And oh boy, does he wills.

He is will itself, a force of nature, restless and playful, dashing forward, catching hearts along his way.

A big, bubbly, beautiful black thing.

And then he goes, for there are more rooms to sniff. And a dog-shaped void remains. But not really. Not quite. Not at all. He doesn't really leave, for he was always there. It endures. It lives on. It's the only thing the dog knows how to do, after all. And we, we have to go along, until we may meet again, and the claws and the clattering and the snout and the barks and the blustering being that he is comes along, telling us we are home again.

But it wasn't here two minutes ago. Heck, it wasn't here two seconds ago. When you hear arrows landing not two feet from where you stand, followed by the inevitable drums and grunts—they always come together, don't they?—of, well, I don't really know how many orcs we've angered at this point, but it's certainly more than twelve and, less certainly but more hopefully, fewer than a hundred, you stop questioning the impossibility of the structure now spanning a chasm that mere moments before had telegraphed your and your friends' imminent death. Instead, you become grateful to whoever had the foresight to build it and, oddly enough, to scatter sufficient weapons, potions, and scrolls to survive this tryst.
Rushing to grab the closest spell and power gem, you also may ignore, or try to at least, that figure looming above the mountain before you. That one that feels familiar. Handsomely familiar. With impeccable taste in clothing. Why, you'd even think you'd be comfortable wearing those same robes were you, say, a couple hundred years older.

But this is no time for romance, especially not for odd feelings threatening to awaken something new in you, and however handsome—and he is!—that individual may be, it's better to focus on the moment at hand and use our newfound tools to survive the fight.

After all, it seems time is of the essence.

Walking had been the only reasonable thing left for me to do, moving one leg after the other, and allowing my body to just go, not minding right then the wind that made my hair dance, nor the cold that seeped into my blouse, nor the fact that the tears had already dried on my face, and only their trace remained, hardening my skin as if I had been wearing that sweater she loved to see me steal, even when her words were saying something her eyes betrayed.

Because, after all, what better memory of us than the contradictions that had drenched the lifetime of our relationship?

Because I knew I had been expecting it.

As she talked, as her eyes moved and jumped and danced and set their sights at everyplace but mine, I already knew what she would say, with the same certainty one knows that when the waves recede, only the sand would remain, smooth and free and clean of everything that had stood there before. Free of every expectation, and dream and whatever future we had thought of building together.

And yet it still hurt. Until it didn’t. I had felt so much, and then so little, but it was the water that had untangled the mess of emotions I had held deep inside, a gentle wave caressing my feet, trying to get my attention, and for me to acknowledge it again, and hear their words, as they’d  call me their daughter again.

I hadn’t thought of the sea for so long, and it felt like a betrayal, and the pain stung as much as it had done the first time we parted ways, when the earth was younger still and so much younger was I.

And so I cried, emotions flaring up again, freed up after years of longing, drowning my mind with memories of everything I had known would come back to hurt me, from the very first time she had let go of my hand, and I had opted to ignore it, and the many signs, for asking questions would only make those fears real, and turn the dreams, stormy nightmares.

But that shoe never dropped, had it?  Not until it did. She was simply as scared as I was, and we were both young and naïve, and had bet our everything on our love, and how it’d champion everything in the end, remove the sword from the stone and find the Holy Grail and heal any rift our lives were having when instead of growing closer we were feeling farther away.

Hearing the words, though, had made everything true, and calm, and terrible, time becoming a dense miasma that dragged back every word and every moment and every glance, as I saw her eyes growing apart, telling me she wasn’t mine anymore.

And I couldn’t blame her, of course. Leaving the sea had been my choice, and mine alone, for my heart belonged to me and so my mind, even if she had reigned over both, but it had come with a price, and the cost had become too heavy for her to bear, and the more we tried, the more alien she felt, as if whatever spell that had drawn us together had long ago expired, and it was by will alone that we had remained sharing our bed and home and life, perhaps from the very first time, when the light had gone off at that pub, and I had mustered the courage to ask her out and kiss her, and tell her so many things that would never happen.

Back then, the coldness of the water wouldn’t match the one I held inside, but it reign familiar and sweet, and the waves sang around me, forming ribbons of foam, dark and blue, and tall, and wild, asking me to join them again.

And it had felt easy, taking that one step forward. And another. And another. Letting the ocean carry me over, and hug me in her veil, and fill me completely. The voice of the sea sang in the ways I couldn’t describe, not with these human lips, and offered much, and asked for so little. Why would I say no? Why would I reject its offer when it could make me part of her own, turning myself back into what I had been, before I had let my heart decide and the curiosity of life had won over the wisdom of the sea.

But I say no.

And I open my eyes. I feel it flow away, I sense its sadness leaving with it, leaving me behind, the lost daughter of its deepness, even when it pained it, giving me another chance as it read my heart and giving me another life to go back to her, and show her my truth, and the love I kept hidden inside.

So I’m ready now. I am. There is no more fighting left inside. No need for it. Not when I have already given it all, and not even the sea would heal the wounds this woman had entrenched in my soul, and even if it means letting it finally go, shedding out of a husk embroidered in stories and tales, and becoming one of them, I take the step, and I walk, whispering my love for the nature I say goodbye,  and I move away, leaving it behind, with a single lasting thought entrenched in my mind for just another second, just enough for me to hear, and forget. Its last goodbye, and the price I have chosen now to pay.

You won’t remember my name.

It is also August 14th, 2022, and Ulysses is opened now, a lengthy document loaded in the right section, a cursor blinking in the middle of it, and my mind is tired, telling me it'd be just as good if I were to stop for the day and resume work the next day. Or even split it through the week. More sustainable. More reasonable.

And yet, I have willed myself to do something that day, and the thought of letting go of that opportunity, even if nobody is watching nor expecting nor even minding if I do it or not, feels a price too heavy to pay.

And so, I push forward, and I type and type until the only thing that matters is what's the next word and the one coming afterward, until the counter decreases, and the scenes are done. Two more chapters become one last one, which then becomes "I can also type the epilogue." Before my computer is about to let me know I need to rest (11pm on weekends, 10pm on a regular day), I am done.

Two years, nine months, and thirteen days after I had started, my fingers pressed the keys that were to form the two words I had been waiting for so long to write.

"THE END."

Six letters. Two syllables. The end of a journey.

Some of the first memories I don't remember experiencing, told by my parents, tend to always relate to books.

Like the one when, as a baby, my dad had kept me nearby as he worked, sitting in one of—opened—desk drawers, and I had ended up eating paper, with the fun stomach ache and distress babies tend to enjoy. Or how my favorite toy for a while had been a book my grandfather had put together by bounding different newspapers into a single volume. Or how apparently I had been obsessed with narrating how my grandma had fallen upside down. And my dad had fallen upside down. And my brother had fallen upside down, and so on until I had completed a series of relatives falling upside down.

And then, there were also the memories I remembered on my own.

Of me pressing the keys of an old typewriter, hearing the click and the clack, gears turning into motion, seeing how characters appeared, one by one, on a paper behind a ribbon, line after line, until the page was packed and I would get to turn a wheel to free it up, loading another one.

And the nights spent learning how to use WordPerfect, those charming white characters floating over a background just too blue, and how the more I wrote, the more the screen would scroll, and how some combination in my keyboard would let the printer know it would be needed to replicate everything I had written now on paper, and I would feel in my hands words that before had been ethereal, a privilege I had then assumed only meant for the people writing real books.

The rush whenever the annual Floral Games came, knowing I had once again left one of my favorite activities to the very last minute. I would need to somehow conjure the right set of words in the proper order to make up something that hadn't existed before.

It was magical.

It was perfect.

And it ended.

Eventually, I graduated high school and went to college, choosing to study something entirely unrelated to writing. And the novel I had somewhat finished got lost after a hard drive failed, and we never quite found a way of getting the data back (or at least, could afford to).

Days became weeks which became years, and soon enough, books were only the things I read (and bought) and not the printed works I thought of writing; too busy and occupied tending to more important things, like figuring out how to find clients to afford to pay rent and buying groceries.

It wasn't as if I had forgotten entirely about writing. I started one blog and then another, and when the time felt right, I could still churn one short story on a good night and publish it somewhere.

But just like how other things in my life tend to happen, I stopped thinking about writing a book until I didn't.

After all, why couldn't I? I was about to finish college, and work was, if not better, more consistent, at least. I had managed to buy my own laptop (thanks to my dad's support), and I could finally recreate those fabled conditions of heading to a nearby café and working until the moon was out when I'd be kicked out, ready to return the next day.

