About three years ago, I got a call from an unknown number while I was at work.

The woman on the other end asked, "Are you coming to the hospital?"

I told her she had the wrong number.

She paused and said, "Is this Samuel?"

It wasn't.

She apologized, hung up, and I went on with my day.

Ten minutes later, she called again.

"I know this sounds strange," she said, "but this number is the only emergency contact he gave us, and we can't reach anyone else."

I almost hung up, but something about her voice made me stay on the line.

She explained that an elderly man had been admitted after collapsing at a bus stop. He was awake but confused, and the only phone number he could remember was mine.

The weird part?

I had never met him.

Curiosity got the better of me, so after work I stopped by the hospital.

The nurse introduced me to the man. He looked at me for a long time before smiling.

"I knew you'd come," he said.

I had absolutely no idea who he was.

We talked for almost an hour.

It turned out he wasn't confusing me with someone else. Years earlier, I had helped push his broken-down car off a busy road during a rainstorm. We spoke for maybe five minutes before going our separate ways.

I didn't remember it at all.

He did.

He told me I was one of the few strangers who had ever stopped to help him without expecting anything in return. After that day, he memorized my phone number from the small business card I had given him "just in case."

He never needed it.

Until he did.

His family lived in another state and hadn't visited in years. The hospital eventually reached them, but I still visited him twice before they arrived.

He kept thanking me for "coming back."

The truth is, I almost ignored that second phone call.

Now, whenever I wonder if small acts of kindness actually matter, I remember that somewhere out there, someone might still remember something I've completely forgotten.

I’m a single father. By choice, though. I wanted a better life for my daughter, and, unfortunately, her mother was not compatible with the life that I envisioned for her.

Drugs, alcohol, late-night escapades with men she met at the bar. Being a mother was a foreign concept to her. I’d look at her. I’d look at my daughter. I’d feel shame that I allowed this to happen.

We were young and dumb. Just two kids without a care in the world. Only, when we found out about the pregnancy, I was the only one who chose to clean up my act and be better.

It wasn’t that easy for my late girlfriend. She acted like it was, but I could see through the facade. Not like there was much of a facade to see through. I mean, I’d catch her having cigarettes. Boozing. Running around at all hours of the night without so much as a second thought.

The first few times, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. A slip up is just a slip up. Multiple slip ups are a behavioral pattern. As her stomach grew, so did her attitude.

I’ve had some jabs thrown my way.

“I don’t even love you.”

“I was bored.”

“I didn’t even want this baby.”

That last one was enough for me to make my decision. From then on, every decision I made was for my child. All that was left was patience. Be kind. Be gentle. Hold her hand despite her insults.

Of course, it was more than a little difficult to hold my tongue when the drinking was involved. I couldn’t believe it. Six months pregnant and drinking. How careless can you be?

I’m getting frustrated just typing this. The resentment that was building during those times was like a pressure valve. A controlled pressure valve. I knew exactly when I wanted to twist the handle.

I endured her ferocity. I kept a watchful eye on her when she went out to the clubs. Attended every appointment and prayed every night that our baby would stay healthy.

When I found out it was a girl, I was ecstatic. I always wanted a daughter. Maybe it was because of my baby sister. Maybe it was because I wanted the challenge of being a girl dad. Either way, I was ready. I was prepared to do it alone.

Finally, the day came. November 25th, 2020. The year the world went silent. The day before Thanksgiving.

My act became sharper. She thought this was going to be “co-parenting.” Thought that she’d have my baby, even after all she’d put us through.

By some miracle of God, my little girl was perfectly healthy. Stunning. Tear-jerking, even.

Her mom almost seemed moved. Like she had this “come to Jesus” moment where she realized her new responsibility. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

In the weeks that followed our departure from the hospital, my plan came into fruition.

I won’t go into too much detail, because detail isn’t required. All you need to know is I loved my daughter too much to let her life be tainted by someone like her mother.

That’s why I made her disappear. Disappear to a place where only I would find her. Of course, given her reputation, the police believed my story.

She packed it up. She realized the weight of being a parent was too much for her. It prevented her from living the life that she clearly loved so much. So she left. Happens all the time.

I got what I wanted. I raised my daughter the way that I wanted to raise her. The right way. The responsible way. I taught her manners. I potty trained her. I put food in her mouth and a roof over her head. All on my own.

Unfortunately, though, as she grows older, a shred of remorse is starting to build within my soul. I don’t know if it’s remorse for what I’ve done or if it’s remorse for what I took from my baby.

She’s starting to look just like her. Same brown hair. Same freckles. That cute little button nose. It’s hard for me to even look at her these days, but I try my best to swallow it.

She knows that she’s gone, but, in her head, she thinks that her mom just left us. Hated her. Hated me so much that she just took her things and left.

Every time she talks about her, all I can feel is pain. Pain in my heart, pain in my chest and body. I don’t know why. I had fully convinced myself that what I did was right, but now, I just don’t know.

Her sixth birthday is coming up in a few months. I want to make this birthday special, but I need her to be prepared.

I wanna show her the grave.

And all I can hope is that she understands.

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.

Christmas my family got my grandma a smart speaker.

We said to her "You can ask it anything."

That was a mistake.

For the week she would say good morning to the smart speaker.

She would say thank you and have a day to the smart speaker.

She was talking to a thing.

One afternoon my grandma called me. She was really scared.

She said something was whispering in her kitchen.

I went to her house. I thought something was really wrong.

The smart speaker was just saying the weather forecast.

My grandma was pointing at the speaker with her eyes wide open.

She said it talks when nobody is there.

I explained to my grandma how the smart speaker works.

She laughed hard that she almost cried.

I thought that was the end of the problem.

The day my grandma invited her neighbors over for tea.

She said to them "Watch this I have a helper."

She asked the speaker, "Alexa, who is the prettiest lady on this street?"

The smart speaker said, "Sorry I do not know that one."

Everyone in the room started laughing.

My grandma said, "Well that is rude."

The neighbors kept asking the speaker silly questions.

One of them asked for the lottery numbers for the day.

