I’m thirty-eight, and I’ve spent my whole life on the edge of disaster. That’s just how it is here in Vanuatu—storms, quakes, and the sea always remind you how fragile everything is. The land gives us life, but it also takes it back whenever it wants. Still, leaving has never felt like an option.

When I was five, I pressed my fingers on the keys of an old upright piano in our living room. The sound was uneven and slightly out of tune, but to me, it was magical. My mam says I banged out the same four notes a hundred times that day, and when my dad came home, I played them for him like they were a masterpiece. He cried. Back then, I didn’t understand why.

It rains again today, not that I expected anything different. The tin roof above me hums with the steady drumming of droplets, a sound as familiar as the rhythm of my own breath. I look out over the jagged coastline, the waves churning far below like restless ghosts. This island, Tristan da Cunha, has been my world for eighty-one years. It has shaped me, weathered me, much like the rocks it surrounds—sharp and unyielding, but steadfast.

The first snow came quietly during the night. When I pulled back the curtains, the street outside was draped in white, muffling the usual city sounds. It was beautiful, but I felt nothing. I made coffee, out of habit more than desire, and sat by the window. My phone buzzed with messages from colleagues, friends, my sister. I ignored them all. Even Mom’s “Good morning, älskling,” went unanswered.

Yesterday I turned 21 years old. In Mississippi, USA, that means I’m officially an adult in every possible way, which feels both significant and hilariously absurd. The world hasn’t shifted, but I’ve been told it’s mine now, for better or worse. First thing I did was walk into a liquor store, just because I could. I didn’t even buy anything; I just wandered the aisles, looking at the labels like they held some kind of wisdom.

When I hear laughter echoing from the park outside my window here in Zagreb, Croatia, it pulls me back to the classroom. The sound is thinner now, softer, without the sharp edges of chairs scraping floors or the occasional chaos of thirty children with too much energy. But it stirs something in me.

The air tasted of salt and gasoline as I stepped onto the pier, the heartbeat of Hong Kong thrumming in the background. The city was waking up, though I never really went to sleep. Nights like mine blurred into mornings—another deal, another envelope stuffed with cash, another favor called in. That’s life in the shadows, where every handshake comes with a blade pressed to your ribs.

I biked home along the empty streets of Østerbro in Copenhagen, Denmark, the late winter air biting at my cheeks. The government’s announcement echoed in my mind like the bell of the town hall clock. Compulsory military service—for everyone. Eleven months in uniform, wielding a rifle, learning to fight. And not because we’re at war, but to prevent one.

I shuffle into the market as the sky starts to glow a faint orange, the kind of dawn that promises no warmth. My reindeer fur jacket creaks with every step; the frost has stiffened it overnight. Around me, Yakutsk, Russia, begins its daily ritual, a city alive even in the most brutal cold. Exhaust fumes linger in the air, swirling around bundled-up pedestrians like restless spirits.

The wind in Iten, Kenia, has a way of speaking to runners. It brushes against your face, tugs at your clothes, and dares you to go faster. I remember standing at the edge of the school track, staring down the lanes like they were pathways to something bigger. I was only eight when my sports teacher first noticed me sprinting barefoot across the fields of our small village.

Walking through the crowded streets of São Paulo, Brazil, I often feel the weight of stories buried beneath the concrete. This city is a living mosaic of histories—some told, many forgotten. I used to think my own story was straightforward, just another blend of Brazil’s countless cultures. That was before I learned who my father was.

I watched Sana wrap her new headscarf neatly in front of the bathroom mirror at school today. It was light pink, matching the soft blush on her cheeks. She smiled when she caught me looking, but I could tell it wasn't a full smile. Not the kind she used to have when we chased each other during recess. I wonder if she feels different now—if she feels older or heavier.

The wind was particularly sharp that morning, cutting through the narrow streets of Punta Arenas, Chile, like a blade. I pulled my scarf tighter and watched the waves batter the shoreline. The Strait of Magellan has always had a way of reminding us who's in charge.

Last week, something happened that’s been stuck in my mind. I’m from Rome, Italy, born and raised, and last week in my systems architecture class, our professor surprised us with a group assignment—design a basic CPU scheduler simulation. Groups formed instantly, the usual clusters of guys gravitating toward each other. I lingered for a moment, then quietly joined a group of three who barely noticed me beyond a polite nod.

I watched the rain snake along the cobblestones of Calle de las Huertas, the city breathing under a grey sky. Madrid, Spain, had been my home for five years, yet some days it still felt like I hadn’t quite earned my place here. The streets hummed with life, but I moved through them like a ghost, unnoticed, blending into the rhythm of the city.

The scent of frying oil clung to me like a second skin. By now, it barely registered. I used to scrub it off in the evenings, thinking it made me less presentable, but after twenty years standing behind the counter of my friterie in Namur, Belgium. I wear it like a badge. People say my fries are the best in the world. I let them talk—who am I to argue?

The morning breeze still carries the scent of wet earth after last night’s rain. I sit by the window, watching a crow peck at something invisible on the ledge. Funny creatures, crows. In our stories, they carry souls to the afterlife. Yet here it is, struggling with a breadcrumb. Perhaps it’s ferrying some poor soul to a modest destination.

The wind off the Atlantic was stronger today, rattling the shutters of my apartment in Funchal. Four years here, and I still haven't gotten used to how quickly the weather shifts on this island. Madeira seduced me five years ago during a week-long vacation—the kind of escape you book on a whim when Munich's grey skies weigh too heavily. The sun, the cliffs plunging into the ocean, the gardens bursting with colors I'd only seen in photos—it felt like a world apart. So, I stayed.

Last week, I went to renew my driver’s license here in Mexico City. Simple task, right? Not for me. The line was long, the air smelled like old paper and cheap coffee, and the fluorescent lights hummed in that irritating way that makes you question your sanity. By the time I got to the counter, I was already tired.

The storm had rolled in fast, faster than I’d expected. I’d been out gathering shellfish along the rocky shore of Vancouver Island, Canada, humming an old whale song under my breath, when the sky shifted. The air grew heavy, and the wind began to howl through the cedars.