The gym smells like sweat and leather, the sound of fists smacking against bags filling the air. I adjust a kid’s stance, nudging his elbow up. “Keep your guard up,” I tell him. He nods, determination in his eyes. I see myself in these kids—the same hunger, the same need to prove something. I’m 32 years old, and for the past two years, I’ve worked as a trainer at this gym in Bushwick, New York.

When Dad and Papa pick me up from school, I always know heads will turn. It’s not subtle. Whispers, side-eyes, a few smirks. I used to feel them like tiny stings, but now? Now I just smile. Because I know better. I’ve been living in London for ten years now. My parents adopted me when I was four. Before that, there was only the orphanage—a dim, blurred memory of crowded rooms, unfamiliar voices, and the overwhelming sense of being one among too many.

Today is my birthday. I have turned 90 years old. My grandson sits beside me, eager for stories. He asks what the world was like when I was young. I smile, but not with joy. I was born in 1935, in a Kabul, Afghanistan, that no longer exists. Zahir Shah was king, and life was simple. Politics belonged to the elite, until Daoud Khan took power in 1973. He spoke of progress, but five years later, he was dead. The communists took over, and with them came fear.

There are guests you welcome with open arms, and then there are those you wish had taken a wrong turn and ended up somewhere else. I knew the moment I saw him that he would be trouble. He arrived at our small hotel in an all-white linen outfit, a Panama hat perched at an angle that suggested he thought himself charming.

I watched the lens disappear beneath the murky water, a brief glint of glass catching the last bit of daylight before it was gone. The river swallowed it without a trace, as if it had never existed. Around me, the set stood frozen for a second—then the shouting began.

The first time I met Ethan, I was dressed as a giant strawberry. Not by choice. My friend Mia runs a juice bar in Auckland, New Zealand, and begged me to hand out flyers in a ridiculous costume for the opening. “Just an hour,” she’d said. “I’ll pay for your drinks all weekend.” I agreed because free drinks are free drinks.

The ice groans beneath me, shifting like a restless animal. I know this sound well. It is not a warning, not yet. Just the voice of the frozen world, speaking in creaks and sighs. I sit inside my small wooden hut, wrapped in thick layers, watching the line disappear into the black water below.

I live in Barcelona, Spain. Two years ago, my daughter suggested I rent out part of my apartment to tourists. At first, I resisted. The idea of strangers in my home unsettled me—what if they were noisy or disrespectful? But my pension was small, and I needed the extra income. Reluctantly, I turned my spare room into a guest space, listing it online with my daughter’s help.

The first time I saw my father in uniform, I thought he looked taller. Stronger. The kind of man who could protect us from anything. My mother smiled and kissed him goodbye at the door, holding back tears she didn’t want him to see. I was thirteen then. He ruffled my hair and said, "Take care of your mother and sister." Then he was gone.

The needle moves fast, the machine humming like a restless insect. My fingers work from memory, guiding the fabric under the presser foot, stitch by stitch. I don’t need to think; my hands know the rhythm better than I know my own face in the mirror. The sweat clings to my skin, the heat of the factory pressing down like an iron weight. The fans overhead barely stir the thick air.

I have walked this street thousands of times, but it never truly belongs to me. The cobblestones remember footsteps that should have never been. Tourists come with their cameras, their curiosity, their hushed voices. Some shake their heads in disgust, others, the ones who disturb me most, arrive with something close to reverence. I avoid looking at them. It’s easier that way.

The sun burns white-hot in the late morning, and the air hums with the sound of cicadas. I walk home from school, my feet dragging against the uneven pavement, my backpack heavy with books. My uniform sticks to my back. I could take the bus, but the coins in my pocket are for later, for something more important.

The storm came in fast. One moment, the sea was restless but manageable, the sky thick with grey clouds. The next, the wind screamed through the steel skeleton of the platform, and the waves below rose like moving walls. I was in the middle of a routine check on the gas separators when the first real gust hit, nearly knocking me off balance. Over the radio, the shift supervisor’s voice crackled. "All non-essential personnel inside. Now."

I woke up before the sun, the way I always have. The air was still cool, the sky that deep blue just before the light spills over the horizon. I sat up slowly, my back protesting, my knees stiff. The years do that. Seventy-two of them, and each one leaving its mark. Outside, the first birds were already calling, and I could hear the distant sounds of women moving through the village—feet brushing against the packed earth, voices low and familiar.

The bass vibrates through my bones before I even step onto the stage. My name flashes in neon, the crowd roars, hands reaching for me like I’m something more than I am. I should feel powerful. Instead, I feel like I’m drowning. This is my life. A different city every night, thousands screaming my name, my beats controlling their highs.

The dust settles on the street outside the shelter, kicked up by restless feet. People come and go, looking for answers no one has. I sit on the thin mattress they gave me, listening to the low murmur of conversations, the occasional sobs muffled against tired hands. My son is outside, trying to find work—any work. I tell him not to take risks, not to trust strangers, but what choice do we have?

The mornings are still quiet in my neighborhood, but they carry a different weight now. It is not the kind of peace that comes from stability—it is the heavy silence of uncertainty. The election has passed, and the results have not brought relief, only more questions. The same faces remain in power, promising recovery, but for people like me, the numbers on paper mean little. The price of rice has not fallen. The electricity bill still makes my heart sink. The pension I worked for my entire life remains a joke.

The first time I met Danylo, he was leaning against the wall of a volunteer center, rolling a cigarette with steady hands. He looked up when I passed, his eyes catching mine in a way that made my steps falter for just a second. I had come to help organize supplies—medical kits, blankets, canned food. Anything to keep people alive. He was there for a different reason. A soldier waiting to return to the front, caught between two worlds: war and whatever remained of normal life.

It started with a man pacing outside my shop in Kampala, Uganda, hesitating like he couldn’t decide whether to come in or run. I see all kinds of people—thieves trying to sell stolen phones, desperate customers begging for impossible repairs, teenagers who just want to browse and touch things they can’t afford. But this man was different. He was well-dressed, not flashy, just neat. The kind of person who doesn’t usually look lost.

The wind here smells of salt and cold earth, pressing against the windows with a force that makes the glass tremble. I sit by the window, watching the grey sky settle over the sea, as I have done for many years. It is a quiet ritual, one that reminds me I am still here. I was born in a small house in Kópavogur, Iceland, before it became the town it is today. Back then, the streets were fewer, the nights darker, the winters harder.