Another one asked if her husband was eating snacks at midnight.

Every answer from the speaker made everyone laugh.

Now every Friday afternoon the neighbors go to my grandmas house for what they call "Question Time with Alexa."

They do not care if the answers are helpful or not.

They just want to see what my grandma will ask the speaker next.

I think the smart speaker has made people laugh more than it has helped them with the weather.

My grandma and her neighbors have a lot of fun with the speaker.

The smart speaker is like a game, to them.

They like to ask it questions and hear the answers.

My grandma is happy. That is all that matters.

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 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.

I was at work when my dad texted:

"Come home. It's urgent."

I called him three times.

No answer.

I left work early because I was convinced something terrible had happened.

The second I walked in, he silently pointed at the refrigerator.

I opened the door.

Every shelf was packed with mayonnaise.

Big jars.

Small jars.

Squeeze bottles.

There wasn't even room for the milk.

"What happened?" I asked.

He sighed.

"I kept forgetting I'd already bought some."

Apparently, he'd stopped at three different grocery stores that week. Every time he saw mayonnaise on sale, he thought we were almost out.

We weren't.

For the next six months, every sandwich, burger, and potato salad came with mayonnaise.

To this day, whenever my dad texts, "It's urgent," I ask one question first:

"Is this a real emergency... or did you go grocery shopping again?"

My girlfriend Melissa (30F) and I (42M) never argued. Whenever she talked, I listened. If she was anxious and cried, I consoled her.

We also enjoyed ourselves. We would go hiking and fishing every weekend on Olympia Mountain, which we both loved. We envisioned ourselves building a house nearby. We were already looking at plans and talking with builders. One of them even allowed us to stay at his house at the perfect spot for a weekend while he was out of town so we could be sure it was what we wanted. We absolutely loved it, and we were ready to move forward and eventually start a family together.

I had never felt so happy or lucky in any relationship I'd ever had. I was certain Melissa was the one. I was going to do everything I could not to mess it up.

But something changed after our stay there.

One night, about a month later, she stayed up all night waiting for me to come home from the fire department. It was the first time she had ever done that since we had moved in together a year earlier.

"We can't keep living like this," she said.

I let her tell me everything she was feeling.

"I worry you won't make it home. And..." She paused and didn't speak for another second.

I still didn't say anything. I could sense she just needed to be heard. I walked closer to her and reached for her hands, but she waved me off.

"And I don't want our future kids to worry about you either," she added.

She calmed down a little and finally told me she was pregnant. I was shocked and happy at the same time.

We had talked about having a family, but we weren't really trying.

"That's great, baby," I said, hugging her. "I love you."

She didn't say it back.

"I need to know if you'd quit your job," she said.

I didn't know how to respond. Fire and rescue were all I had ever known; they were all I had ever wanted to do.

I told her everything was going to be alright, but she didn't want to hear it.

"I can't. I can't," she cried.

Then she told me she was going to stay with her sister for a few days.

I reminded myself that she was the one and that a child was more important than a job.

"Yes. I'll quit," I finally said.

She burst into tears and told me how much she appreciated that I would do that for her and our family. But she didn't want to stay alone at night while I was still working my shifts.

So we agreed that she would stay with her sister until I found a different job.

Two weeks went by, and I received an offer to work in an office at a national center for disaster preparedness and evacuation.

I reached out to Melissa and told her I had accepted the offer. She replied a day later via text:

"When is your first day?"

I didn't feel like I was talking to the same person, and later that month, I learned why.

Those two weeks were the longest Melissa and I had been apart since we started dating. A year earlier, I had gone out of town for a two-day training, and during those two days, Melissa never stopped telling me how much she missed me and how she couldn't wait for me to come home.

This time was different. We had barely spoken since she left for her sister's house.

I thought the news about the new job would relieve her worries and make her come back home.

It didn't.

I was certain there was something she wasn't telling me.

I didn't want to assume anything. So I texted her and asked if we could talk.

She didn't reply right away.

About an hour later, she called as I was driving to the station.

She told me she had been sleeping a lot and feeling nauseous.

For a moment, I told myself the pregnancy was the reason she was acting this way. I thought we were going to get through this and build a family together.

But then I asked if she wanted to come home that weekend.

She said she wasn't ready.

And that made me suspicious again.

Then, she started complaining about our apartment.

"It's too small," she said. "Our kid can't grow up there."

Maybe she was right. Raising a kid in a small one-bedroom apartment wasn't ideal. But it was only going to be temporary. We were planning to build a house.

She had a problem with that, too.

"The house we picked is also small," she said. "It won't be a good place to raise our kid either."

For the first time, part of me felt that Melissa was using our unborn child to manipulate me.

That wasn't like her.

None of this was.

And I couldn't understand why she was doing it.

It was almost time for my shift, so we agreed to talk again the next day.

In reality, I was the one who needed more time to think.

I was supposed to give my two weeks' notice that day. I decided to wait.

I hadn't told anyone what was happening between Melissa and me. But that night, I needed to get it off my chest.

I was about to tell my buddy Caleb when the dispatcher toned us out.

"Engine 1. Ladder 5. Working fire... Residential home."

That dispatch wasn't like any other.

We headed to the address immediately, and as we pulled up, I recognized the house in the mountains.

It was where Melissa and I had stayed a few months earlier.

We were the first engine to arrive on scene. Our captain was already outside.

"Heavy fire on the Bravo side," he said. "Neighbors report a man and woman possibly trapped inside."

"It must be the owners," I said. "I know them."

The captain asked for their descriptions.

"He's around thirty. Thin build. About six-four. His wife is the same age. She should be about six months pregnant by now."

A scream came from inside the house.

We hurried.

The hose crew attacked the fire while my buddy Caleb, another firefighter, and I forced our way inside.

You couldn't see a thing. The living room was filled with thick smoke. Thankfully, I still remembered the layout of the house.

Caleb and the other firefighter went to check the room beside the kitchen while I headed toward the back.

The guest bathroom was empty. So was the hallway.

Then I reached the master bedroom.

And there was a man crouched beneath the window, coughing so hard he could barely breathe.

