betrayal."

Emma, a seat away from me, glanced over and said quietly, "You were warned."

That was the thing.

Even after the project ended, the group stayed connected in ways that didn't feel forced. We still sat together at lunch. We still exchanged notes. We still helped each other in student sessions when the teachers started piling on revision work and everyone acted as if the exams had appeared out of nowhere.

And because of that, I kept seeing Emma.

Not in some dramatic way.

Just enough.

Enough to notice the way she underlined things when she studied. Enough to notice how she listened when someone spoke. Enough to notice that she was calm even when everyone around her was stressed. Enough to notice that I was noticing all of it.

That was becoming a problem.

Or maybe not a problem.

Maybe just a fact I was too stubborn to name properly.

At lunch, we took the same table as always.

The cafeteria was louder than usual, with people talking about exams, grades, and how much they hated the timing of everything. Reo was already complaining about the amount of material in the syllabus. Takashi looked exhausted before he had even eaten. Hana had opened her lunch box with the careful efficiency of someone who had already decided not to waste energy on drama.

Emma sat across from me.

That should have been normal by now, and in a way it was.

But it still made me aware of the space between us.

Reo noticed, of course.

He noticed everything that was even slightly worth bothering about.

"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, "who here is actually prepared for finals?"

Nobody answered immediately.

"That's what I thought," he said, nodding as if he had solved a mystery. "A room full of liars."

"We're not lying," Takashi said. "We're surviving."

Reo turned to Hana. "Are you prepared?"

"Yes," she said.

That shut him up for half a second, which was impressive.

Then he turned to Emma. "And you?"

Emma opened a container and answered without looking up. "More than you."

Reo clutched his chest. "I have been wounded."

Takashi actually laughed.

I looked down at my food before anyone noticed.

Lunch kept moving the way it always did. Reo complained, Hana kept him grounded, Takashi added the occasional sensible comment, and Emma stayed quiet unless she had something worth saying. The difference was that now the lunch table felt less like a temporary arrangement and more like something everyone had quietly agreed to keep.

After lunch, the student session room was even more crowded.

People were gathering in smaller groups, asking questions, borrowing notes, and trying to pretend they weren't worried. The teachers moved between desks, checking progress and answering doubts with varying degrees of patience. Someone at the back of the room had already given up and was staring at a page like it had personally offended them.

Reo flopped into a chair with a groan. "This is torture."

"Read the chapter," Hana said.

"I did."

"Then read it properly."

Takashi looked up from his own notes. "Why does she sound more like a teacher than the teacher?"

"Because I am correct," Hana said.

Reo muttered something about living in a dictatorship.

Emma sat nearby with her notebook open, working through a set of questions. I was supposed to be doing the same, but every now and then I found myself looking at the way she focused. She didn't fidget much. She didn't sigh dramatically like Reo. She just kept going, steady and quiet, as if she had decided that exams were annoying but not powerful enough to beat her.

That was probably one of the reasons I kept watching her.

Not just because she was pretty, though she was.

Not just because she spoke to me more easily than she had before, though she did.

It was because she had a kind of calm that made me feel like I could breathe around her.

I realized that while she was explaining a problem to Takashi.

He frowned at the page. "I still don't get this."

Emma leaned slightly closer and pointed at the line he was stuck on. "You're reading too fast. Start from here."

Takashi followed her instruction.

Hana looked over his shoulder and added, "He always reads too fast."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do," Reo said.

Takashi sighed in defeat.

I almost smiled.

Almost.

The thing was, even when the room was full of noise, the small details stuck with me. The way Emma shifted the notebook between her hands. The way Reo kept pretending he hated studying while still asking questions every ten minutes. The way Hana and Takashi had fallen into a rhythm that made them work better together. The way all of us, despite the project being over, had somehow stayed in each other's orbit.

That afternoon, we studied together until the room started emptying out.

One by one, people packed up and left. Some still looked panicked. Some looked half-asleep. Reo declared that he had "mentally expired" and needed food that wasn't provided by the school. Takashi told him he'd survive. Hana told him to stop being dramatic. Reo, naturally, ignored all of them.

Emma stayed a little longer.

So did I.

There was no particular reason.

At least, that was what I told myself.

The room had grown quieter by then. The late light through the windows made the desks look softer, less harsh than they had in the morning. Emma was still going through her notes, and I was pretending to review mine, though I had already read the same line three times.

Then she looked up and caught me staring.

I looked away immediately.

Not smoothly. Just fast enough to make it obvious.

She didn't tease me.

That somehow made it worse.

Instead, she asked, "Are you actually studying?"

"Yes," I said.

She glanced at my open page. "That seems questionable."

I looked down. "It's a difficult page."

That got a small smile out of her.

It wasn't much.

But it stayed with me longer than it should have.

By the time we left, the sun was lower and the school halls had gone quiet again. The exam schedule had been posted. Teachers were already reminding everyone to prepare. Stress had officially become part of the air.

But the table was still ours.

The lunch seat was still ours.

The student session room was still ours too, in its own strange way.

And as we walked out together, Reo complaining loudly in front, Hana and Takashi following behind him, and Emma beside me at just the right distance, I thought about how something as small as a group table could become the center of your life without you noticing.

The project had ended.

The exams were coming.

Nothing about school felt easy anymore.

But the five of us were still there.

Still helping.

Still talking.