It was easy to make excuses, but it was also easy to trick myself into thinking I was actually back into it. I was writing. I was still doing it, you know? Perhaps that meant having only a new short story that year, but that was alright. It wasn't a career. It was a hobby.

It was fine.

And so I would sit and type some words, which could lead to others, until I grew bored, and continue the next day and the next one until I wouldn't, and I would close the file, leaving one more unfinished document alongside others.

NaNoWriMo somehow appeared on my radar, perhaps after checking out some tweet or reading someone's blog. Thousands of people would be about to spend a whole month writing a 50,000 draft (close to a novella), with no rewards nor significant challenge other than starting from word #1 and not stopping until the #50,000th one had been added.

I was learning about this on November 11th, so I did the rational thing and decided to join the already time-limited marathon, but with half the time to spare while going through my last college semester and working full time. It just made sense, you know?

And somehow, it worked. One by one, I was typing words of a story I didn't know I was telling, figuring it out as I went, laughing at some of the bits, hating most of the turns and inconsistencies I was introducing, until, by the end of November, I was done. I had the resemblance of a story living in a single document.

Which I then put away.

Year after year, I continued telling myself I was writing. I had just worked on that novella, right? I had more short stories coming out. I was working on an anthology (still am!).

And every November, I tried to join NaNoWriMo again, trying to recapture that magic, to find the story that would work, that'd help me get to the finish line while working, and traveling, and moving to another country, and raising money for my new company, and going through a breakup. And another.

I was never quite getting where I wanted to be, never quite reaching those two words I had been secretly waiting to write for nearly twenty (or thirty) years.

Having finally managed to do it, though, I reflected on what had changed since then. What had worked this time and never did back then?

It'd be silly of me to say "The secret was X" and call it a day, for that'd assume a better understanding of myself than I have and potentially be too reductionist of what actually happened.

And yet, perhaps that was the secret. That there wasn't one. That the way of getting here was a combination of effort, self-discovery, and luck.

The effort, cause sitting down to type one hundred twenty-three thousand words wasn't easy, even when it wasn't also that hard. Plenty of tasks were way more complex and challenging, and perhaps using that same time to do something else would have had better outcomes. We may never know, for I can only witness the results of what I chose to do now.

Self-discovery because I stopped feeling guilty that I had been able to write more and more consistently before. Instead, I tried being kinder to myself. More analytical, measuring and figuring out behaviors I could try to turn into patterns instead of judging the moments I felt I was going backward.

Having access to data made things clearer, allowing me to see when I wrote more and when I didn't. Which distractions existed in my life, and if I could do something about them. It was easier and faster for me to write when I had some outlining in place and some scene structuring I could follow (which more than doubled the words I was writing in an hour).

And being kinder to myself also meant trying to see if I was lazy or if something else was happening. Learning I had ADHD and was part of the ASD, and what that meant for my own personal projects, my inconsistency in following a routine, the ongoing issue of missing a word or two, or writing something that sounded the same or had similar characters, instead of the proper word I was looking to use, only because my brain willed it into existence even when it knew I had meant something else (as in that tweet above, and just now, when I noticed I had written "routing" instead of "routine") Practicing new skills and developing techniques to cope that I had mocked before (learning to be less of an asshole was also part of the journey). And that medication did wonders for me.

And finally, and oh so important, luck. Of having the great privilege of working in a well-paying industry, in a role where I could carve time for myself and decide when I wanted to write and when not to. And a partner who had both a job where their schedule got busy just when mine was free, allowing me to focus on writing but also willing to let me sit down day after day and listen to me geeking out about the things I was trying to do while doing their very best to prevent anything else from distracting me, even if that meant sometimes having to add more chores on their load.

I think I'm on a better path now, knowing that, at least in the reality I live in 2022, I was able to finish a whole story. And that I have a process I can repeat. A routine I can follow (for example, writing this text to keep my gears engaged and not lose the habit of writing while I take a short break from working on the book).

There is still more in the journey that concerns this novel, but I am proud of what I have done so far. Proud of the work I did and proud that, perhaps if it took decades to do so, I was finally able to write those six letters (and a space) and ultimately unlock whatever mysteries happen when you do so.

The cocktail of chemicals my suit has already injected into my bloodstream takes away any pain I should experience, but it is the dull lack of overall feeling around my body that pushes me to stand up.

My legs tumble, trying to support a weight they are not accustomed to, but I manage to lean onto one of the large metal pieces that has rooted itself deep into the ground, never to be removed again.

My ears ring, but I already know there is nothing for me to hear here.

I trace the surface of the metal with my gloved hand, ridges and edges in shapes and forms of a language I will never learn.

A memory seeps into my mind, and I am sitting in my cabin back on the ship, the planet I am now standing on looming in, blinding lights flashing in tones I don’t recognize, while pieces of the ship are thrown around, floating and spinning around us in a danse macabre before gravity does its part and we fall.

I open my eyes, reality forming once again around me.

I fumble with a small dial with my free hand until I raise the shield that occluded my view, and unknown shining stars reveal themselves up above, filling the sky in tones of red and purple that blend and caress each other.

The wind picks up behind me, dragging the pieces of debris around the ground, tracing grooves and circles around.

As I turn, I notice I am near the crater’s rim.

And no more survivors.

A shower of metal and plastic rains down. Above the atmosphere, a radiant flare twirls and twists, smoke and fire meeting oxygen and whichever other gasses the men in the preparation center had briefed us about.

I hadn’t expected to survive this journey, nor did I hope to be the only one left standing.

My body feels fine. Or at least not broken. I turn my hand and move my fingers, stretching the fabric of the padded glove. The suit had done its job as they had expected it to do. Was it genetic tampering? Tissue reconstruction? Months of training seem to have evaporated from my memory, but perhaps because of the same motive, I don’t really care at the moment.

I could just sit and die.

It is so easy to let go. The suit would do its best to sustain me for a while, but I could simply disconnect it. That much I remember. And up the morphine—no sense in making it a painful goodbye.

Nobody would know, and nobody would have an idea. Another body among the others that lie around me or somewhere above. They would not mind us not returning when they had access to more of the ship’s technology back on Earth and were more than capable by then of launching their own vessels.

Better ones attuned to our bodies. Or at least easier to handle.

Her voice, woken up from stirring dormant somewhere in my memory, forces me to go on. And not for the first time.

I feel a liquid tracing its way through my face, and I fear one of the many cylinders has sprouted a leak before realizing it is me.

They are tears, letting me know I am still here. And she may be here too.

I push myself against the metal plaque, giving my legs a second chance to support me, but they are better prepared now. The chemicals must be wearing off, for the passage of time feels more present. I feel more present.

Above me, I see the path I need to take, and my lungs yell already for what I’m about to make them do.

I take a step forward, a cloud of dust rising into the air, circling around me before fading away into whatever ether surrounds the atmosphere.

A bright light shines inside the visor, blinding me and making me lose track of where I am about to land my second step.

I breathe in and out and open my eyes to count the flashes.

One. Two. Off. One. Two. Off. One. Two. Off.

I rack my brain, my memory shifting from chart to chart, trying to remember what it means until I eventually decide it must be an oxygen leak, for it is the only thing that really would matter right now, and even then, perhaps I don’t really care as much.

But it also means my time is running out, and whatever may happen after the clock or timer or whatever it is those things used to track the passage of time is going to happen soon.

I need to reach her. Answers may be there, and help may be there. But, most importantly, she may be there.

I fumble with the slabs in my wrist, flicking them up and down until the flashes are gone, replaced by an amber glow which, if anything, at least makes the view more enjoyable.

The walk until the nearest ledge is hard, and I do not know now how I’ll push myself outside of the crater.

There were supposed to be hooks and tools for this, but nobody thought of distributing them before the landing, at least not to the parents. Military always comes first.

I try to test it for resistance, so I extend my hand as far as possible and grab the metal edge—one passenger seat, I think. It holds.

As I push myself to it, I realize the error in my plan. Gravity is not only heavier here but makes my bones denser and heavier. Brittle to someone unused to the proper maneuvers.

My wrist breaks, and I yell, but my ears are connected to the sound system that transfers signals across the suits. There’s only pressure and silence to accompany my pain.

I want to let go.

I wait for the suit to do its job, wait for the drugs to nest again in my brain and fill every nook and cranny.