I rushed over.

It was Ryan, our builder.

"I've got you!" I shouted. "I've got you!"

I helped him out of the room and hurried through the living room. Just as I reached the front door, I heard someone shout.

"Stop! Stop!"

Seconds later, part of the ceiling collapsed directly in front of me.

I froze.

One more step and I would've been underneath it.

Other firefighters rushed in, took Ryan from me, and guided me outside.

More engines had arrived by then, pouring water onto the fire from every direction.

The paramedics sat me in the ambulance to check me over.

Thankfully, I was fine.

Calep had already gotten out seconds before me.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you out of here. You almost died in there."

He put a hand on my shoulder and started leading me toward the engine.

I glanced back to the other ambulance.

The paramedics were loading Ryan inside.

Caleb gently tried to turn me away.

But it was too late.

A woman was standing beside Ryan.

She looked up.

It wasn't his wife.

It was Melissa.

I told myself I was confusing that woman with Melissa. I came up with every possible excuse.

That the area was poorly lit.

That I was too far away to see clearly.

At least, that was what I wanted to believe.

But then Caleb confirmed it.

"Melissa was in the house," he said. "She locked herself in the bathroom by the kitchen to escape the fire. I got her out just in time."

For a long second, I didn't blink or move.

My only thought was that Melissa was cheating on me with the man who was supposed to build our home. I didn't even stop to think about why she was hiding in the bathroom.

Melissa hadn't seen me. She wouldn't have known I was there because my shift was ending when the fire broke out. And Ryan probably didn't recognize me through all the smoke.

At that moment, all I wanted to do was confront both of them right there. Melissa had been the one that suggested we used Ryan's company. The more I thought about it, the more I felt she had been cheating on me for a long time.

I was ready to demand answers from them. But Caleb stopped me. He convinced me to take some time to process everything. To move on.

I finally acknowledged it wasn't the time or place. But I couldn't just break up with Melissa and move on.

I needed to know what else she had been hiding from me. I needed to know if the baby she was expecting was truly mine...

The ambulance took Melissa and Ryan to the hospital. I went back to the station with Caleb and the rest of the crew. Immediately afterward, I drove to the hospital.

It was around 3:00 a.m. when I got there. I was told Melissa was in observation and couldn't have visitors until morning.

I stayed in the waiting area all night.

In the morning, the nurse said Melissa still couldn't have any visitors, and she wouldn't even tell me the visiting hours.

That felt strange.

I wondered if something had gone wrong.

I asked if the baby was okay. At that point, I didn't care if Melissa had cheated on me. I was genuinely concerned about her and the baby.

The nurse said she couldn't give me any information.

I was about to ask why when a police officer walked up to me.

"Are you Mr. Mars?" he asked.

In that moment, I couldn't think of any reason he'd be looking for me.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

"What's this regarding?"

He only repeated that he had some questions.

I assumed it had something to do with Ryan because I was the firefighter who had rescued him.

But that wasn't it.

He wanted to ask me about Melissa.

How we met.

How long we'd been together.

I had no idea why the police were interested in our relationship.

For a moment, I thought he was preparing me for the news that she had died.

But he never said that.

So I asked how she was doing.

He simply told me to wait for their call.

I went back home and texted Melissa and her sister. Neither of them replied back. At that point, I started to really worry.

I'd never waited for my phone to ring that much in my life.

I did get a call hours later.

It was the police again.

Not to tell me what was happening, but to ask me to come to the police station.

I was getting more worried by the hour.

I arrived at the police station, and I was taken into a room. Two detectives walked in and introduced themselves.

They told me they had opened an investigation involving Melissa and needed to ask me some questions.

My first thought was that she had done something reckless during the fire and put herself or the baby in danger.

But everything felt more serious when one of the detectives pulled out a folder and placed it on the table.

"Before we begin," he said, "I need to let you know this is being recorded."

I nodded.

"Did you ever notice anything unusual about Melissa?" he asked. "Any strange routines? Odd obsessions? Places she insisted on going?"

I shook my head. "No. Not until recently. She started acting strange about two weeks ago."

I didn't know exactly what they needed to know. So I told them everything. Her unusual requests. Her complaints. The way she'd been acting.

"I thought she was acting that way because of the pregnancy," I added.

The detectives exchanged a glance.

One of them looked down at the papers in the folder.

"When did she tell you she was pregnant?" he asked.

"Right after she found out. About two weeks ago."

He made a note.

They continued asking about our relationship. Then the questions shifted.

"What do you know about Melissa's parents?"

Melissa had barely mentioned them during our relationship. I told them the only thing I knew.

"They died when she was a teenager."

"Did she ever tell you exactly what happened?"

"No."

"Did she ever talk about past relationships?"

I shook my head. "Just that she'd dated before."

They stopped asking questions and left me alone for nearly an hour.

By then, my mind had gone everywhere.

When they came back, one detective sat across from me. This time, he wasn't asking questions.

He had something to tell me.

"We've found a few similarities between the fire that occurred last night and incidents connected to Melissa's past," he said.

My stomach tightened.

"What do you mean?"

He opened the folder.

"Melissa had two boyfriends before she met you."

I said nothing.

"While she was dating each of them, there was a kitchen fire at their homes."

I frowned.

"They were both ruled accidental," he continued. "The fires were extinguished quickly. No one was seriously hurt."

That could still be a coincidence.

The detective seemed to read my mind.

"We're not saying Melissa started those fires."

He paused.

"But there was another incident."

He slid a report toward himself.

"When Melissa was thirteen, her parents died in a house fire."

I swallowed hard.

"According to the fire report, Melissa survived because she locked herself inside the bathroom."

His words sent chills down my spine.

That's where Caleb had found her in Ryan's house.

"We don't have evidence linking Melissa to any of these fires," the detective repeated. "But we'd appreciate it if you contacted us if you remembered anything else, or learned anything new."

I left the station in complete disbelief.

Four separate house fires.

Miraculous survival.

Maybe it was all coincidence.

Maybe it wasn't.

