I still remember the way my father used to sit on the floor with his patients, knee to knee, completely focused, as if the rest of the world had melted away. He wasn’t just treating their illnesses—he was listening, really listening. I must have been eight or nine when I first realized that some people walked in barely able to move, and left weeks later laughing, walking straight, glowing.

When I rushed out of the flat yesterday morning, I had no idea the universe had a sense of humor planned just for me. I was already ten minutes behind and barely managed to zip up my coat before hopping on my bike. It was one of those cold but sunny Madrid, Spain, mornings, and the streets were still half asleep. I pedaled like my life depended on it, weaving through traffic with the grace of a sleep-deprived flamingo.

When I got off the bus this evening, I already had that feeling — the kind that crawls under your skin before anything actually happens. I walked up the hill to my small apartment in Capão Redondo, São Paulo,  past the corner bar with the broken neon, and headed straight for the mailbox. There it was. A white envelope, heavy with finality.

I still tie my hair the same way my mother did—tightly, in a low bun at the nape of the neck. It keeps the heat off. When I was a girl, my mother would say, “If your mind is calm and your head is cool, you’ll live a long time.” I didn’t take it seriously then. But here I am now, 106 years old, and I think she might’ve been right.

It started with a flat tire. I had just loaded the pomegranates and boxes of sabzi into the back of the van when I noticed the sag on the rear wheel. No time to fix it properly—just enough air to get me from Shahr-e-Rey to Tajrish before the morning rush. But the whole way, I felt the van dragging like it was tired too.

I never imagined university would feel this lonely. It’s not that I don’t talk to people—I do. I’ve already joined two student groups, and there are always events, lectures, even parties. But sometimes I look around and feel like I’ve landed on a different planet. I live in Budapest, Hungary, and ever since I started my political science studies here, the distance between me and most of the people around me has only grown wider.

I’ve been retired for a month. It still feels strange to say it out loud. After forty years working for one of Geneva’s most iconic luxury watchmakers, my calendar is now blank. No flights to catch. No boardrooms in Singapore or hotel breakfasts in Tokyo. The quiet feels like a stranger who’s let himself in and is sitting comfortably in my living room.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a boy. Not because I hated being a girl, but because I thought being a boy might mean people would stop looking at me like I was broken. I didn’t like my appearance—hated my long hair, hated dresses, hated the way people said I should smile more. So I cut it all off one morning with a pair of blunt kitchen scissors while my parents were at work. When they saw me, my mom started crying. My dad didn’t say a word—just grounded me for a month. I was nine.

He must have been around thirty, maybe a bit older. Tall, thin, with the look of someone who doesn’t quite belong—clean sneakers, a phone always in his hand, glancing around like the street might bite him. He asked for a margherita and sat outside on the bench where the sun hits around midday. Nothing unusual about him, except he didn’t eat the pizza right away. He just looked at it for a long time, like it had a secret written on it.

When I first came to Yongtai, China, the walls were crumbling and the windows rattled in the wind. The nuns had only just begun restoring the place, and my classroom was a storage room with a cracked floor. But I had made a decision. I would stay.

I was waiting outside the magistrate’s court when I saw Jamal come out, head lowered, wrists still cuffed. He’s seventeen now—barely—and this was his third time in front of the bench. Assault again. The boy has a temper, yes, but I’ve known him since he was eleven, when I first met him at the Government Industrial School. That was after his mother threw a pan at him for stealing canned sardines. She was high, and he was hungry.

The sky over Toulouse, France, was that gentle spring blue that makes things seem easier than they are. I wore red lipstick and my white sunglasses—not for fashion, but to feel like myself. I was pushing three strollers along the Canal du Midi. Behind me, Baptiste, five, and Jeanne, three, pedaled their bikes in crooked lines. What looked like a peaceful outing had taken over an hour to prepare.

I still remember the smell of the sea, mixed with diesel fumes and fresh bread, on my morning walk to university. Odessa, Ukraine, always had this strange mix—beauty and roughness, charm and chaos. I used to complain about the traffic, the bureaucracy, the old trolleybuses that never ran on time. Now I would give anything to be back on one of them, watching pensioners argue with the driver over a coin.

When I first saw them, they were huddled under the awning of the old bakery, wrapped in a single blanket like two petals clinging to the same stem. It was early spring, the kind of Izmir, Turkey, morning that carries the damp chill of the sea, and they were shivering. I remember one of them looked straight at me, not begging, just holding my gaze. That was enough.

It started with the guava tree. Arístides, my neighbor, swore its roots were wrecking his driveway. I told him the tree had been there longer than either of us, and if anything, his cracked concrete was more the fault of time than roots. He said the law was on his side, jabbed a bony finger at me like I was a criminal, and stormed back into his house.

I used to dread the sound of his keys in the door. That sharp jingle would cut through my concentration like a knife, whether I was reading for class or simply letting myself breathe for a moment. At first, I thought that was normal. Everyone says relationships take work, right? I told myself that over and over until I couldn't tell if I was lying or just trying to survive the day.

The sea was calm that morning, but I could already smell the burning plastic from the roadside before I reached the beach. It’s a smell you never forget once it settles in your nostrils—sweet, sharp, toxic. I walked past a heap of garbage someone had dumped into the mangroves. Old flip-flops, water bottles, Styrofoam. None of it belonged to the island, and yet here it was, soaking in the tide like it had always been here.

I always sit by the window in our classroom. Not because the view is nice—it's just rice fields and a distant supermarket—but because it’s the furthest seat from everyone else. No one told me to sit there, but somehow I ended up there and never moved again. Maybe because when I sit there, I feel like I can be a bit invisible.

Living on Socotra, Yemen, one becomes attuned to the rhythms of nature and the ebb and flow of life. At 79 years old, I've witnessed many changes on our island, but some memories remain as vivid as the day they were made. I recall a time, many years ago, when the island was abuzz with excitement. A group of foreign scientists had arrived to study our unique flora and fauna.

I was on the bus heading home from work, somewhere between Roma Sur and Del Valle, when a man got on—tall, dark-skinned, wearing a clean white shirt and carrying a reusable shopping bag. He sat near the front. A few minutes later, a woman standing beside him suddenly raised her voice. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. She said he was making her uncomfortable. That he had looked at her "strangely."