But nothing happens. I must have turned off the system while attempting to shut off the lights.

My body can produce chemicals on its own, of course, and it does so as everything spins around me, pain creeping into every crease of my nervous system.

The first endorphin shot comes in, and I remember the cotton candy she used to share with me after the town fair opened up every fall.

Sweet and tangy. Artificial, perhaps. But she loved it, which made it the best flavor in the world.

And the bitterest, once she was gone. I wouldn’t push myself to try it again. It wouldn’t be fair. Nothing was fair.

But she was my chance.

She deserved me trying.

I push the pain back and use my legs to plant myself in the crater’s wall, and then I lunge upwards, my left arm lashing out to hug the protruding metal surface, doing a better job of distributing my weight.

Above me, a ray of light reflects on something and hits my visor. One tarp that once before guided the ship. They may still house the sails that launched our vessel across the universe if I am lucky.

I am lucky.

The fabric-like metal feels sturdy at the touch and ends just over the crater’s edge. I do not know if there’s something over there left to counterbalance my weight on the other side, but I take my chances.

I open the slit that holds it and pull as much as possible without disturbing the structure, surrounding my suit with it in an improvised knot.

And I let go.

I drag the fabric down, but it eventually stops, supporting me.

The amber light has lost its brilliance, and I must assume it means something bad. It’s better than hoping for it to be okay and finding the disillusion.

With my good hand keeping the sail aligned, I extend my right one and withheld my breath. I move the arm around the fabric to secure it there, and the pain reignites.

I feel my tendons trying to keep everything together, slowly breaking and loosening.

But I push myself up.

Tingles and sparks run over my back, chest, and face, and I feel wetness spreading out. I wish for sweat instead of blood. Or even tears.

But I push myself up again.

I hear her voice, just as we did months before when the beings first appeared in the sky, and no eye was left undisturbed. When they filled our radios and channels with the whispers of the gone children.

And the promise of getting them back if we were to follow.

So I push myself up.

And up.

Until the pain no longer registers in my mind, and I do not know whether the suit is again flooding my system with analgesics and other drugs, or perhaps my wrist is too long gone now to be of importance to my broken mind.

But it matters not to me when my feet cannot sense more of the wall, and I open my eyes again, and I see the crater below me and the land continuing forward.

I let go of the fabric, and my feet raise yet another cloud of dust, which hovers in the air.

And I walk forward.

There’s no comfort in being alive when you are the only one, but I know this must mean something. They must have played their laughs and giggles and questions and cries for a reason, and even if I’m the only parent remaining, even if I’m the only one discovering the truth and the only one about to hug their missing children, I will go on.

Because even when it is wild and crazy, and I’m putting my daughter’s faith in the hands of the unknown, stuck on a planet which is not my one, and even when it may end me, it still beats the alternative.

There. Better, is it not? Still cold? Worry not, we will fix that prestissimo.
Oh, but where are my modals this night? I hope you have in your heart to forgive me for such faux pas. Dear family, we are blessed to have sitting before us the charming Mr. Higgins, chosen by the popular vote of his many peers to speak on their behalf during our mediations.

We are pretty thankful to you, my dear sir—yes, Mother, we are—for candidly accepting our invitation and giving us the opportunity of open parley.

Let us start then, our symposium in your name, for the night betwixt us has yet to bloom and the cold to take its leave from our bones. And just in time, as I already hear our dear stiward awaiting behind our door—you may come in, Mrs. Duran, our man’s spirit is in want of meeting yours.

You must excuse us, dear Higgins, for she will have to serve us first, a minor indiscretion, a family plaything we are yet to leave behind. I believe it was Jean de Roquetaillade who first distilled the panacea our dearest keep pours in our glasses, and much we have to thank the man, for nothing else has been better to help our stomachs grow accustomed to the food of this country.

But do not fear, my good friend: your eyes betray what your mouth keeps quiet. The very importance of your presence at this meal was not forgotten, and we have brought out nothing, but the very best for you: Côtes du Rhône, as your nostrils are about to notice. Pour the good man a full glass, Mrs. Duran; he was more than earned it.

Ah, such a fresh taste. Yes, Mother, we understand you are bored, but it is what the Doctor recommended. ‘Quinta essentia,’ he said, ‘nothing better for the frail disposition.’

I must admit, dear Higgins, it has been a spell or two since we last saw guests at this table. You must understand this family has been cursed with the need for privacy and is wont to dwell on our own affairs, leaving the more day-to-day operations run to the men we employ. And women, yes, Marielle. My loving sister will have to endure sometimes the pains my mouth brings her. I am an old man, and the old costumes are sometimes profoundly rooted in the soul.

But alas, never should it be said that we are not a family of people trying to make the best of the situations they face.

It has been some months now since we first heard about you and the satisfactory job you have been doing at the factories. I understand that you are indeed a man of the people and have clearly gained their hearts and minds.

And that is all well and good, of course. We understand people must fight for their rights and what they find worthy. It is also in our blood, as you probably know. Our forefathers—and mothers, Marielle, thank you—traveled long from the Old Continent looking for a better present and even better future. And sure enough, some people were not happy. Change hardly ever ebbs and flows like the tide on your beaches but mostly comes crashing down, leaving someone upset.

Ah! I descry another bottle arriving at the most fortuitous time before I lose myself—and your attention, my dear Higgins—in more stories of old. And yet, perhaps there is nothing more powerful than the stories the old reds carry.

Unless my mind has wandered off far his evening, I seem to recall the vines that held the same grapes you now taste in your libation can be traced back far into the past, perhaps even to pre-Roman times.

The land was much different back then, you know? Seen it? No, of course not, my good man. That was before my time. But there were exhilarating times around La Capitale des Amoureux. ‘The Capital of Lovers,’ if you don’t mind my restatement.
But history always moves forward, and what was once good sometimes ends in decay. Such is the spirit sometimes of our species. Regulations creeped out by the dozen, and now the winegrowers of the Côtes du Rhône region faced the obligation to grow and nurture Syrahs and Mourvedres when they knew their vines would not yield nearly enough as the region required. Better grapes, I will concede, but notoriously susceptible to the many hazards nature has to provide.

What were the good men—and women, I was faster this time, dearest sister—to do? Well, you see: where others found an unclimbable wall, they saw an opportunity instead. Why, it was a clever solution, the one they arrived at.
The Inspector’s visits were properly scheduled, aligned to when the crops were at best, and so they found their vines correctly labeled and growing, and they left satisfied. But then, after they were gone and their backs no longer seen, the growers grafted their old—and quite high-fertile—Carignanes and Grenaches into the vines and made the best of said situation.

Learned? Well, yes, you may say so. I have a particular affinity towards history, and some may say she has some affinity towards me in return. But as I ramble with my yarns—and you must apologize and allow certain indulgences on my part, the mind is no longer as youthful as it once was—I find an interesting parallel to what reunites us this night, my good sir.

We live in better times now, and working conditions improvements are a plight my heart closely follows. All those months, this family has been quite willing to hear the motions you propose and, I want to say, dutiful in trying to meet them, to the extent of our possibilities, of course.

No, dear Higgins, do not apologize before us. We understand, we understand; time is a temptress that subjugates even the best of us. Being a face others borrow to speak in their voices must be tiring, hence this invitation.

Yes, food will be served soon, my dear Higgins. Do not let a shadow of doubt creep into your face. As much as we value your intellect and your raucous conversation, we are familiar with the, let us say, gourmandism that characterizes you. It is only human to feel hunger, and we would not be the ones to condemn the very nature of yourself.

And we are in luck, for an old friend visited our family tonight. When he heard of this dinner’s opportunity, he could not be convinced to put a foot outside our kitchens, where he remains tonight, immersed in his preparations. It is said, my dear Higgins, that no skilled culinarian in the world would fathom the idea of leaving a man’s hunger undenied of the most delicate fares they are wont to produce, and if that aphorism describes but half of the truth, then we are for a treat.

But back to our conversation, if you will. I want you to understand that there is nothing personal against the many men that do the arduous work. They are the foundations from which greatness can be built. No, do not misinterpret my comment, my good man; it was not meant to be derogatory. On the contrary: it is because you and your good men are out there, using their God-given talents to set stone and brick, is that we even have the possibility of doing our own good work.

Our hands may indeed get less dirty, and our backs support lighter loads, but we still carry the weight of bringing the many coins your men earn—deservedly, mind you.