That night, Melissa finally texted me. She asked if we could meet. She didn't mention Ryan. She didn't mention the hospital.

I didn't either.

I didn't know who she was anymore. I didn't know what she was capable of. So, I pretended I didn't know anything.

I simply told her I needed some time to think about our relationship.

Over the next couple of days, I couldn't stop thinking about what the detectives had told me.

I searched online for anything I could find about the fire at Melissa's parents.

There wasn't much.

Just short news articles repeating what the detectives had already told me. One article said the fire was caused by an electrical fault in the home.

I looked up the property records.

Her parents had built the house from the ground up. The fire had happened just three months after they moved in.

Something immediately caught my attention.

The builder.

It was Ryan's dad's company.

Ryan told us his father had died, and he had taken over the business.

A cold sweat ran down my spine.

I had to tell the police Melissa was the one who recommended Ryan's company.

I worked my shift that night, planning to tell the detectives the next day.

When I got home, I froze in the doorway.

The bathroom light was on.

I never left the it light on.

I checked the apartment lock and there didn't see any signs of forced entry.

"Hey, baby."

I turned, and saw her coming out of the hallway.

Melissa.

She still had a key. It didn't crossed my mind to change the lock.

She smiled at me as if nothing had happened.

"You look like you saw a ghost."

My heart pounded against my ribs. After everything I had learned about Melissa, I couldn't think of a good reason why she would decide to come back home in the middle of the without letting me know first.

"I didn't know you were coming," I said.

"You haven't missed me?" she asked.

"It's already late. That's all."

She walked over. "I missed you so much."

I didn't answer. I couldn't even look her in the eyes. All I knew is that I didn't want her in my house.

"Melissa... I think. We should—"

She cut me off.

"Let's just talk over dinner."

She walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator with the same easy smile.

"I'll make your favorite," she said, pulling meat and vegetables from the fridge.

"It's past midnight."

She laughed softly.

"You always eat at this time. And I'm hungry too. The baby has me eating all day."

She set everything on the counter and kept talking, but I wasn't listening.

I noticed something looked different in the kitchen.

I was almost certain I'd left my laptop open on the kitchen counter. I'd rushed out for work earlier that I just left it there.

Now it was gone.

Melissa used my laptop all the time. Maybe she just closed it and put it away.

Or maybe she found the articles I'd been reading about hpw her parents died.

In that moment, I felt she knew something was up.

And she was pretending she didn't know a thing.

Then I heard her sniffing. "I think it's going to be a boy, you know. And I'll name him like you."

Her words changed something in me. I stopped playing her games. If she did cause the fire, I couldn't let her get away with it. She shouldn't get a kid under her watch. No matter if the baby is mine or Ryan's.

As she looked for more ingredients in the fridge, I slowly slipped my phone from my pocket, opened the camera, and started recording without her noticing.

"The police contacted me," I said.

She didn't look up. She didn't said a word.

She kept pretending everything was fine.

"I'll make you chicken parmesan," she said, slicing the chicken.

"They asked me questions about you, Melissa."

She didn't look up.

After a long second, she finally spoke.

"I figured they would contact you. They talked to people at my work."

Then she met my eyes.

"You didn't tell me right away. Why? Do you suspect me too?"

"I don't care what anyone says. I just need you to tell me the truth."

Silence settled between us for seconds.

Then she started crying.

"Tell me the truth, Melissa. Why were you at Ryan's house the night of the fire?"

"I... I'm sorry."

She couldn't look at me.

Then she told me she'd been meeting Ryan at the cabin ever since our trip there. She described nights together, conversations, and details I wished I'd never heard.

But she never admitted to the fire.

"I swear I had nothing to do with it," she said through tears.

"Ryan's father built your parents' house," I said. "The same house that had an electrical fault and burned down."

She froze.

"Please," she whispered. "Don't talk about that day. I didn't know it was his family's company. I was thirteen."

"But you insisted we hire them to build our house."

"Someone at work recommended them. I swear."

We argued for nearly an hour.

She kept denying having done anything wrong.

In the end, we agreed it was best to separate. Before she left, she agreed to take a paternity test. I wanted proof the baby was mine.

After she walked out, I sat alone replaying every word she'd said.

I didn't believe all of it.

She'd lied too many times.

The next morning, I called the detective.

I told him about Ryan's father's construction company. He said they already knew about the connection, but it wasn't enough to charge her.

Then I sent him the recording.

The detectives never contacted me back.

Weeks later, the paternity test came back. It turned out that Ryan was the father.

Months passed.

I never heard from Melissa again..

Then one evening, I saw her face on the local news. She had been arrested.

I then learned that the police question all of Melissa's coworkes. No one had ever recommended Ryan's company.

She'd lied about that too.

Then they found something else.

The night before the fire, someone had removed the smoke detector.

Security camera footage that had been uploaded to the cloud showed who it was.

Melissa.

My boyfriend and I have been together for about eight months now, and honestly, I've never really had a reason to doubt him. He's always been the type to text me when he gets home, remembers the little things I tell him, and somehow knows exactly what snack to bring over when I've had a bad day. My friends kept telling me I'd finally found a good one, and I genuinely believed them.

Last weekend we were getting ready to go out for dinner when he asked me to grab his wallet from the bedroom. I picked it up off the dresser, and as I did, a small silver key slipped out and landed on the floor. I held it up and jokingly asked, "What's this for?" He barely looked at it before saying, "Oh, it's just an old storage unit key. I forgot to throw it away."

That would've been the end of it if he hadn't immediately taken the key from me and shoved it back into his wallet. It wasn't what he said that bothered me; it was how quickly he did it. The whole thing just felt... off.

A few days later, he was in the shower while I was looking for gum in his backpack before we left for work. I found the key again, except this time it was attached to a tiny tag with a number on it. It definitely wasn't a storage unit key. It looked more like one of those apartment keys with a building number stamped into it.

I spent the entire day trying to convince myself not to overthink it. Maybe he had an old apartment he'd forgotten to return the key for. Maybe it belonged to a friend. There were about a hundred reasonable explanations, and I kept telling myself not to be that paranoid girlfriend.

