The last tram had already left, and my phone was at two percent. Great. I pulled my coat tighter and started walking. The February air smelled like wet asphalt, the kind of cold that slips under your skin and stays there. The streets weren’t empty, but they felt that way. A couple stumbled out of a bar, laughing too loudly. A cyclist sped past, music blasting from a speaker. I kept my head down and walked faster.

I remember the first time I stepped into Mahidharpura’s diamond market. The heat, the noise, the sheer energy of it all—it felt like standing in the heart of a storm. Men sat on sidewalks, crouched on low walls, velvet trays on their laps shimmering with wealth beyond measure. Deals were whispered, fortunes made or lost in the flick of a wrist.

At the wellness hotel in San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina, I move through my shifts like a quiet current—setting up herbal teas, adjusting linen, refilling trays of dried fruit and nuts. The guests come here to unwind, to escape, to immerse themselves in an atmosphere of calm. But for me, working here is different. I’m not here to escape. I’m here to blend in, to be efficient, to make sure everything runs smoothly. Except I never really blend in.

I still remember the sound. A dull crack in the cold night air, then silence. No shouting, no cries—just the weight of it sinking into my bones. It’s been almost forty years, and yet I hear it most nights when I close my eyes. I was a border guard in the GDR, stationed at the Berlin Wall. In 1985, I followed an order, pulled a trigger, and ended a life.

It’s not the loneliness that gets to me. I’ve made peace with that. It’s the waiting. I live in Manila, Philippines—a country where marriage is forever, even when love is long gone. Eight years ago, I walked out of that house with nothing but a duffel bag and my daughter’s tiny hand in mine. Since then, I’ve worked three jobs, skipped meals so she wouldn’t have to, and learned how to fix a leaking pipe with YouTube tutorials.

The mornings in the Colombian countryside are quiet, except for the wind in the trees and the distant calls of birds. Our house, though old and worn, sits on a small piece of land surrounded by green. A year ago, I bought it cheap—nobody wanted it after the previous owner was murdered. But at forty-three, after a lifetime of scraping by, I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I just wanted a place for my wife, Natalia, and our son, Andrés, to call home.

Perfection is my standard. My kitchen runs like clockwork, every movement precise, every dish flawless. That’s why people come here—the critics, the celebrities, the powerful. Last night, in my three-star restaurant in Paris, the most powerful of them all dined at my restaurant. The French president and his wife.

The monastery is crumbling. A deep crack runs along the eastern wall of the prayer hall, and the wind whistles through gaps in the wooden frames of the windows. I have lived here in exile in Mustang, Nepal, for many years now, long enough to forget exactly how many, but at seventy-eight, I count less in years and more in the rhythm of my breath. I was born in Tibet, a land I have not seen in decades, though it remains alive in my heart.

As I stood there, my hands resting lightly on the glass counter, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. The man’s voice cut through the store like a blade—sharp, absolute. His wife’s eyes darted between the necklace she wanted and the one he insisted on, her lips pressed into a thin, helpless line. I wanted to speak. Not as a saleswoman, but as a woman. To tell her that her desires mattered, that she wasn’t unreasonable for wanting something of her own.

I always thought I was a good father. I worked hard, provided for my sons, and made sure they grew up disciplined, like my own father raised me. But now, at 54, with my body failing me, I see the cracks in what I believed was strength. Alex was different from the start. He was quieter than his brother, moved with a grace I didn’t understand. He was thinner, his voice softer. I told myself it was just a phase, but deep down, I knew. And I hated that I knew.

I sit in the back row, where I can blend in but still see everything. The professor's voice fills the lecture hall, explaining the intricacies of the cardiovascular system, but my mind drifts. Not out of boredom—I love medicine—but because I keep wondering if I truly belong here. Most of my classmates don’t have to think about that. They grew up in families where doctors were just another part of life, where success was an expectation, not something they had to wrestle for.

At night, when the house is quiet, I sit by my desk with a sketchbook and a pencil. The city outside is never really dark—neon signs flicker, and the hum of Taipei, Taiwan, never stops. But in my room, with the door shut, it's my world. I draw everything—faces, animals, strange creatures that don’t exist anywhere but in my head. If I could, I would draw all day. But my father has other plans.

When the first rays of sunlight break through the dense canopy, the forest hums with life. This is my favorite time, just before the world wakes. I sling my binoculars around my neck and step outside, greeted by the humid, earthy scent of the Daintree Rainforest, Australia. The laughter of kookaburras echoes through the trees, their calls bouncing like playful taunts. “Good morning to you too,” I mutter, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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