When I first saw them, they were huddled under the awning of the old bakery, wrapped in a single blanket like two petals clinging to the same stem. It was early spring, the kind of Izmir, Turkey, morning that carries the damp chill of the sea, and they were shivering. I remember one of them looked straight at me, not begging, just holding my gaze. That was enough.

It started with the guava tree. Arístides, my neighbor, swore its roots were wrecking his driveway. I told him the tree had been there longer than either of us, and if anything, his cracked concrete was more the fault of time than roots. He said the law was on his side, jabbed a bony finger at me like I was a criminal, and stormed back into his house.

I used to dread the sound of his keys in the door. That sharp jingle would cut through my concentration like a knife, whether I was reading for class or simply letting myself breathe for a moment. At first, I thought that was normal. Everyone says relationships take work, right? I told myself that over and over until I couldn't tell if I was lying or just trying to survive the day.

The sea was calm that morning, but I could already smell the burning plastic from the roadside before I reached the beach. It’s a smell you never forget once it settles in your nostrils—sweet, sharp, toxic. I walked past a heap of garbage someone had dumped into the mangroves. Old flip-flops, water bottles, Styrofoam. None of it belonged to the island, and yet here it was, soaking in the tide like it had always been here.

I always sit by the window in our classroom. Not because the view is nice—it's just rice fields and a distant supermarket—but because it’s the furthest seat from everyone else. No one told me to sit there, but somehow I ended up there and never moved again. Maybe because when I sit there, I feel like I can be a bit invisible.

Living on Socotra, Yemen, one becomes attuned to the rhythms of nature and the ebb and flow of life. At 79 years old, I've witnessed many changes on our island, but some memories remain as vivid as the day they were made. I recall a time, many years ago, when the island was abuzz with excitement. A group of foreign scientists had arrived to study our unique flora and fauna.

I was on the bus heading home from work, somewhere between Roma Sur and Del Valle, when a man got on—tall, dark-skinned, wearing a clean white shirt and carrying a reusable shopping bag. He sat near the front. A few minutes later, a woman standing beside him suddenly raised her voice. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. She said he was making her uncomfortable. That he had looked at her "strangely."

It started as an idea I couldn’t shake. After my mom died, I kept replaying her voice messages. I was living in São Paulo back then. Years later, now in San Francisco, USA, and working as a programmer, I pitched the concept: an AI that could replicate the voice and personality of the deceased. Investors loved it. We called it EchoSoul.

My youngest thinks the world is just this: dusty courtyards, women shouting from cell to cell, and the clatter of plastic cups against iron bars. He plays with broken toys, draws with chalk on the concrete floor. To him, this place is normal. He doesn’t know that this is not how children are supposed to grow up. But I do.

I don’t know how much seventy billion tons really is. I just know it changed everything. Two years ago, the drills hit phosphate down near Sokndal, Norway. Not just a bit, but a crazy amount. My dad’s company, which used to be a total mess, is now one of the most talked-about mining companies in Europe. They say the phosphate here could feed the whole world for fifty years.

I’ve been living in Phongsali, Laos, all my life. Life here is quiet and simple, and it’s hard to imagine the kind of suffering that many people in the world experience. But for the past two years, I’ve been helping those who are running for their lives. I volunteer with a small organization that assists refugees from North Korea. I know the risks are high, but when I hear their stories, I know I can’t turn away.

Every morning I walk the same path along the Danube. Not because I’m nostalgic, but because the water keeps me honest. There’s a rhythm to it, a cold, steady indifference that makes sense to me. Some mornings, I see a heron standing so still it could be carved from stone. I used to fish here with my brother before he moved to Canada. Now it’s just me and the river.

Every morning on my way to the office, I pass the same bus stop. There's a huge poster of a girl who could almost be my twin—same skin tone, same curls, same gap between the front teeth. She's advertising something ridiculous, like oat milk or sunglasses, but that’s not the point. The point is that ten years ago, a girl who looked like her—and me—would never have made it onto that poster.

The red vinyl of my taxi seat sticks to my back like always. It’s not even noon yet, and the heat has already curled itself around my spine. The sweat collects under the plastic sheet my brother-in-law stretched over the driver’s seat years ago, thinking it would protect the leather. It protects nothing and collects everything — but I’ve grown used to it.

The store smelled of dry bread and pickled cabbage, like most shops here in the winter. I had only come in for some tea and sugar, but as I stood in line, waiting for the cashier to finish a slow conversation with the man in front of me, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It started when I was 25. My hair began falling out—first in the shower, then on my pillow. It was horrifying, but I was prepared. My brother was bald by 30, my father the same. It ran in the family. Still, knowing didn’t make it easier. I tried everything—shampoos, vitamins, medication. Some helped, but the side effects weren’t worth it.

Twelve years ago, my life unraveled. My husband walked out, leaving me alone with our two young children. I was terrified, barely keeping up with bills, daycare costs impossible. That’s when someone recommended Gabriela. She was warm, kind, and quickly became part of our home. Without her, I would have drowned. I could work, provide for my kids, and they adored her.

Last night, my son came home late. His T-shirt was soaked in blood, but he moved without injury, his steps steady, his breath calm. I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have. Maybe it was my duty as his father. But I have lived too long in this township to believe that asking always leads to the truth.

The metro was packed, as always. I held my purse tight, one hand over the zipper, my body angled away from the crowd. After living in Medellín, Colombia, my whole life, I knew how to move in a packed train, how to spot a pickpocket, how to keep my guard up without looking like I was keeping my guard up.

I wake before dawn, when Shanghai, China, is still quiet. From my window, I see Pudong’s towers flickering like distant fires, but my world is far from that glittering skyline. I live in an old lane house in Hongkou, where the walls are damp in winter and summers press down thick. It’s enough. It’s mine.