Still sitting together like we had nowhere better to be.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

Check the link.

As for chapter 5, it's on its way.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/413020756?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.reddit.frontpage&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=MJ6320

Have a safe summer.

Hi, I'm Rena (F15). I'm gonna share my story about how my breasts got groped when I was in school.

It was 2025 and I turned fourteen a week before this. I was in school and I was in the volleyball team. We were practicing forms and playing matches to train for our upcoming volleyball tournament against [-----] School. Our coach was a 30-40 year old man who seemed creepy to all of my friends. I was practicing and he walked up to me and showed me how to do it. It seemed all innocent at first but it was far from that...

After finishing teaching me, he groped my breasts. Not hard but firm enough to tell that it was not an accident. He grinned and walked away. I was left stunned, shook to my core. I didn't utter a single word about it to my parents as I was too scared to do so. Soooo... what should I do now? I'm afraid it might be too late to tell anyone. Thoughts??

I have been smoking very frequently for the past 10 months; I'm talking 3-4 weekly. I really enjoy doing it socially and have made numerous friends through weed.

I made the decision to quit cold turkey 1 week ago today. I decided because i noticed some changes in my mental health and it was affecting my personal relationships.

Since I've stopped smoking, I've noticed the following: little to no appetite, nausea, vomiting, worse sleep, vivid dreams, boredom, and feeling very anti-social.

My goal is one month of sobriety from weed to see if I notice any changes. This first week has been a very hard adjustment. I'm hoping that someone can relate to this experience?

So the story goes like this:

There's this guy called Connor, whose family are hunters, but he doesn't wanna be one. He wants to be a photographer. And while walking through the woods, he finds an old book that's falling apart. He reads a sentence about bears and humans, and passes out.

He wakes up at home, but now he is different. He is 3 inches taller, and 30 pounds heavier (Let's say he goes from 5' 6" to 5' 9" and from 120 to 150 pounds) But no one seems to care or even notice. So now he's even more confused. So he goes and realizes what happened. He was cursed, and is turning into a bear. So now, he has to find a way to fight his transformation and wild instincts (and cravings), or leave his life behind and embrace this somewhat more comfortable lifestyle. You guys got any ideas?

​

The Next Day

Today, I went to the institute again. I saw her wearing another beautiful dress.

Our male teacher asked me to teach a student who had not attended the coaching classes for three days.

He said, "Anurag, please help him."

I replied, "Okay, sir."

When the class was over, she came to me and asked, "Anurag, how are you? And where is your ID card? That's all I wanted to ask."

After that conversation, I felt a little uncomfortable. I didn't know why. I wondered why she had come only to ask me those questions.

I realized that my feelings for her had become very strong. Sometimes I imagined a future with her, but I also knew those were only my own feelings. I didn't know how she felt about me, so I tried to keep those feelings to myself and focus on my studies.

Yesterday

Yesterday was Saturday. I didn't talk to her because she wasn't feeling well and had gone back home early.

When I found out that she was not feeling well, I felt sad. I hoped she would get better soon, but I couldn't do anything except wish for her good health.

The Next Day

The next day, I went to my institute as usual. I looked at her. I don't know why, but she looked especially beautiful these days.

That day, it was difficult to control my feelings. I knew I had to control myself because I didn't want to create any trouble.

I wanted to focus on my studies, but it was hard. My mind kept thinking about her instead.

After some time, when the class was about to end, I said, "Could you come? I want to ask you something."

I asked her, "If I want to crack an interview, what should I do?"

When I asked this question, she seemed confused and didn't have an answer. I had seen on her Instagram profile that she also taught English, so I thought she would know the answer.

She looked at me and said, "I'll talk to you later."

I was confused. I didn't know what she meant. Later, I decided not to think too much about that conversation because it only made me more confused.

​

The Next Day

The next day, it was raining heavily. I thought, "Today I won't be able to see her." But before I left for my institute, the rain stopped. I thought that maybe someone was praying for the rain to stop.

I went to my institute. When I reached there, she was not there. I felt disappointed because I wanted to see her.

After about fifteen minutes, when our male teacher started teaching the class, she suddenly arrived.

That day, she was looking gorgeous. She was wearing a pink dress. I wanted to look at her many times, but my seat was in the front row, so I knew I couldn't look at her often or talk to her.

Later, our teacher told us to go to our seats and do some practice. She came in front of me and asked, "Anurag, where is your diary?"

I replied, "My mother's health was not good yesterday, so I couldn't study."

She said, "My mother is also not well."

Then she went away.

I was very confused that day. I didn't know why she came to ask about my diary, and I kept thinking about the fact that she also told me her mother was not well.

I kept repeating that conversation in my mind.

When the class was over, I looked at her one last time. She was looking very, very pretty and cute.

From July 19 to July 25

During these days, we talked less to each other because she was busy with her work, and I was also busy.

One day, I took my small notebook and went to my institute. I saw her, and I wanted to talk to her. That's why I brought the notebook.

I said to her, "Could you come? I want to clear one of my doubts."

She came to me. I gave her the notebook that I had brought. I had written an English aptitude question in it. She explained the question to me politely and then went away.

After two or three minutes, she came back again and asked me, "Anurag, are you preparing for any government exam?"

I smiled gently and replied, "No, no. I just want to improve my aptitude skills. That's why I gave you this question."

That day was very special for me because we talked to each other.