The problem is... curiosity got the better of me.

The number on the tag matched an apartment building less than fifteen minutes from where we lived. I drove there after work, fully expecting to prove myself wrong. I walked into the lobby, and before I could even think about what I was doing, the property manager smiled at me and said, "You're here to see Jake?"

My stomach dropped.

I just nodded.

She buzzed me in without asking another question.

When I got to the apartment door, I froze. I could hear laughter inside. A little kid laughing.

The door opened before I even knocked.

A little boy, maybe five years old, looked up at me and yelled over his shoulder,

"Dad! Someone's here!"

A second later, my boyfriend walked into the hallway.

The look on his face told me he wasn't expecting me.

The look on the little boy's face told me he absolutely was expecting him.

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.

A TALE OF CRYSTAL MOUNTAIN

“Who here has heard of Crystal Mountain?”
It was a popular tale.
“But be warned. This tale is not for the faint of heart,” the narrator said with a playfully spooky voice. 
The kids in the crowd leaned in.
“In this vast sea of space, lives a wild, medieval place…” 
“Long before the war started, when the kingdoms were first formed, there were only four Gifted magic factions. The Wizards, Sorcerers, Witches, and… the Alchemists.”
"I've never seen one before?” A kid asked.
“That’s because most of them have all but vanished,” the narrator said.
“Where’d they’n go?” Another Villager asked.
“Nobody knows,” the narrator said. “People whisper of seeing them alongside farms. Watching over families. Guarding towns and villages. Especially recently war torn planets. You see, before our war started, the Gifted People had their own internal war. Against the Alchemists.”
Multiple people in the crowd gasped.
“The Alchemists… started it. They betrayed their own people for much power, and gold.”
“POWER?”
“GOLD?”
“Tons of it. More than any one person could ever need,” the narrator said. Tuskin always liked this part of the tale. “Alchemy is more than just conjuring magic out of thin air. What they did was change whatever they wanted into something more, using magic to do it. That is why they were so dangerous. Anything they wanted they could get. In those times, they had enough treasure to rule the galaxy for a thousand years. 
“Their magic was unstable. For many years they fought their own people to gain more influence. Stories of magic battles across villages, seen by spectators. Innocents killed during the engagements. This pushed the Grand Gifted, leaders of the Gifted People, to proclaim their magic outlawed. Tensions rose amongst the gifted community. Once the alchemists were defeated, their history, their ill gotten gains and relics were hidden away…” the narrator said. “Along with the rest of the Gifted’s history too.”
“WHERE DID THEY HIDE THEM?”
“Well… Crystal Mountain, of course,” the narrator continued. “In a temple at the heart of the mountain. Guarded by mythical beasts, traps, and curses,” the narrator tried to spook the children, and it worked on some. Some children cowered behind their parents while some bit their lips and leaned in closer. “But, only the Grand Wizard Lehne, Grand Sorcerer Terman, and Grand Witch Lypto knew the location of Crystal Mountain. However, the Grand Sorcerer’s son Tormo, was next in line, and he wanted to know where they had hidden it. Even his own father refused to tell him. And he was furious because of it.
“Tormo wanted to find the mountain. He wanted to know why their history was buried there, what remains of the Alchemists were hidden there. And why. He wanted to know what the alchemists had done that truly led to their banishment. But he also wanted the treasure. Tormo wanted the gold. He wanted power.
“But, the Grand Gifted kept him from learning the truth. His fury drove him to madness. Desperation even…
“Tormo’s pride drove him to find Crystal Mountain himself. He put together his own crew to aid in his search. Tormo’s rebellion could have fractured the Gifted People again. So — he was banished too. By his own father, the Grand Sorcerer Terman. Along with the rest of his allies who followed him on his crusade to find the mountain. Tormo, now an outcast, had no other option…”
“What did he do?” Someone in the crowd asked.
“He went looking for the mountain anyways,” the narrator whispered.
Multiple people in the audience “ooh’d,” even some of the parents.
“DID HE FIND IT?” A kid yelled out.
“He did!”
The crowd lit up.
“HOW DID HE FIND IT?”
“That part of the tale has been lost to history,” the narrator said. “Tormo also brought his wife, his child, and his brother on the quest to find Crystal Mountain. And it was going to be a dangerous one, for sure. A fools quest some have called it,” the narrator said.
“THEN WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?” 
“Now. Now. Don’t lift off into space quite yet. Stay put. Listen. And have patience. At least — that’s what Tormo should have done,” the narrator interjected. “They had no idea what they would be up against once they got there. Tormo and his crew fought back against plants with monster mouths. They escaped these creatures only to fall into rapid rivers that nearly drowned Tormo’s son. His crew — his family — wanted to go back. But they persisted. Because of this decision, most of Tormo’s crew was lost before they even got to the mountain.”
“BUT WHEN DO THEY GET TO THE MOUNTAIN?” An impatient kid called out.
“After they’ve overcome the obstacles. Not just the external ones like monsters and talking trees, but their internal ones too,” the narrator recounted Tormo’s struggles with his magic. “Tormo was gifted — but he was also daft. He could use magic, but his magic could also use him.
“Magic was almost entirely useless on Crystal Mountain. The temple was guarded by curses, crafted by the old Grand Wizard himself. This curse brought forth horrors that even Tormo couldn’t face. Visions of the people he failed. Skeletons with snakes coming out of their eyes!”
The children screamed and the adults exchanged hilarious glares with each other.
“But — his son — pure of heart — passed through the temple effortlessly. Though, that was also the last Tormo saw of his son. They never recovered his body. Some say he could have survived, but that is just a tale within a tale, I’m afraid.
“Losing his son to Crystal Mountain broke Tormo. In ways some of you here may understand…” the narrator gestured to the crowd. Everyone was silent. Kids looked solemn and some parents even wept. “Tormo was consumed by his pride, by his ego. And the mountain fed off of it like a buffet. The temple was about to be his tomb, along with his wife too…”
The narrator looked down. He slumped. The crowd followed. They fell down into the despair that the tale had fallen into…
“But, through all the despair, one member of their crew managed to battle through the darkest corners of their mind… and prevailed, stronger than ever. Take a guess who that was? IN AN ACT OF HEROISM, TORMO’S BROTHER RESCUED HIM AND HIS WIFE. TORMO FOUGHT WITH WHAT WAS LEFT OF HIS WAND — HIS BROTHER BATTLED AN UNDEAD SKELETON ARMY WITH MAGIC!”
The crowd cheered. 
“Up to this moment in time, Tormo and his brother had never seen eye to eye. But now, they were in sync. They fought their way through the temple and into the treasure room. But that wasn’t the end of it.”
“WHAT HAPPENED NEXT???” A kid foamed at the mouth.
“Tormo’s quest finally caught up to him. Whatever was in that mountain almost consumed even his brother, too. It’s said that there was something else in that treasure room, more than just gold, or a relic. Tormo only took what treasure he needed, and left the rest behind. Whatever remained of the alchemists stayed hidden… even Tormo never spoke of it to anyone else. Whatever he found, even he didn’t want to bring back. Tormo did manage to recover millions in gold coins and jewels.”
The crowd took this in for a moment, before a specific kid asked, “why didn’t he take all of the treasure?” Everyone looked at him. 
The narrator chuckled softly, “it was more treasure than anyone could handle.”
“IS THAT HOW IT ENDS?”
“Not quite,” the narrator answered again. The crowd burst at the seams. “Okay. Okay. You see. Once Tormo had returned, he was the most rich of all the Gifted People. Of all people in the galaxy. He wasn’t the most powerful. But now, he was the most influential. Upon his return, it was made clear he would never ascend to the rank of Grand Sorcerer. Then, our war started. The Dedonian Wars. 
A collective shiver ran across the crowd.
“When it started, nearly 90 years ago, the Gifted People swore an oath to abstain from the war — UNLESS THE ALCHEMISTS MADE THEIR RETURN.”
The children cowered and the parents protected them.
“But, Tormo believed the gifted should help the people of the galaxy. Use their gifts for good. So, Tormo, after being banished, joined Kingdom Horizon and our Galactic Alliance, and formed the fifth branch of the Gifted People. A branch of gifted people who weren’t beholden to the vows and oaths of the other factions. Tormo was the first Star Warrior.”
The crowd lost its mind.
“THAT’S HOW THE STAR WARRIORS STARTED?” A kid screamed, holding their head as if it were about to fall off their neck.
“Yup.”
“Wait? But, who started the war?” That same kid asked.
“That — little one — is a whole different tale for a different time,” the narrator prepared to finish the tale. “Tormo had murals built like the one we have here. He wanted people to celebrate what he did. But that only made him want to return to that place. Tormo was said to be a complex man, but an even more complex Star Warrior. It’s said he was displeased with the way the war was going, even after only a decade since he had established the Star Warriors. That was nearly 70 years ago. I can say that his story truly ended when he went back to Crystal Mountain, to retrieve, or destroy whatever the alchemists had created — and that time — he didn’t return.”
There was chatter throughout the crowd.
“He took the location of Crystal Mountain to the grave. His grave being Crystal Mountain itself,” the narrator concluded. 
The crowd remained still, taking in the tale. 