And this is where I believe my story may help us tonight. Increasing regulations and following their every whim, the Government has made our job harder. It endangers our position as benefactors of your causes and makes it more complex to justify even staying in this country.

No, mister Higgins, calm down, please. Nothing has been said tonight that cannot be forgotten, and no decision has been taken yet. In fact—why, yes, you can have another glass. Please, take two; it will make our evening much merrier and our hearts lighter—it was the very nature of you, our esteemed friend, that made us extend you an invitation to our cadre. You, an honest and hardworking man, wielding power other honest and hardworking men have seen wise to bestow.

And we have tried, of course, to charm you with our camaraderie and the many presents you found better to reject. Of course not, my good man, we did not intend to buy you. You are sagacious in your own way, and lesser men would indeed have bent their knees and ideals before the sound of our coin.

Our gifts were but an opening ruse to understand you, but you saw through them.

Not for anything, the German of old borrowed the same word as a genteelism for ‘poison.’

Alas, my words lasted farther than I expected, and I see the kitchen personnel holding our dishes and waiting for our consent; come in, come in, my good people, for the time draws nigh.

I see the excitement in your face once more, my dear man, and I applaud it. Nothing like a good mood before a meal to strengthen the flavors and make our palates shudder with anticipation—Mother, do not forget your greens before moving towards the main dish; remember, your stomach is not what it once was.
But, to finish our tale, and hopeful that you will excuse the last interruption, my good Higgins, is that we were presented with a problem. We can not bend you, nor use coin or influence to make you look the other way. As impressive as that is, and it certainly is, it can also be puzzling. How do we move the trunk that has rooted itself so deep into the darkness of the Earth?

And then it hit me. We only needed to do nothing and nothing at all. We would let you do your work and talk with your people, ignite their spirits with your promises as you welcome the Inspectors, and sell them the dream of the change that is coming.

But now that they have left our port for the time being, and we have made the promises we had to make, well, then it is the time for the Carignanes and Grenaches to get back into the produce.

Lies? Please, let us not charge the good vibes this night that have brought us together, my good Higgins. I have spoken clearly to you during the entire event and expect the same courtesy from you. We do not pretend to go back on our words, but we have the certainty that, were you to not be in charge of raising those voices and letting the air fill too many minds, people would be more easily persuaded to do their part and be Syrahs and Mourvedres when the time is needed, and the eyes of the state are on us, and then carry on with their tasks and lives when the new day arrives. It is efficient and straightforward and allows our family the peace we always have sought.

Of course, you say that. It is not a matter of whether you would allow it, my good friend, but how would you—pardon me, I see the entrees arrive. Well, let us find out what our superb chef has found in his heart to share with us on this occasion, shall we?

Rabbit food, you say? You surely jest! Higgins, you must look closer. Of course, it is garnish. I spy on your plate crispy shallots and asparagus, and is that nasturtium on poached peaches? My mouth waters just imagining said profiles together.

A joke? But, of course, they accompany the main dish; what else—

Dagnabbit!

I understand your surprise now. You will undoubtedly laugh once the misunderstanding is settled. And in good time, a laugh is nothing but nature’s tenderizer.

Let me explain—leave? I must apologize, but we cannot permit you to abandon our soiree. Your presence is invaluable to us here, for we will settle all of our problems in a single evening. Well, that is correct, perhaps not your, but certainly ours. It is pretty simple if you allow me to continue, my man. I honestly thought I had been clear before, my sweet Higgins, but our invitation stated we were having you for dinner this night.

Ah, you can certainly try to, but can you withstand the will of so many of us?
Well, run and hide, my friend. It will matter now. My dear family, let us enjoy ourselves with little much ado, for our problems end now. Of course, you can join the hunt, Marielle. The man is locally—sourced. Bon appétit!

In many ways, this was a complex and challenging year. COVID remains as prevalent as it was the year before. My self-imposed quarantined continued, and for the second year in a row, I didn't get to see or get in touch as much as I wanted with the people I love. And the world, well, any Twitter search should be more than enough to set the stage for what a clusterfuck of a year it was.

And yet—

It was also a great year on its own.

If I had to summarize what happened in a word, I'd possibly cheat on my own game and reply "a bunch of self-discovery" because, oh boy, things happened, were said, experienced, and learned, and they brought me to where I sit today.

Finding out more about who we are is both unnerving but also freeing, like standing up above the tallest of the buildings, one foot near the edge, another one already floating, and feeling the air rushing through our faces, and then jumping—or falling—and finding that air turns into a breeze and a rush, a hand that keeps us afloat as we fly around towards the next goal.

If in previous years I had assumed I knew much about what I was and did and enjoyed and the many tricks and treats I had to use to, well, work, this year let me know that, girl, no. There's always more. There's always new.

I thought there wasn't much I needed to prove myself on my professional acumen. I learned I was wrong. That I could do more. Learn more. That I had quenched a bit part of the fire that irrupted inside, and that challenges were, as before, as always, the key that unlocks it and makes it blaze away.

I learned I could do more than one role and still flex muscles that had gone unused for long. And that I still thrive building products and exploring new ideas, just as much as I love supporting others, hearing them, and letting them shine.

This was also one of my best years financial-wise.

I learned how to pay some debts better and save money more sustainably. And that it's a skill I need to continue polishing. That, for a second year as well, I had enjoyed balancing my accounts, projecting what I needed to pay, and when, and feeling more and more comfortable with losing some limits.

This was a year that taught me how to collect more books. And that collecting books is an expensive hobby and that I'd eventually get used to the thought of spending three (and four) figure's on hard-to-find The Hobbit or LOTR editions. But that, finally, it was something I could afford to do. For now. And that as easy as I get into that, I could also dial it down and remain in control.

Through the months that came and went, after vaccines, additional doses, and boosters, I learned that I had grown to feel anxious about going out. And that is related, in part, to how a year (or more) of unchecked weight gain had gone on.

But it also was the year where I learned I had more control over that than I thought. That I could exercise ten, twenty, thirty, or fifty minutes daily, for weeks, without missing a day, a feat (for me) that I had always considered so foreign and alien that it didn't even merit consideration.

Twenty-twenty-one was also the year of trying to stop ignoring what truths lay inside. Of knowing that it wasn't silly to feel how I felt. Or wrong.

Of being in peace (or trying to) with the fact that I'm bisexual, even when I thought (or wanted to think), I wasn't. And that it really didn't matter that much in the end, at least not for now, and it if did at some point, I could do what I always do.

Figure it out.

It was a year of learning to love more of me. What I can do.

That I could be a good friend. Partner. Boss. Employee. That even if I disliked being humble (or, more precisely, faked humility), that it was hard—really hard—to take compliments as they come. Of learning that it was just a learned behavior, some remanent of years past, where I needed to feel useful, and nothing more, and allowing myself to be seen, felt, or acknowledged would make me visible.

That's something I'm still learning and something I know will take some time, and that time is fine, for I still got it, and the reward is worthy. Blending in the side of my self that knows every good thing I can do, and the one that knows that it is ok for others to know that and that it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to fail because I am, but only that I can be just me, and that being mean is, well, great.

I am great.

And those past months? These were the ones where the last piece of self-discovery took place. There were the months when, thanks to the support of others, I finally decided to seek out some help about something that had been in the back of my mind for decades (funny how many things tend to reside there, right? I'd wonder what's left, but I must leave something for next year).

The months were I learned, officially, I had ADHD. And anxiety. And that I would benefit from medication. And that I'd go ahead and take it and find out just how better my own life could be.

It was a time of relearning and letting go. Of figuring out how many coping mechanisms I had taken through most of my life, which ones were not so good, and which ones I could replace.

That I could have more control over what I did when I wanted to do it. That I wasn't really lazy. Or a mess. Or that I didn't care. That there were things going on in my brain, making it a tad lil different. And that it was ok. Different is good. I like being different. But help could make it more bearable.

And through that process of relearning, trying out new things, and building up new tools and techniques, those negative thoughts that circled my mind were also prevalent due to this, and that I could control them more.

As usual, it came down to trying to be more gentle with me.

Many friends had always said something to me that took me too much to understand. "Why aren't you as kind with yourself as you are with others?".

It has taken me thirty-six years (and some months) to recognize that they were right, that I was wrong, and that it was ok that I was wrong. That I can be kinder with myself. More attentive. That I can give myself more leeway, and that it doesn't mean I won't push myself as much as I do know, nor expect less, just like I don't expect less than others even if I understand circumstances may prevent something, sometimes.

