The ground beneath my feet was frozen, though it was only October. Out here in the Siberian taiga, the air carries a strange stillness. I stood by the banks of the Tunguska River, staring out at the landscape, knowing this place had been the stage for something incomprehensible. For 57 years I’ve walked this earth, most of them spent in academic halls, buried in the study of stars and the universe. Yet, it is this barren stretch of Siberia that haunts me now.

What happened to me yesterday at the market still has me shaking my head. I've been selling melons there for years, as my family has done for generations. Agriculture is our lifeblood, and in Botswana's dry climate, growing melons is no small feat. I'm proud of that—proud of the way we've nurtured these sweet fruits from seed to stand.

For years, I was the man everyone in Madrid’s theater scene talked about. My productions sold out night after night, and critics praised me in the arts pages. I was invited onto talk shows, podcasts—people wanted to know what I thought about everything. But behind the applause and the spotlight, there was another side to my success.

In the quiet outskirts of Beijing, China, I grew up as a shadow, a ghost among the living. My name was rarely spoken beyond the walls of our home, and my existence was a secret the state wasn’t supposed to know. My mother had fled to a neighboring village when she discovered she was pregnant with me. The one-child policy loomed over us, and with my older sister already born, I had no place in the official records. My birth was hidden in the house of family friends, far from prying eyes.

I come from a small fishing town in southern Italy, Acciaroli. My family has lived here for generations, just like the olive trees that stand rooted in the soil outside my house. The sea, the mountains, and the fields have always been part of my life. Recently, my family threw a big celebration for my 100th birthday, though I don't feel much different than I did when I was 80. Here, reaching 100 is no rare event. This town has over 300 centenarians.

I was born in Malé, a tiny island in the Maldives, that has now become the most densely populated place on Earth. Growing up here was like living in a postcard—pristine beaches, turquoise waters, and vibrant coral reefs. But that postcard is slowly fading. My father, an entrepreneur from Australia, and my mother, a Maldivian, have owned a hotel for as long as I can remember.

It started like any other day—clear skies, a cool breeze—perfect for soccer. My mates and I played every weekend, and despite nursing what I thought was just a mild cold, I didn’t want to miss it. About twenty minutes in, though, my chest felt heavy. I tried to push through, but the tightness grew. I made a call I’d never imagined I’d have to make, and within minutes, I was in an ambulance.

I had just finished clearing out my father’s apartment when I found the box. It was tucked away on a high shelf, hidden behind old books and yellowed magazines. Dust covered it, like it had been forgotten for years. I hesitated before opening it, but curiosity got the better of me. Inside, I found objects that instantly chilled me: pins with swastikas, Nazi flags, medals, military badges. My heart sank. I knew exactly whose they were.

Two years ago, I killed three people in a car accident. I live in Copenhagen, Denmark, and that night I was driving home from work. I’d just picked up my wife and five-year-old daughter from our house, and we were heading to a nearby restaurant. Everything seemed normal, until it wasn’t. Out of nowhere, I had a severe epileptic seizure. My right leg stiffened and pressed down hard on the gas pedal. At 110 km/h, I lost control of the car and crashed into another vehicle.

It’s 5:30 AM, and the alarm jolts me awake. The sky outside is barely starting to lighten. The early mornings are always the toughest, but they’ve become routine over the years. I roll out of bed, glance at the calendar, and immediately think about today’s flights. Another mission over the vineyards. The farmers are waiting.

When my parents left Ghana for Sweden, they believed in a better life, or at least better chances for one. We settled in Gothenburg, but it wasn’t the dream they’d imagined. My father was barely home, working long hours on construction sites, and when he was home, all I remember are the arguments. He left when I was still young, leaving my mother, my little brother, and me to scrape by. We moved to Anegered, where the streets became more familiar to me than my home.

Yesterday, the weight of a few extra pastries felt heavier than the numbers on the scale. A family of four came to my check-in counter at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Ho Chi Minh City, and as soon as I saw the familiar round boxes peeking out of their bags, I knew what was coming. Vietnamese people going back to Europe with suitcases full of bánh pía, mooncakes, and all the treats they can manage—it's something I see almost every day.

The air feels heavier these days, and not just from the humidity that’s always clung to Panama. I’ve worked on the Panama Canal for over a decade now, starting when I was in my early twenties, and I’ve always taken pride in my job. There’s a rhythm to the work, the steady flow of ships from the Pacific to the Atlantic and back again. You feel connected to something global, something bigger than yourself. But lately, that rhythm has been off.

Five years ago, I was just another doctor in Dublin, Ireland, who dismissed near-death experiences as brain chemistry. I had patients tell me about tunnels of light, long-dead relatives, and a peace that words couldn’t capture. I would nod and listen, but in my mind, I attributed it all to the brain’s final moments—oxygen deprivation or neurons misfiring. I never thought I’d experience something like that myself.

When I moved out of the apartment in Lisbon, Portugal, the last thing I expected was to end up on a small farm near Beja. It’s been three years since the divorce, and honestly, the city had become too expensive for me anyway. Being a freelance architect, I had the freedom to work anywhere, and with rent prices skyrocketing, it felt like the right time to make a change. So, I sold off everything I had, took out a loan, and bought this old, run-down farm.

Almost four years ago, my husband was taken from me in Wuhan, China. He was one of the first to fall ill with SARS-CoV-2. At first, we thought it was just a bad flu. But soon his condition worsened, and his lungs collapsed. The doctors did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. I never saw him again after the ambulance took him.

My shoes squeaked as I walked down the street, the early evening sky casting a gray shadow over Grozny, Chechnya. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone, and the thought doesn’t bring the relief I hoped it would. Instead, there’s a tight knot in my chest. My mother made me promise not to tell anyone about the plan. I haven’t even said goodbye to my friends, but what’s the point? They can’t know. No one can.

Last night, I dreamt of him again. It's been happening for a few years now—my son, the one who never made it past that first, fragile day. I’m 46 now, and he would have been eight. He grows in my dreams, though. I’ve seen him at different ages, playing with his siblings, his face familiar yet different, like someone I know and don’t know all at once.

The road to Bujumbura, Burumbi, feels endless sometimes. It's not just the heat or the weight of the banana plants stacked on my bike; it's the constant sense that something could go wrong. One slip on these winding, uneven roads, and I could lose everything. There’s a reason so many of my friends have scars, broken bones, or worse. This job doesn’t forgive mistakes.

It all started so innocently. A friend request on Facebook, a simple click on "accept." I didn't know him, but his profile picture was attractive, and there was something in his message that made me pause, made me curious. I had been on my own for years, living quietly in Lucerne, Switzerland, so I guess I was more open to the attention than I realized.