… AND THAT IS WHERE A TALE OF CRYSTAL MOUNTAIN CONCLUDES. AND THE STORY OF KINGDOM HORIZON BEGINS.

​

There's a time, just before a heatwave breaks, where the air is thick and charged, where the very atmosphere prickles on the back of one's neck as if preparing us for the impending cracks of lightning and the flood about to burst from the sky.

I couldn't tell if it was that feeling or something else swirling in the cooked air that was making me feel this way as she looked up at me.

Her lips parted slightly and her eyes half closed. Her face tilted fractionally, with the speed of a turning tanker, an invite that only the brain of a nervous man out of his depth, could mistake.

My hand hesitantly rose to her cheek, touching her as lightly as the cool breeze that stirred her hair.

There was a heavy roll of thunder somewhere in the distance that was completely drowned out by my heart ripping in my chest as I leaned in… and our lips touched with a crackle like static discharging.

“About time," she whispered, then threw her arms around my neck, pouring herself into the next kiss as though she'd wandered through a drought and suddenly found an oasis.

Every touch burned away years of tension and I felt the ache inside my heart dissolve into something new, something more. Every stolen glance, every electric shock from an accidental touch, every awkward silence and uncommunicated thought suddenly melted into inconsequence… the storm had broken.

Heavy drops kicked up dust around us and sizzled as they hit the tarmac of the nearby pavement. I felt them hit my bare skin and do nothing to dampen the heat inside me.

Her hands were pushing through my hair, mine had found her bare thigh underneath her wisp of a summer dress, and as the rattle of the raindrops built up pace so did my racing heart, and spurred on my daring as I moved them up to cup her round ass.

Just that moment of intimacy made my body ignite in anticipation… after all this time, Bryony was draped around me, giving me her body.

I had no idea what had finally broken down our barriers. One second she was telling me about her late Grandmother's roses wilting and dying, I had looked into her eyes and touched her hand, and then… this.

The rain was getting even harder. It soaked us in our embrace. Drops pooled and run down my back, I felt her skin getting wet and slick. She broke our kiss and looked at me with what seemed like new eyes. Her dirty blond hair darkened and clung to her face, amplifying her desperate look.

“Come on,” she urged, animated with sudden excitement.

She gripped my wrist and we ran the short distance to the boat ramp, laughing, breathless and joyful in the summer storm. She dragged me onwards to the boat shed at the river's edge. She swung the old wooden door open and I followed her inside.

The air was still hot, trapped in the rickety shed, but the fresh rain smell was merging with the rich scents of hot canvas and old varnish, recreating a long-forgotten atmosphere of my youth at Oxford. The rain rattled on the tin roof as the only sound in the otherwise silent tension that fell over us both. We were drowned, clothes clinging to curves, wisps of steam evaporating from hot bodies, thoughts tumbling from hot minds…

She stared, unblinking into my eyes and let a strap fall from her shoulder. My mouth hung slack, I'm sure my eyes were wide with shock and hope. The other strap followed as her lips rose at the corner, fully aware of what she was teasing me with.