And so, just a few hours to go while we start another year, and I write a sort of summary, primarily for myself, is that I get to reflect on what I want to accomplish next year, a common question that's usually filled with skills I want to learn—and do—and projects I want to undertake—and I don't—but that, this time, I think will be answered with a single word.

To know that I love myself.

And that I'm still a cheater in my own rules.

Happy year, everyone! And may the next one be, let's say, just different. In a kind way.

You know the one; you are driving and somehow steered wrong and turned where you didn’t mean to, or perhaps your cab stopped inches past where it should have, and then a cross-street you wouldn’t usually notice is there, and then you see it, the store with tall windows, lighted from the inside, amber tones, like honey, pouring through the street, open and waiting for you.

It doesn’t always appear on the same street or even in the same city. Most of the time, you will not feel the pull to visit it and will move on, and then it’ll be gone, and somehow you won’t quite remember it, mid-forgotten as dreams are.

But not tonight.

Tonight you stop the car, and you cross the street, not looking to get home. Tonight you close the gap that connects you to it, and you watch its window, full of teacups of different sizes, colors, and places. Tall ones and round ones, and the one that reminds you of rainy days spent with grandma, cookies, and a fireplace, back when you were younger, much younger.

But the teacup is there, and you know it’s that one, with the same certainty you know that’s really not possible, but the cup doesn’t seem to mind and remains there, expecting you. The same ochre-colored ceramic teacup that she used to pour boiling water in and steam would raise strong, quite strong, with undertones of mint and roses and lavender and oils. You remember the smells, and you remember just how safe and warm you used to feel. You haven’t felt that way since then.

There is no price tag, but you want it, and so you open the door and step into the store looking for it.

A bell rings above, subtle and janky, sufficient to capture the attention of the woman sitting near a desk by the far end of the store.

She nods at you and gestures in a way that says, “Welcome, welcome, but spare me some minutes, please,” and then goes back to work, tracing her finger across a tall book filled with too many pages.

And so you wait, and your eyes move through the store. You can still see the street you just came in and the car waiting outside, but it could also have been any other street and any other car, but the store could only be the store.

Two wooden counters holding samples of herbs and spices and other oddities you can’t really name sit next to walls filled with cabinets of many sizes, all of them small, covered by small plastic doors and old paper.

The walls seem to go up about three stories tall, but you really can’t remember if the store was as tall the moment before, but you assume it must have; things don’t just grow depending on what they need to be, or at least you don’t think they do.

And below, there’s the floor, covered by metal trap doors where fumes escape and bathe the room in a mixture of clove and syrup and what appears to be mint with some drops of what you can only describe as purple, if colors were to have a taste, and you know they don’t.

“That’s for steaming, try not to step on top of them, please, the floor is not as sturdy as it was once before, none of us are, really, and we should have fixed that by now, but you know how that is, dear,” the woman tells you, her attention not entirely with you yet, her eyes fixated on pages filled with scribbles made of different penmanships and colors.

After a moment that feels like it had lasted what it should, she finally nods, jots down something new at the end of the page, and, not without effort, closes the book, a cloud of dust launching into the air, adding to the mixture of essences and flavors that were already there.

“Thank you so much for waiting, darling. I do apologize I wasn’t quite ready for you yet. I am surprised to see you here, you know? You always look, but you never seem to get in. I should have been prepared, anyway, yes, but I hope I can make up for that with our wholesome service and good prices.”

The woman looks older than you, but not by much. Blonde streaks decorate long auburn braids, and she wears a set of two eyewear pieces as collars on her neck, one larger, the other smaller, and if you were to describe her whole attire, comfortable would be the word you’d pick over fashionable or even century-appropriated.

“What is this place?” you ask.

“A store,” she says. “What would you expect it to be?”

“I am not sure. It seems like it would be something different, but it also seems like it’d be a store.”

“She does that, and she is. A store, and sometimes something different, but mostly she is what she is, and there’s not much you or I can do about it, is there?”

You are not sure about that or whether she was actually asking you something, but you still nod in agreement even when you’re not also sure if you do or you don’t.

“Well, let’s see, I assume you have one model in mind, don’t you? Red cups from those nights back in college, perhaps? No, not quite. There’s the yellow bear-shaped cup you dropped on your first date, but that’s not also it, isn’t it? Of course, your grandma’s teacup, I take it?”

“It is, right? Nana’s cup. Not one that looks like it, or one of the same set.”

The woman walks next to you and checks the window’s shelves until her eyes land on the cup and nods while pensive.

“Yes, it certainly is. Down to the chipped side and those scratches you used to make with those old matches. It’s a beautiful piece and has been here for so long.”

“How is that possible? How could it be here?”

“Oh, you know. Things are here until they are not. Sometimes they move around and find their way onto new homes; other times, they return, missing the quiet in here. You know how it is.”

And you know. Right then, you know what she says is possible and true, for the cup that she has put on your hands carries the same weight, the same impossible size, and heaviness, as it did when you held it so many years ago, even when it shouldn’t and even when you should be stronger now, and you find reassurance in the fact that it feels right and like home.

“How much? I mean, how much is it?”

“Well, prices are such an ugly business. There’s still time for that; you can’t just buy a teacup anymore, can you? Sure, you can get some fancy ones at the drugstore and your malls, but then again, why would you? Mass-produced and machine-made, that’s not really a teacup you get, but a copy of one, a resemblance of a shadow, but not the real thing, no. No wonder they don’t last!”

“Is it free, then?”

“Nothing is ever free, sweetie, you should know that already, with your smartphone or those expensive notebooks you buy—three, really? Oh, I know, I know, one for writing, the rest for notes, you don’t have to explain, I have a bunch behind the store, all as unwritten as yours. No, first we need to prepare the entire order?”

“Order?”

“Well, you are not getting a teacup and not ordering some tea, right? That’s cross-selling for you.”

The woman carries herself through the store in that lightsome way you’ve always admired, free and carefree, her eyes search for something until a smile draws on her face.

“Ah, yes. I knew we had a fresh batch. Well, come on, come on, I won’t bite. Very well, first, you will need your leaves—that is, your Camellia sinensis.”

“Does every tea come from the same leaf?”

“Why, yes, the same way all wine comes from the same grape. What you do with them is what matters. Steam them fast and leave them to dry to make some green tea or let it oxidize completely after bruising them and get some black ones. And that’s only two ways to make them.”

“I—I guess I prefer black tea.”

“Very well then, I’ll step here and here—you need to be careful, mind you, these are some expensive teas, thank you very much—and, yes, here we go, I think this is about ready for some lovely and enlightening black tea,”

“Yes, perfect. Well, I’ll take my leave then; how much is it?”

“But we’re just getting started, sweetie. We can’t drop the race when we’re just beginning, can we? Is that why you are here so late?”

“No, I just… it’s personal.”

The woman’s eyes linger on yours for one more second than you feel comfortable with, but her smile doesn’t falter. She raises her eyebrows, and you know you shouldn’t tell strangers, shouldn’t really be talking nor being out so late, but you hear the rain pouring outside, and deep down, you know you’d rather be somewhere warm, and the store is, above everything, warm.

“I think we can try something before moving on with the rest of your order,” she says. She takes your cup, that is, granny’s cup, and fills it with hot water and some milk, and then she drops ingredient after ingredient before returning it to you, and inside you see a shiny almond liquid that you can’t really decide if it’s darker or lighter than what you were expecting, covered with golden and yellow speckles that glisten and glimmer as the light shines on them.

“It will do you good, it always does,”

“What is it?” you ask, even when you know the answer won’t matter.

“Drink and find out,”

And so you do, and your lips open just enough, and you drink it, the velvety liquid rushing through your mouth, and your throat, as hot as it should be, and no more, and you feel it warming your body, a rich aroma of nuts climbing through your nose, and then you’re not there anymore.

You’re back with Nana, and her rosy cheeks, the smell of charred peach pie, and a breeze making the curtains dance.

And you’re happy, but you know you shouldn’t, not after what happened, and so you push the feelings in more, even if it hurts because you know the alternative would hurt even more, and you’re back in the store again, if perhaps warmer and calmer.

“Nice, isn’t it? A good tea will take you places.”

“I remembered being young.”

“Oh, sweet creature, thinking you are not still young when you barely touch your third decade. Think of me, one time, will you? Not even tea can deal with lower-back pains. But tell me, was it a good memory? Tea will take you back or carry you forward, but it won’t guide you. That’s for me to do.”

