For most of my 54 years, I worked alongside my husband and our children at the small hotel we ran, one of the very few on Mangaia, the second largest and southernmost island in the Cook Islands. The island, ancient and quiet, has always been a peaceful place, where life moves at its own pace. Geologists say it's 18 million years old, and though its history is vast, the population has gradually shrunk. Once home to 2,000 people, now there are fewer than 500 of us.

They didn’t want to let me in. The young man at the door looked me up and down, took in my frayed coat, my scuffed shoes, and made that polite but firm expression people make when they’re about to turn someone away. I laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “Do I really look that rough?” I asked. He hesitated. Maybe I smelled like turpentine again—I forget sometimes when I’ve been working in the studio all day.

The office hums with tension as we finalize next month’s issue. I work in the photo editorial department of a famous Italian fashion magazine, and today, we’re publishing our first AI-generated cover. Some are fascinated, others uneasy, but the decision is made.

The morning sun had not yet climbed over the hills when I stepped outside, the cool air still clinging to the earth. I picked up my uncle’s tools and slung them over my shoulder. He usually carried them himself, but after his injury last week, the responsibility had fallen to me. I didn’t mind. It made me feel useful. Important.

The jungle swallowed the light faster than I expected. The thick canopy turned the afternoon into an eerie twilight, and every step felt heavier. My son walked ahead, his thin frame carrying our only bag, his eyes fixed on the barely visible trail. I tried to keep up, but my legs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone weaker, someone who should have stayed behind.

The border crossing had changed since the last time I was here. New fences, new guards, but the same waiting, the same dust in the air. The bus was packed with others making the journey—some for business, some for family, some for reasons they kept to themselves. I sat near the window, watching the road signs in Hebrew and Arabic blur past as we neared the bridge.

The bus ride home is always the worst part of my day. The heat presses in from all sides, the smell of sweat and exhaust mixing into something I’ve long since stopped noticing. I keep my bag clutched to my chest, not because I’m afraid of thieves—though there are plenty—but because I need something to hold onto. Something solid.

I have been working at the port of Haikou on Hainan Island for several years. The Chinese Hawaii. Every day, I see passengers disembark, their faces filled with excitement or exhaustion. My job is to ensure smooth operations—guiding ships, inspecting seating areas, and clearing what people leave behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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