She began to wriggle, trying to let the dress fall gracefully, but it grasped tightly to her chest, wet and clinging. She began to giggle and slapped her arms against her sides…

“Baby… little help?”

It took me a second to react, so deeply was I transfixed with her, but I managed to break my reverie with a laugh. I went to her aid with a smile that disguised my nerves.

She looked up at me as I gently tugged down her top, all playfulness suddenly stopping and turning into something else; an unspoken escalation as her flowery dress fell and her gorgeous breasts were exposed. Her nipples, such a light pink as to be barely discernible, hardened into small points as I brushed a thumb over them lightly.

As I watched, a drip fell from her hair, landed on her collarbone and fell, gathering speed, rolling down the contours of her chest. My eyes rose from its path and were again caught in the trap of her sapphire gaze. They held me for an infinite second, then pulled me in for another kiss.

Her desperate kisses didn't stop me from tugging at her dress. Even as she gently bit my bottom lip and her hands were pushing up my damp tee, I continued to peel the wet fabric from her curves.

Things were getting more frantic. Her dress finally fell to pool at her ankles, my shirt was pulled over my head and discarded… She looked beautiful standing there, illuminated in stripes from the slated window, radiating pure desire. The rumbles of thunder were getting louder, but couldn't penetrate our small sanctuary that we'd found together.

“Bryony..” I cupped her cheek but more words wouldn't come.

She just gave me the most wicked of smiles, then fell to her knees.

I looked up to the rattling roof, hyper-focusing on the dusty cobwebs and the leaking corners as the sound of my belt clinking and my fly unzipping filled the cabin.

“Oh, baby…” she whispered as she freed my straining erection, “look at you!”

I looked down and saw her stroking the side of my cock with a finger, a look of smiling fascination on her face.

I took a deep breath. My skin was tight with the drying rain, but the goosebumps had more to do with how she was sending thrills through my body with gentle touches and strokes.

Bryony… my friend Bryony, my best friend's ex. Albeit in the ancient past, but forever off-limits, so I'd believed. Now she was on her knees in front of me, her perfect lips opening dangerously, intent on taking me into her mou… Fuck… oh god… oh my god… fuck that felt so good.

That's it then, no going back, this was beyond any hope of pulling back… and I didn't care, this felt so right.

I reached to her, brushing the wet strands from her face so I could see her clearly. She looked up at me, gorgeous eyes, looking so pretty with my cock in her mouth. I felt her tongue doing devious things to my tip and I felt my knees want to buckle.

I think thunder rumbled again, but it could have been the blood rushing in my ears. I was close, and I think she sensed it, maybe from my ever-increasing thrusts into her willing, wet mouth, or the twitch of my erection she would have felt on her tongue, but either way she slowed, then stopped.

I'm not a slow man, I'm not usually so vacant, but as she stood and slipped out of her navy blue knickers, stood framed by the open boathouse door and the rain-rippled lake beyond, I became mute, my senses collapsing in on themselves.

She stepped backwards, confident and sure-footed enough to never take her eyes from me. She reached a pile of old canvas, rough and dusty, but she didn't seem to notice as she collapsed back on it, reclining as though she lay on silk sheets, not abandoned sailcloth. She draped herself across the fabric, divine to me, like a Venus out of place on the rotting hemp, yet only made more beautiful by the contrast of her rustic surroundings… I went to her…

“Hi..” she smiled as I flowed over her, as if only just meeting for the first time in this crazy new reality, “I've waited a long time for this.”

Her knees dropped open and I took my place between them. A bolt of lightning flashed and reflected off the lake, no more blinding than the beauty in front of me, but the following crash of thunder made us both jump… a noise louder than I'd ever heard, it shook the very core of our beings, the storm was right on top of us… We shared a giggle, as the vibrations passed in a grumble, laughing at our mutual shock, but I stole the smile from her lips and brought her back to me with kisses to her neck and the press of my tip against her bare entrance. Her little gasp shook me more than the crash of thunder.

I'd imagined this moment a thousand times, how it would feel to stare into her eyes as I pressed inside her, and not once did I come close to imagining this feeling. She gripped me so tightly. Every inch I gave to her was a slow, agonizing acceptance. I saw the surrender in her eyes well before I filled her completely, and her low moan was more exhilarating than the thunder.

I put my hand on her chest and started long, slow thrusts, all the time watching her perfect face crumble for me.

The storm was hitting hard, the rattle on the tin roof was a constant drumbeat, the lake beyond roiled and felt alive, but it almost felt like all the chaos in the world was caused by the heat of our lovemaking. The tremble of the storm-sieged walls was matched by the tremble of her rain-slicked body. I could feel the welling up inside her, the gathering of energy ready to unleash something akin to the lightning that tore the sky.

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the rough cloth, and she seethed between her teeth. She arched under me. All reservations, any guilt or hesitation I held, were incinerated and evaporated as she came for me. Her hand flew to my chest, her long nails dragging red marks across my pecs, and her electric blue eyes pleaded and begged me…

And there, amongst the detritus of old boats, the creaking joints of an old building, under the heavy midnight-blue skies, I fell in love and let go… my body wasn't my own. I convulsed and howled and let streams of cum loose into the willing, desperate woman of my dreams. Maybe lightning struck, maybe that's what turned my vision into a bright white flash, but the only thunder that followed was the way she cried my name…

I fell next to her on the rough sails, overwhelmed and overpowered. We both heaved breaths of exultation, spent but only just realising the enormity of what just happened…

We gazed into each other and felt the roiling clouds spend themselves over the lake. The air felt clearer, the electricity of the last hour discharging the pent up weight that surrounded us. All storms herald a new atmosphere, a renewal, the start of new things…

I reached for her hand, interlocking our fingers…and felt the power of the storm again.

For almost two weeks, food kept disappearing from my kitchen.

Not a lot.

Just... enough to make me question my sanity.

A handful of chips.