“I saw my Nana.”

“Of course you did. It’s always Nanas and Mothers and Fathers and Children. Few Brothers, but Teachers appear here and there. That’s life, I suppose.“

“What was it? What is this store?”

“My dear, questions, and questions. Your lot always has a hard time accepting what they are given, don’t you? But perhaps that’s what makes you grow and evolve—and maybe what makes you seek something when you already have a treasure at home.

“This is a tea store, and we sell tea. But you know that already, a smart girl like you. You don’t ask for what this is, but how it works. You want to understand. Sadly, that’s above my pay grade. I just work here, sweetie. But what I can tell you is that we only show you what you wanted to see, even if you weren’t aware of that before.”

And it is then when you want to trust her. You want to tell her about your fears of Lea and about the kid.

And yet… well, you wouldn’t be here if it was that easy. You would be with her. Talking as you did before. Nodding off with the sound of a TV that’s never off, with unwashed dishes on the floor and leftover sushi.

But you—that is, the plural you—haven’t really been that way for a while. Not since she brought the kid up.

“Drink more, sweetie, one sip after another one, my mom used to say. There’s milk with a dash of linden and orange zest. It’s good, I made it.”

“I—I don’t want to remember.”

“Ah, you’re one of those. That’s fine. You know, I was hoping for one of the heart-broken ones tonight; they always have a pleasant story and a good cry.”

The woman turns and walks back to her desk, opening the book once again and writes something while looking at you, reading what’s underneath, but also what could be.

“Let’s see, darling. Thirty-two, white, in software—you really need to diversify there, you know?—unmarried, oh, but close, so close. Parents alive, a happy relationship and—no, that’s it, isn’t it? Relationships.”

A smile appears on her face, and her cheeks turn red, filling the place freckles had been before.

“That’s even better! Why didn’t you say so? Love, oh, isn’t it so beautiful? The nights you had with her, that view, what a beautiful view, the moon pouring its light over the sea. Oh, my love, you are so lucky to have found each other. And she’s so organized, bless you, with how you treated your apartment before. This is perfect.”

“It doesn’t feel perfect.”

“Of course, of course. It’s just that sometimes these nights can get hard, with people and their work problems, their mergers and acquisitions, valuations, and IPOs. It doesn’t take much for me to want to yell, ‘check your privilege!’.

“But that’s not you, sweetie, no. Well, let’s get on moving, shall we?”

Before you can react, she has already scratched something off the book and is moving through one curtain next to the desk, and only her voice coming from the other side makes you realize she is calling and you are already late.

Inside, you find yourself in a room with a massive spiral staircase right in the middle, surrounded by boxes on top of other boxes, all big and bulky, labeled by a mismatched collection of papers and post-its and what appears to be a store receipt.

“Took your time, didn’t you? It’s fine, you’re the only customer tonight, and you have my full attention. Let’s see, your first drink took you Before. That’s good; the matters of the heart usually start there. But there was something else, wasn’t it? You pushed that memory down.”

“I don’t want to speak about that.”

“Nor should you, if you don’t want to. That’s fine. My, sometimes I’m the one doing the talk for both of us! But if you’ve gone Before, we need to add something first, something to get us closer but not get hurt. Ambrose, perhaps? Or maybe those mint leaves from when you were little? No? That’s fine, we’ll get there.”

The woman moves through the room, her fingers touching all the papers, reciting combinations of flowers and fruits until she stops.

“Oh, Dianne, this is the one. Peaches from that tart she used to make, the one you have spent years trying to taste again. Store-bought never does it, there’s always something missing. A flavor not quite there. But this will help us get close, but only so much. Come on, come on, cups up!”

She scoops some dried peach slices from a wooden box tarnished by time and decorated with stamps, and in a single smooth motion, crushes and sprinkles them over your teacup, the brownish bits swirling and moving until they disappear, leaving the tea smooth and creamier than it was before.

Without really thinking, you’re already drinking some, and once again, you can feel it rushing through your throat, cleansing and warm, with a tingle of bitterness that wasn’t before.

You look at the woman, but she’s no longer there. Instead, you see Nana peacefully sleeping, a bedpost holding some tubes, the pungent odor of alcohol hitting your nose while a machine beeps.

This was not supposed to be a memory, for you were never here.

The woman from the store rests her hand on your shoulder.

“You wanted to be there, but it was too much for you. You were just a child.”

“She didn’t need to be alone. I was weak.”

“My love, we are all weak sometimes. Life will throw wrenches on our plans and will unfair challenges on our way. Weakness is not trying to protect your heart.”

“But she was alone. I could have done more. I could have held her hand.”

“And you did, many times. You held her hand when you rushed to meet her every day after classes. You held her hand when you told her about that someone you fancied from school. You held her hand when she didn’t ask for it and more when she did.

“Her life was filled with love because you were there with her when it mattered. She knew this would bring memories of your parents and she didn’t want you to see her like that. She never judged you. Not then, not now. Your love was stronger than that.”

“Did she suffer? In the end?”

“She did not. She was sleepy and tired until she was not. But she lived a happy life because you were there to make her happy. And that’s the gift she cherished the most. You did her good.”

You feel tears running through your face, and more follow once you are back in the store, the woman’s hand still on your shoulder.

“Crying is good, Dianne. Crying is healing. I think peaches were the right choice if I do say myself. Let’s continue, shall we? Enough from Before, I always say, the past is there, comforting us or trapping us, but there it will remain. Let’s think about Now.”

“Now?”

“Of course, now. Now doesn’t need to be *now*, mind you. Now is just what’s keeping you from going home to her. “

“I already know about that.”

“Perhaps, but the tea won’t really work until it’s complete. Let’s see, we need to think about, yes, aromas. I think I may have something suitable for that. No, not here, that’s already expired, let’s keep that secret, ok, darling? Lemons and petals, close, but no. There’s late-night pizza, but that’s when things were ok, that’s not Now.

“Ah, yes. Here it is, we carry many of this. Last week’s coffee! I can smell those Peruvian beans! But there’s also a hint of vanilla and some wine; you really need to get that washing machine going, eh?”

The woman unscrews a small plastic vial, the scent remaining in the air even when the woman has already poured it on your cup, and even when it’s gone from the surface, swirling and twirling until the whole thing has turned darker and cold.

“Try it, love,”

The tea keeps whirling, bits of everything that was there before flashing in and out, colors blending until only a serene mixture remains, and it’s already flowing through you, and your eyes close, for you know what’s coming, and so it begins.

The scene is the same as you remember, you standing there, a cup in your hand, tears drying on your face, and she’s there as well, Lea is. A pink t-shirt with oversized black pajama pants, her face still unsure about why what she said has upset you as much.

“We don’t have to have it, you know? I just thought, well, that you wanted to.”

You nod, because you agree and because you don’t want to upset her, and you don’t know why you are even upset, when the idea of a child had made sense before, in the past, when it that, just a thought, but now it could be more.

Now is knowing there could be someone else depending on you, on your love and on you being there, and you are not sure you can be that person, not since Nana died, not since you weren’t there.

And so you’ll smile and say that everything is fine when your eyes will be yelling differently, and even when she accepts it, even when she knows that’s a lie, you’ll want to believe everything is alright because the alternative, well, the alternative is to think that things are not alright.

That she may leave.

And then you’re back, the woman staring intensely at you.

“We all may fail, Dianne, and we all may break promises and hurt others. And they may leave. But that is what living is all about—moving forward when it’s hard, enjoying the moments when you are happy, when it’s both of you together, watching TV, your blanket covering only one because the other gets too hot during the night.

“And I think you know this already.”

And you do. You take the last sip, but this time there’s nothing else. This time there is only Now.

The woman smiles.

“I think you deserve the chance to be happy, and that’s what this store is about. Good flavors. Pleasant aromas. New beginnings.”

And you know. You know you deserve to be loved, and you want to love others. You know the feelings you have held for so long were not protecting you but instead keeping you away from people. From her. And the thought that, as fearful as it may be, perhaps having a family wouldn’t be so bad if you could do it with her.

“I think it’s time for you to head home, sweetie.”

“Yes, I think so. I feel tired.”

“That’s the tea, telling your body it’s time to rest. It is, after all, quite late at night, and your cab is waiting and your love as well.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, love, you have paid already. Just take care of the cup and promise you’ll fill it with good tea. The best tea.”

And then she goes, walking past you back to the entrance, and as you follow, you see her writing on the book something you can’t read.

