The smell of lavender oil lingers in the air. One of the nurses must have put some on my pillow. They think it helps us relax. Maybe it does. I don’t mind it. There are worse things to inhale in your final days. I had a dream about my daughter last night. She was sitting by my bed, holding my hand, just as I once held hers. Her face was young, her hair still thick, her voice full of life.

That trip to Zimbabwe left a mark on me, though not in the way I had expected. Growing up in Amsterdam, my life was one of comfort, security, and opportunity. My adoptive parents made sure I lacked nothing. Good education, family vacations, and a home filled with books and art—everything was in place for me to thrive. Zimbabwe was just a word on my passport, a place I had no memory of. But as I got older, a quiet restlessness grew in me.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates, was once a place where the scent of the sea lingered in the streets, where we ran barefoot on the sand without worrying about the weight of glass and steel pressing down on us. I remember my father taking me to the souks, the merchants calling out prices, the gold glinting under warm, flickering lights. Back then, the city was small, intimate. Now, I look around and barely recognize it.

The first time I saw the Atlantic stretch endlessly before me, I knew I had to cross it. Not for fame, not to prove anything—just to know what I was capable of. I grew up in Biarritz, France, always overshadowed by my siblings' academic success. School felt like a prison. Words blurred, numbers mocked me. But in sports, I found my place.

I took the bus home from work today, standing near the door as usual. The city felt gray, the air thick with rain. I watched people around me—some glued to their phones, others staring blankly ahead. I wondered if they felt the same quiet pressure I did. I’m 29 and live in Reykjavik, a city I love but one that has become absurdly expensive. I work at a daycare and earn a good salary, but by the time rent, food, and bills are paid, there’s little left.

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.