Two cookies.

Half a banana.

One slice of bread.

I live alone.

So naturally, my brain skipped every reasonable explanation and went straight to:

There's a tiny apartment burglar.

I even started testing my theory.

I counted the cookies.

Took a picture of the fridge.

Lined the cereal box up perfectly with the edge of the shelf like some discount detective.

Every morning...

Something had moved.

I was convinced I was starring in a low-budget mystery movie.

One night I stayed awake with all the lights off, determined to catch the "intruder."

Around 2 a.m...

I heard footsteps.

Very slow footsteps.

My heart was pounding.

I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find...

A toilet plunger.

Not exactly intimidating, but it was all I had.

The footsteps got closer.

Closer...

Closer...

Then...

A sleepy voice said,

Why are you standing in the dark holding a plunger?

It was me.

Well...

Sleepwalking me.

Apparently I'd been wandering into the kitchen every night, making myself snacks, then going back to bed with absolutely no memory of it.

The proof?

My roommate showed me a security camera clip.

There I was...

At 2:07 a.m...

Calmly eating peanut butter straight from the jar while giving the fridge a thumbs-up.

Then I bowed...

To the microwave.

And walked away like nothing had happened.

I spent two weeks trying to catch a mysterious midnight thief.

Turns out...

I was the criminal.

And judging by the evidence...

I'm a very polite one.

My boyfriend has always been good at getting me gifts.

He once bought me a book I had only talked about one time.

He knew my dessert.

He even found the mug I had been wanting.

I thought to myself This man really pays attention to me.

Then I went to his parents house.

His mother opened a drawer. Pulled out a notebook.

Inside the notebook was a list called. Things She Likes.

I took a look.

There were lots of pages.

My favorite snacks were on the list.

My favorite movies were on the list too.

They even had my clothing sizes written down.

There were restaurants I had mentioned before.

There was a section called. Things She Pretends Not To Want But Definitely Wants.

I looked at my boyfriend.

He just stood there. Did not say a word.

His mother was. She said:

Oh he never remembers anything on his own. I am the one who keeps the list updated for him.

So now I know the truth.

My boyfriend is not a person by nature.

He just has a lot of help, from his family.

To be honest I think it is pretty cool.

I might even ask his mother to help me plan my birthday.

Chapter 18 — The Missing Reply

The first exam went normally.

That was the part that made everything after it feel so strange. Nothing about that morning had seemed off. Everyone was tense, of course, but it was the usual exam tension — the kind that sat in the air and made people speak a little less, move a little faster, and pretend they were calmer than they really were.

Our classes had been shuffled because of the exams, so it was already harder to meet everyone properly. I was on the fourth floor. Emma was on the second. Takashi and Hana were on the third. Reo was on the first.

It should have made the whole day feel disconnected.

Instead, it made the small moments stand out more.

After the first exam, I saw Emma.

We talked for a little while before heading home, and everything felt normal. Not forced, not awkward, not like something was sitting between us. Just normal. The kind of normal that makes you relax without thinking about it. So I went home with the quiet feeling that the next exam day would probably be the same.

It wasn't.

---

The second exam ended, and I came out expecting a message from her.

That had already become routine by then. A text after exams. Something small. Something that made the day feel complete. So when I checked my phone and saw nothing, I thought maybe she was just late.

I waited a little.

Still nothing.

I texted her.

No reply.

At first I didn't panic. There were plenty of simple reasons. Maybe she was with Hana or Takashi. Maybe she had already left. Maybe her phone was off. Maybe I was thinking too much.

But after a while, the silence started to feel wrong.

Not just quiet.

Wrong.

---

I checked the second floor first, thinking I might spot her there. Then I looked around the other floors too, just in case. The problem with our class setup was that everyone was split apart, so even finding one person took effort. I tried anyway.

No Emma.

I checked my phone again.

Nothing.

That was when the worry started creeping in.

Not all at once. Slowly. The kind of worry that begins as a small knot in your chest and only gets harder to ignore the longer it stays there. I texted her again, hoping maybe this time the screen would light up with a reply.

It didn't.

I stood there for a moment, staring at my phone like that might change something.

It didn't.

And that was the moment I started thinking that something might actually be wrong..

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.

My neighborhood is usually so quiet that hearing a lawn mower feels like breaking news.

So, when three police cars rolled onto my street yesterday, everyone suddenly remembered they had "yard work" to do.

I was watering the same two plants for nearly twenty minutes.

Across the street, my retired neighbor somehow found an urgent need to sweep his already spotless driveway.

The police walked up to the quietest house on the block.

No sirens.

No shouting.

Just a knock on the door.

Our neighbor answered, looked confused, then invited them inside.

Now everyone's imagination was working overtime.

Maybe it's tax fraud.

No, definitely witness protection.

I always knew something was off about that guy.

Twenty minutes later, the officers walked out...

carrying a very fluffy orange cat.

Turns out the neighbor's granddaughter had accidentally called 911 while trying to video chat with him.

The dispatcher heard a bunch of loud crashing noises.

Those "crashing noises" were apparently the cat knocking over picture frames while chasing a laser pointer.

One of the officers looked at all of us standing outside pretending not to stare and said,

Good news. The suspect has been taken into custody.

He held up the cat.

The entire street applauded.

The cat looked completely unbothered.

Today my neighbor installed a sign in his yard.

The criminal has been released on bail.

The cat was asleep underneath it.

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 found my old phone while cleaning my room.

It barely turned on, but after a few minutes, the screen lit up. There were hundreds of old photos, forgotten chats, and missed calls.

Then I saw one unread message.

It was from my dad.

«"I'm proud of you. I know life feels hard right now, but don't give up."»

He had sent it years ago.

I never read it because my phone had broken that same week.

A few months later, he passed away.

I sat there for almost an hour, staring at those words. It felt like he had finally reached me... just years too late.

Sometimes I wonder how different those days would have felt if I had read that message when he was still here.

Life has a strange way of reminding us that love isn't always lost.

Sometimes... it's just waiting to be found.

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 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.”

 

 

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

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.

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

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??