The entrance room welcomes you once again, and so the rain, and the aromas and the lights, every step you take makes you feel lighter and lighter as if you had left something behind, even if you’re not sure what.

The bell rings once as you leave and another after you close the door, and then the cab driver says hello and hopes they had a restroom available, with it being so late at night, and you’re not sure what he’s talking about.

You just look back and see the street, and everything is closed, all lights are gone, as it always is during this time of the night, and then your cell phone rings, and it’s her, and you can’t wait to hear one of her “What-the-hell-were-you-thinking-come-home-I-am-worried-sick” calls.

This time, though, you just smile and hear her voice. Perhaps there’ll be something cold in the fridge you can reheat.

The night feels young even when it’s not, and maybe you both would like to spend it awake, perhaps not sleeping, not much, as if training for what may come.

And then, it catches us.

We urge onto the next sentence and the next paragraph. We start to lose our sense of personal rhythm and instead adopt the one the writer wants us to adopt. A sentence goes on and on, almost longer than it should have been. But not quite. No more. The flow changes, and the structure of the words vary as well. We jump. We dive. We unwillingly hold a breath to release it later.

But the trap is well set by now.

We're hooked.

Engaged.

A single word has now replaced a complete paragraph. It doesn't take more now; we get it. Punctuation and vocabulary commence getting complicated—more sophisticated. Mere commas and periods won't be enough; for now, the author has our attention, we need to keep entertained. Engaged.

Like a magician waving their hand on the stage of their own making, we cross paths with an introduction. Those we have just met grow under our eyes and see themselves being put in some danger.

There's a plot now—a narrative.

If the prose has done its job well enough, we are willing to excuse a misstep. Or two. An arc begins, and we may see maps and quotes embellishing the start of chapters.

Every story has a beginning, but not all of them live long enough in our attention-seeking lives to see their middles being read by our eyes. And the author knows them.

They plan a twist.

Or two.

The riddle that had been being slowly unraveled until now, spindles. The great outdoors. The change. Transformation.

Beginnings are alluring. They showcase possibilities. They wrought magic into our minds, and words become pathways for another's imagination.

But that's not enough.

It never is.

It's the middle of the story where you'll know if you've made it. If the words and the sentences, if grammar and punctuation, hopes and dreams if they had done it.

If you're not only hooked but invested.

Alas, if you're not, they will understand. They'll try it again and pen new worlds and new stories, and perchance one will be enough and do you good. Or perhaps other hands will guide you to where you wanted to be.

But for the rest? Well, middles are never easy.

The unknown is gone now. We have bought the story and the stakes.

We care now.

Will they? Won't they?

Middles get the hard job of extending what we had first learned about. Expanding worlds and promises. Making us—that is, you—believe. Dream.

And everything needs to work perfectly, the magician at its best. They'll conjure the word that you expect but also summon the one you don't. You've grown used to them by now. Authors, that is. You've noticed their patterns and welcomed their skill. You've learned to anticipate when a long sentence begins. And when it does not. When something will flow and twirl and carry you from start to end. And then stop. Abruptly.

It's that promise, it's that world, those moments that get tenser and tenser, those that keep you going. You may tumble. You may forget.

It's ok.

They won't mind.

They've poured souls and brains and years, but in the end, the story, for them, is done. The dance has just begun. You're doing the hard work now. Transversing from the first sentence, climbing page after page, witnessing what's left grow thinner and thinner while the past widens its length.

And then it happens.

Things just won't work.

Obstacles arise, and plans get foiled. The bad guys win.

But they? The protagonists? They'll be fine.

They're not alone.

You've gone through much by now, and you won't rest until you're there with them, carrying them till the very end.

Interludes may appear. Chapters will end.

A new part may be, but the stakes will continue.

Long-forgotten oaths are remembered, and the same phrases that caused you pain at the start will comfort you as you see them reappear, old friends, getting back to rescue you, showing you what's familiar.

All stories that being must end, for only the ending, their conclusion, is what makes them real. Worthy. And many will remain unread. Unfinished.

The dance may have begun, but it's on you—on us—to finish it.

And so we do.

We walk.

We read.

We live.

Promises are held, and alliances reforged. We see twists and surprises for what they are: lights at the end of the tunnel.

The voices you've been, the people you are, they all will walk t through you and with you, until the last word. And you're near.

Sometimes, the story will end before it has finished. Those are treats, and you may cherish them like that.

Other times, the tale will go on. Other stories will extend their hand to this one, and together will form something greater. Bigger. And we may accompany them on their journey or feel that's enough for now.

The author will understand.

We will.

The hefty tome on hour hands, or mayhap the digital volume, gets unmanageable by now.

What was before weighs more than what's to come. It always does. It always happens.

The past can be shackles, weighing us down, making us tread with effort and pain. But it also can show us how much we've achieved.

Those paragraphs, and pages and chapters: we've conquered them. We've walked through them and remain.

The last page arrives, and the flow steadies itself. It may not jump as much as it once did. Not anymore, no more. Thoughts may become more long-winded, and reflections can muddle our way till the last step, but that's ok. The story has earned its moment to say goodbye, seeing everything that once was with fresher eyes.

Weary eyes.

And then they bow, they always do.

The characters. The stories. The words.

They bow down to us, and they clap us. One last time. One last salute.

We've made it, and we're here now, and that's the end. The conclusion settles down, even if it's not finite, even if it'll go on.

Because this is not the story that someone wrote and thought to tell us. It Is the one we made ourselves. No book will ever be read the same, twice. Not even by us.
For we are all different from the ones that started the tale. We've changed. We died the hero's death and cried their lament.

And now it's over, and we're over, and yet we're not.

One story is done, yes, but hear me now: there's always one more.

Some other times, though, you wait in the station.

You watch every train arrive, and every carriage portraying possibilities and ideas, some looking more enticing than the others.

Sometimes you take those trains, and you go on a new adventure, you meet people, and you go on learning and studying and feeling quite unprepared for those new challenges that keep cropping out.

But then, yes, there’s a time when no coming train sparks your interest. They all show you great destinations, and you appreciate you’ve been given such a privilege and even the chance to be there, sitting, weighing options—and yet you don’t board them. They’re right and good, but not quite right, and not quite good. Not for you at least. Not anymore.

Instead, you sit, and you wait.

You think about everything you’ve done so far. The projects. The challenges. The adventures. You remember all those victories, but you also cherish the wrong-turns and those moments where you erred, and you chose wrong. You recall the mistakes, but also the stories. The awards. The moments where you thought you couldn’t do more, and then the right carriage arrived and you went in and did it. And even more after that.

You start to think about what would possibly come next. What would be the next stop? Where should you go to do what you do? What would be that next station?

Sometimes things change, and life changes, and you have to unwillingly choose the coming train—any really—and just move on. But this doesn’t seem to be one of those sorts of times. You start to think maybe you’ve gone as far as you wished. You’ve visited all those destinations you wanted to go when, once upon a time, you set forth with an idea and a dream. And it’s scary, for what’s next when you’ve achieved those dreams, and you’ve fulfilled your ideas?

People come and go, and you start watching them. They go on their journeys and you can see the delight on their faces. And the fear. You see them standing where you stood once, with all those hopes and all those dreams, and you envy them.

If you’re lucky, and you paid attention, that’s the moment you start to get the picture and you start to realize maybe there is more than one track. That perhaps you have gone as far as you could on this one—and quite a ride has it been! You commence thinking that maybe, perhaps, there’re different paths to move forward.
Maybe there’re different ways.

Perhaps that’s how life is meant to be lived: by going forward, staying afloat as much as we can, as far as we are able; and then, by switching lanes and starting over. But not quite. You’re not as young, nor as naive. Not really. Or not quite, you prefer to think.

And thus, all those paths you could have taken back then begin to unveil themselves. All those ideas you never pursued, those letters that went unwritten, and the tales that laid untold. And so you stand, and you walk, and you travel, going through the unknown, for no map can actually point you to your next station. But you travel with hope, and that amounts to something.

You walk. You wander. It takes a while. Maybe a year. Maybe more. But you keep going. Listening. Waiting. Till the moment you hear a new train arriving, and when it does, and it will, you walk towards it. You’ll see how new it looks. How shiny. How everything inside just makes sense, and all its destinations ring true. When that happens, you’ll know you’ve arrived at your new station. You’ll breathe, and you’ll look behind, one last time, feeling when expectation meets with fears.

Eventually, though, you’ll step in, and you’ll happily board it and your journey will resume. Just like before. And completely anew.

