Author: Gia Banerjee
The glass hums
as miles slip away
mountains shrinking
into watercolor strokes.
Someone leaves a fingerprint
on the window,
and the light catches it,
turning it gold
for just a second
a tiny, glowing proof
that we were here.
Author: Mira Han
The invitation arrived in the mail on cream stationery, written in looping cursive I recognized instantly — my grandmother’s. The postmark had no date. The address was hers, the one that had burned down fifteen years ago.
I went anyway.
At twilight, the hill where her house once stood looked different — not ruined, but restored. The porch light glowed, and lace curtains fluttered in the window. I knocked once. The door opened by itself.
Inside, everything was as it had been: the ticking mantle clock, the smell of jasmine rice, the chipped blue plates. My grandmother sat at the table, her hair silver and perfect. Across from her sat my great-grandfather, who’d died long before I was born. Beside him, my aunt, gone three winters ago.
They were all waiting.
No one spoke. My grandmother gestured for me to sit. The food was warm — steamed fish, bitter greens, sweet rice cakes. I ate slowly, the silence thick but not frightening. When I looked up, their faces flickered — not vanishing, but dimming, like candlelight in wind.
When the meal was over, my grandmother finally spoke.
“You don’t visit enough,” she said gently.
“I didn’t think I could,” I whispered.
“You always can.”
When I blinked, I was sitting on the empty hill, the plates gone, the stars cold. But in my hand was a single rice cake, still warm.
I didn’t eat it. I buried it at the roots of a nearby tree — a small offering for whoever comes next.
Author: Katie Flanegan
Every morning at 6:20, Mrs. Greer boarded the 49 bus, her red scarf trailing behind her like a flag. She sat in the same seat, beside the window, and nodded at the driver, who never said much.
One morning, he wasn’t there. A young woman filled in. She was smiling, humming, asking how everyone was. The ride felt different, like the world had been tilted slightly toward light.
When Mrs. Greer reached her stop, she turned to the new driver and said, “You make this old bus feel like spring.”
The driver laughed. “Maybe it’s just time it did.”
Author: Ryan Calloway
Eli didn’t like tutoring freshmen. They either hated math or thought they were too good for help. But Maya was different. She didn’t look at the clock once.
By the fifth session, she was asking about more than equations. About colleges, plans, the way he’d chosen his major. She smiled like she was memorizing him.
He realized, later, that she was — not him, exactly, but the version of herself she wanted to be. Confident. Capable.
When the semester ended, she left him a note: “Thanks for helping me believe I could do it.”
It wasn’t love, not really. But it was something that stayed with him; proof that sometimes teaching someone else is just a way of learning who you are.
Author: Claire Shah
When I landed in Lisbon, my luggage didn’t. Maybe that was the point.
The first morning, I wore the same jeans from the flight and bought a scarf from a street vendor who smelled like espresso. I rode Tram 28, holding on as it squealed through narrow turns, my reflection flashing in windows full of pastries and postcards.
For the first time in months, I felt unanchored. Not lost, but light. I’d come after a breakup, chasing something I couldn’t name.
On my last day, my luggage finally arrived at the hotel. I didn’t open it. I just left the tag on and watched the sun set over the Tagus River, knowing I’d already found what I came for.
Author: Maya Thompson
Last summer, I spent a week in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The mountains rose like giant green waves, stretching farther than the eye could see, dotted with rivers that sparkled under the sun.
Our cabin was small but cozy, perched on the edge of a pine forest. Each morning, I woke to birds singing outside the window and the smell of dew on the grass. We hiked trails that twisted up steep hills, the air fresh and cool, filling my lungs with a sense of freedom.
One afternoon, we followed a narrow path to a waterfall hidden deep in the forest. The water tumbled over rocks with a roar, sending mist into the air. I stood there, mesmerized, feeling both tiny and infinite at the same time.
Evenings were quiet. We sat by the fire, listening to the wind in the trees, watching the sun set behind the peaks. I wrote in my journal, capturing moments I knew I would forget if I didn’t.
By the end of the week, I felt renewed. The mountains had taught me to slow down, to notice the details I usually overlook, and to find calm in the midst of life’s noise. Traveling there reminded me that sometimes the most profound experiences are the simplest; walking breathing, observing, and being present.
Author: Leah Harrington
Every morning, my grandmother baked bread. The smell of yeast and warm crusts filled the kitchen, curling around us like a hug. I watched her knead the dough with calloused hands, fingers moving with care and rhythm.
One morning, she said, “Bread is like life. You have to work it, stretch it, and let it rest.” I didn’t understand then, but I do now. Kneading, waiting, and baking, patience turns simple ingredients into something wonderful.
I still bake bread, and every loaf reminds me of her.
Author: Avery Collins
Sophie sat by the pond, folding a small paper boat. She drew a tiny flag and wrote her name on the side. “This will sail far,” she whispered.
The wind lifted the boat, and Sophie watched as it wobbled across the water. Suddenly, a gust pushed it into the reeds. She ran to retrieve it, but another child’s paper boat floated past hers, and they both laughed.
Sophie realized the pond was big enough for many boats, many dreams. Her little paper boat might not reach the other side, but it had taught her patience, hope, and a quiet kind of joy.
Author: Thomas Elroy
Books were gone, the city said,
but Grandma hid a card instead.
I found a door behind a wall,
inside were books, big and small.
I read them all, they spoke to me,
stories alive, wild and free.
The library’s card pulsed in my hand,
a secret place, a magic land.
Author: Leo Parkhurst
A small star fell from the sky. It landed in a field. A boy saw it.
“Hello, little star,” he said.
The star glowed and followed him home. Every night, the boy looked out his window. The little star twinkled just for him.