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Rain tapped softly against the windows of the nearly empty train. Seventeen-year-old Arif sat alone, clutching a worn backpack and staring at the blurred city lights rushing past. It was the last train of the night, and he was running away. At least, that's what he told himself. His father wanted him to take over the family shop. His teachers wanted him to become an engineer. His friends seemed to have their futures planned out. Arif wanted none of it. He wanted to be a writer. But every time he mentioned it, people smiled politely and changed the subject. The train slowed at a small station he had never seen before. A single old man stepped into his carriage and sat across from him. The man carried a typewriter. An actual typewriter. Arif couldn't stop staring. "Never seen one before?" the old man asked. "Only in pictures." The man chuckled. "Good. That means I'm officially ancient." For a while they rode in silence. Then the old man pointed at the notebook sticking out of Arif's bag. "You write?" Arif hesitated. "A little." "A little is how every writer starts." The train rattled onward. The old man opened his typewriter case and pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper. "Want to hear a secret?" he asked. Arif nodded. "I spent thirty years working in a bank." "You did?" "Mm-hmm. Hated every minute." "Then why stay?" The old man smiled sadly. "Because I was afraid." The answer surprised Arif. "Afraid of what?" "Failing." He looked out the rain-speckled window. "So I kept writing stories at night. One page at a time. One story became ten. Ten became fifty. Eventually one got published." Arif leaned forward. "What happened then?" "Nothing." "What?" The old man laughed. "That's the funny thing. I thought publishing a story would magically solve my life." "It didn't?" "No. The next morning I still had to go to work." The train entered a tunnel, plunging the carriage into darkness. "But," the old man continued, "I realized something important." The lights returned. "I wasn't waiting for permission anymore." Arif sat quietly. The old man slid the yellowed paper across the table. At the top was a story title. Below it were hundreds of crossed-out words. Mistakes everywhere. "You kept this?" "Of course." "Why?" "Because people only show you their finished books." He tapped the messy page. "This is what dreams actually look like." The train began slowing again. The old man stood. "This is my stop." Arif looked outside. There was nothing there except a tiny platform surrounded by darkness. Before leaving, the man pointed at Arif's notebook. "Whatever you're running from tonight, it'll still be there tomorrow." Then he smiled. "But so will the story you haven't written yet." The doors opened. The old man stepped into the rain and disappeared. A moment later the train pulled away. Arif looked down at his notebook. For the first time all night, he opened it. He didn't write a masterpiece. He didn't write a bestseller. He simply wrote the first sentence. And somehow, that felt like arriving home.

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On a rainy evening, 17-year-old Ayan was helping his grandfather clean out an old attic. Dust covered everything, and most of the boxes contained forgotten clothes and broken furniture. Then Ayan found a small wooden chest. Inside was a yellowed envelope with the words: "To be opened on June 14, 2026." "Grandpa, this letter is for today!" Ayan exclaimed. His grandfather's face turned pale. "I never thought I'd see that again." With trembling hands, he opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper written by his younger self, fifty years earlier. > Dear Future Me, If you're reading this, then you've lived longer than I ever imagined. Right now, I'm twenty years old. I have no money, no house, and no idea what my future will look like. I'm scared that I'll fail and be forgotten. So tell me—did we find happiness? For a moment, the old man said nothing. Rain tapped softly against the roof. Ayan looked at him. "What would you answer?" His grandfather smiled. "I would tell him that happiness wasn't where I expected to find it." He pointed to a faded photograph in the chest. It showed a young woman laughing. "That's your grandmother. I met her two years after writing this letter." He picked up another photo showing a tiny baby. "That's your mother." Then another photo—Ayan as a child covered in birthday cake. "And that's you." Tears formed in his eyes. "I never became rich. I never became famous. But I loved and was loved. Looking back, that's enough." Ayan sat quietly. The old man turned the paper over and began writing. > Dear Twenty-Year-Old Me, You don't become everything you dream of. You become something better. Stop worrying so much. The best parts of your life are the people you haven't met yet. He folded the letter and placed it back in the chest. Outside, the rain finally stopped. And for the first time in a long while, both grandfather and grandson felt that time wasn't something to fear—it was a gift.

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Five horses lived on a quite farm. Strong. Healthy . Beautiful. Then one day, Horse 1 died. No reason. The owner was confused. A few days later, Horse 2 died. Same way. No wounds. No sickness. No clue. People started whispering: "Something is wrong with that farm." Then Horse 3 died. Then Horse 4 died. The owner checked everything ---food, stable, vets, even neighbours. Nothing. Finally, Horse 5 died. Now all five were gone. That night, The owner couldn't sleep. He kept thinking. What am I missing? He walked through the empty stable again and again. Then he noticed it. A small rusted pipe under the water tank. he followed it. The water supply was coming from an old underground line that had been leaking poison into the tank for weeks. All five horses had been drinking the same water. One by one . . . they never had a chance . The owner stood still. It wasn't curse. It wasn't murder. It was something worse ----- something broken he never looked at closely enough.

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