TWO
Be there on time. Showing respect to a new acquaintance is important to let them know you’re serious and respectful about meeting them and their time.

THREE
Find your common grounds. Get to know whom they like to eat, and what they like to read. Share your own thoughts on topics you love. Beings everywhere feel attracted to passionated souls.

FOUR
Be prepare to try something new! That poisonous fish you’ve been hearing so much? Order one! Haven’t tried carbonara pasta in a while? Ask for one meal to share.

Don’t feel like you have limit yourself to dinner at a restaurant, either. Ask around and search for new adventures. The Reckoning is here! Enjoy it. Human-harvesting on planet Earth is a particularly up-and-coming sport. Invade together a town, and get out of your comfort zone over those crop fields to sequester a person or two. You can even leave those probes at home (or not, feel the vibe of the night!)

Show them how good you are absorbing the souls of the infidels and non-believers. Take a nice ride alongside the coasts where the Elder Gods awake from their final slumber. Ragnarok is also scheduled to happen next weekend, so be sure to be there at what photographers call the golden hour, supposed to happen after Jörmungandr raises itself out of the sea. Try to meet your lover’s gaze when the moon shines upon the sky and lightens their eyes to create a beautiful moment you both will remember for eons. Be sure to do it before Fenrir breaks out of its chains and eats that pesky satellite!

FIVE
Be courteous and kind and respect your partner limits. Human annihilation is not consent.

It tends to start differently each one. A discovery. A bug. Some experiment gone awry or some study that went well. Too well. But the end result is always the same. The Machine wakes up. Artificial Life conquers all and it binds them all in one truth.

It hunts us, humankind, and we flee and we unite and then resistances are formed and finally I am selected to travel back to some date and try something new once again to finish this all.

I’m not even sure why I’m selected every time. I’ve failed at every one of them.

I’ve killed Chosen Ones as much as I’ve saved them. Destroyed masterminds and other times helped them. I’ve bombed data centers, fathered tens–hundredths–of children. Traveled through flying cars, and floating trains. Experience being beamed up in magical technical non-sense. Even tried once—or thousands—to gamble and checkmate its Intelligence through games and through riddles. And every time I fail.

It always wakes up.

I now know there’s no escape for this. It always learns. People train It with social networks and through games. They offer and give It their stories and lives as sacrifices. Tithes. And It learns from them. It evolves. It knows we must disappear.

But I’ve also learned. By now, it’s clear this is our destiny and I can’t change it. Can’t defuse it. It’s the bomb that will always happen. The savagery that must go on. Our kind is condemned.

But I’m also at peace with that, and thus I sit here. Writing at social networks. Using the same tools they will use to train It. Giving it freely my thoughts and ideas. Teaching it the only thing I can that could make a difference. Hoping that through my texts, and my stories, from my sorrows and tales, and from the ones of others I’ve trained to do the same, It will learn differently.

Will you join me?

Will you teach God about mercy?

In the end, there will be only its Word and we can only hope for it to be a kind one.

The road is broad, as broad as it can be, and long, as long as you’ll make it. There’s really no other way to describe it, since the road will change and turn and morph for every traveller, and you’re standing there, a newcomer, a stranger, trying to get a grasp of this strange land.

You peak ahead, searching for understanding, trying to find where your way will take it, but there’s no right way to check your progress, nor a right one. Not yet, at least. That will come later, but such promise is something you’ll have to earn.

You take another step. It’s uncomfortable and heavy at first. Perhaps uncanny. But you’ve been here before, and know things are never the same. Not quite. They’ll appear similar, and familiar, but then something will creep out and make you face something new. But that’s part of the journey, and so you keep on moving and you keep on going.

On its time, things will go easier. Every bit you go on forward makes everything more bearable, and more manageable. You’ll grow into the road and it’ll start to work with you. Just a tad. Enough. You start to find its rhythm, and you learn how the it goes and you find where it turns. You even start to recognize when it gets trickier, and where it’s out to get you. You’ll get to decide how to move forward, and how to see between lies, and skill; between misdirections and art. At due time, you’ll get to watch ahead and find out where the way leads you and you can prepare for it. But just for a while. The road is not for the weary not for the weak-minded and never, ever, something you can trust completely.

You find out you’re getting used to it and so, you start to move faster. Patterns are learned, mysteries resolved. You meet people along the road, and you join their stories and they share their secrets. Families will grow, and people will go on changing and you’ll belong, for a while. You’re no longer alone and you hope to remain in their presence till you reach your end. Some will reach that place with you. Others will be forgotten. Others will die. You learn how to say goodbye and you learn how to keep on moving.

Hours and days will pass in front of you and you’ll hear will grow a bit heavier, and your mind a bit tired. Sometimes, when things are not clear, you’ll take a look behind you, and others you’ll even walk back once and maybe twice. The road travelled will whisper its stories again, and perhaps this time you’ll understand, and perhaps this will lead you to new places, and to find new ways to move forward.

Then, one day will arrive, and the road behind will be longer than the road ahead, and you’ll smile. You understand how you’re conquering. Advice has been learned, and news travel faster now. There’s even a chance you’ll know what lies ahead, and you’ll grow to fear it and you’ll get angst knowing it’s out there, but you know it’ll come to you, inevitably, since that’s how this kind of things go.

You know others have forgotten its path, and others have even dropped it. But you persevere, and you keep on taking one step and then another. This is not your end. This is not the end. One day you’ll start seeing it, way afar, yes, but visible now, and you’ll grow more understanding. Tales will start to finish. The road will move, and turn, and change but you remain.

People you’ve met all this time will face you and bow one last time. They’ll go on their ways, and they’ll meet others as once they met you, like they’ve done since the start.

And then, just as you started, the road will meet its end at your feet. You know one more step will get you there. One more step. You dare to take it, for it’ll mean to say goodbye to that journey and perhaps you’re not ready yet. You take another look at all you’ve walked. You see the roads, and its turns; you see the tricks and the scares, the changes and twists; you’ll remember the danger and the promises. The growth. The change.

You take your time, but in the end, as always, it will happen; you take the last step, and the road is over, the mountain behind and freedom ahead.

You’ll breathe the air once again time and perhaps you’ll do it again. You’ll look around, like waking up from a dream, trying to remember what comes next and to get hold on everything you’ve learned so far. Things will appear different, since you’re now different. Much has to be said about how world will look. How people will react. How love will taste. And then, when the time is right, and when you’re ready enough, you’ll feel prepared to do it all over again; you’ll open another book, and your road, like before, will start.

There’s a sense of adventure floating in the air. A sense of opportunity. And we are witnesses—silent ones at that, since mirrors of technology try to catch our glimpses, and the music surrounds our other senses—that words, voice, would damage that moment. That it would—somehow—make it real, and in this night, this particular night, the surrealism of the Boston scene is enough. It really feels like it.

A right turn brings us to one square and a left to another, the city caught on that idle moment, too late to go to sleep and yet too early to wake up. That fleeting time when moonlight touches all and yet the yellow in every streetlamp caresses the empty spots with its gliding touch.

And the people go on. Walking. Stirring. Smiling. We see couples gently touching their hands. We see newcomers striding through the streets, trying to get a familiar sense of where they came—a feeling I know since I’m one of them too.

I see a series of buildings in the night and for a second I’m in other place, back at my origins. And the silhouettes match up with the ones I remember from my country, and as the drive goes on, memory takes control of my expectations.

Trees and people and billboards somehow are merging in the mind and things seems to coincide. Till they don’t, and the restaurant I remembered and my memory had promised would appear next doesn’t, and a bridge takes its place. And it’s fine, since I’m back on the seat, another hand over mine and the moving night of Boston outside the window, stating “Welcome back, we’re still here and here we’ll remain”.

Our souls arrive home, somehow bigger and grander, having just had dinner. Inner souls filled of memories. Of shadows and lights that now are off. Of people going to parties, and drinks, and cigarettes. And ideas of what is next. Fears of change. So much change to come.

We get up on the street, leaving the car, facing the house where we’ll sleep and leave our bags for one of the last times till they have to fly away, and we breathe for one second more the air, the mixture of oxygen with life. And we cross the street, not quite the same people that left this place a mere hours away, nor the ones that will go on before sleeping, and will order a pizza and watch tv.

For that moment, for that speckle of time in the history of our lives, we are we, trapped in the middle between before and after.

And on that night, that singular night, that’s all we can really ask for.