Aadyabir Singh

The moon, hanging low and full tonight, casted a silver glow that brushed softly against the hills of Suzhou, where my hometown resided. That night was the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the town came to life under the dark blanket. My eyes glisten as they drift across the alluring vermilion lanterns, contrasted against the pitch-black sky. My feet involuntarily follow my nose’s guide, each stride closing the distance between me and the heart of the night. The harmonious symphony of the chatter of vendors, punctuated by bursts of laughter brings me to serenity.  Routinely, I return every year to my hometown to celebrate with Wai Po, a promise I made after my parents passed. She had raised me, her love enveloping me like the scent of osmanthus flowers that lined the courtyard. Tonight, though, something felt different.This night however, something felt different. Wai Po was being unusually quiet, and her movements seemed slow as she prepared offerings for Chang’e, the moon goddess, almost as if time was decelerated. The house, once bustling with family and neighbours, was strangely silent. I observed noiseless as she placed the fruits and mooncakes on the altar, her hands trembling slightly. The scene had a feeling of familiarity, yet poking out was an unsettling sense of detachment, as if I were watching through a hazy veil. “Wai Po,” I called out softly, breaking the heavy quiet. “Remind me again of the legend of Chang’e.” She turned to me with a faint smile. “Ah, the legend,” she began, her voice drifting like a melody in the wind. “Long ago, in a world where gods walked among mortals, there was an elixir of immortality. Chang’e drank it, rising to the moon, leaving her lover, Hou Yi, behind. Every year, on this night, he would offer mooncakes and gaze up at the moon, hoping she could see him from the sky.” I nodded. I knew the story as well as my own name. Her words surrounded me, filling the empty spaces, however tonight, they felt…different. Almost faint, as if spoken from a great distance. She continued, her eyes fixed on the lanterns. “People think the story is about regret, about loss. But maybe it’s about finding light in the darkness, holding onto love even when it seems far away.” Her words settled in the air, resonating within me. I glanced at the sky, staring at the solitary beacon of light. “Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, an uneasy feeling curling in my chest. A weight lifted as her eyes sunk into mine. “Because tonight, we will light the lanterns for the last time.” The statement struck me, and I felt a strange chill run through me. “The last time? What do you mean?” My voice sounded small, uncertain, as if it belonged to someone else. Turning back to the altar to arrange the fruits, “Some things are meant to be released into the sky, to drift on their own,” she whispered. “It’s not about holding on but remembering the light.” My chest started to tighten as her words wrapped around me. I wanted to say more, to ask her what she meant, but the air grew thick, pressing against my thoughts. I reached for one of the lanterns, tracing its delicate red paper with my fingers. It felt cold and fragile, like it might crumble if I pressed too hard. Her voice barely audible “Are you ready?” My mind raced uncontrollably, swirling with doubts and questions. Slowly shifting my gaze to the courtyard, I took in its emptiness. Something felt off, the way the shadows stretched across the stones and the deprivation of something in the quiet rustle of the leaves. I looked back. A faint tremor passed down my body, head to toe. Wai Po’s form was blurred at the edges, almost translucent in the moonlight, as if she were merely a reflection on water. My heart skipped. A memory resurfaced, one that was shoved down deep inside my head.  A dark room.  The looming scent of incense.  My voice breaking as I whispered goodbye. No… I had buried that moment, wrapped it in layers of ritual and routine. She had passed away, hadn’t she? Months ago? The memory grew sharper, painful, and I felt the truth settle in like a stone in my stomach. Glancing around the courtyard, it felt vast and unfamiliar. The fruits lay still on the altar, untouched. The lanterns lined up, waiting. I had prepared everything myself, alone. I stumbled back, catching my breath as the realization washed over me. Wai Po wasn’t here. She was never here to begin with. The entire evening I’d been reliving a ritual with a figment of my imagination. The lantern trembled in my hands. Slowly, I lifted it, feeling its weight—a weight that was mine alone to carry. The air around me was silent, the kind of silence that comes after a storm has passed. I raised the lantern to the sky and let it go. It drifted upward, hesitating for a heartbeat before catching the wind, its glow growing fainter as it ascended. As the lantern floated higher, merging with the stars, a quiet warmth spread through my chest. She was gone, yes, but not lost. Her light, the essence of her, lived on in every lantern, in the glow of the moon, in the scent of the osmanthus flowers. I realized then that I hadn’t been lighting the lanterns for her; I had been lighting them to find my own way through the darkness. A whisper escaped my lips, carried off by the breeze. “Your light lives on.” The moon watched silently, casting its glow over the courtyard, now empty except for me. And yet, in that emptiness, I felt her presence—an echo, a flicker of light that would never fade. By: Andrew Miao

Appa stopped talking to me years ago. But when he did, it was always the same, quiet accusations. “You killed her.” And the saddest part? He wasn’t wrong. I was the reason Mama was dead. But I was only seven then, so forgive me for hoping my grown father might offer a little grace. Mama loved Diwali. I never understood the fuss, but back when we lived in our little house in Kerala, she lived for the festival. She’d wake up before dawn, drag me to wash my hair, and dress me in a bright, new outfit. She’d spend the day in the kitchen, cooking enough food to feed half the village, while I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching festival specials on TV. And in the evening, she would drape herself in a saree, sit me down for pooja, and then we’d go light the diyas together, her laughter lighting up the night. But that Diwali, when I was seven, was different. Mama wasn’t herself. She and Appa fought all the time that year—money was tight, and my school and dance fees weren’t helping. That evening, Mama let me light the diyas on my own, her usually watchful eyes absent, her spirit drained. Appa, eager to get out, dragged me to my aunt’s house for firecrackers. When we came back, the house was gone—swallowed in flames. All that was left was the bitter smoke, curling up toward the dark sky like an offering. Someone said the diya by the front door caught Mama’s saree. The diya I lit. It’s been 15 years since that night. I’ve seen therapists, tried to forgive myself.  Appa remarried and had another child, leaving me behind like a ghost. Every year, around Diwali, I sink into a fog, quitting my part-time jobs, spending days limp in bed until Riya, my best friend, drags me out of my stupor. But this year was different. “What’s your daughter’s name?” a friend asked. “Meenakshi,” I said. “She’s named after my mother.” For the first time in years, I woke up at the crack of dawn on Diwali. I woke Meenakshi, washed her hair, and dressed her in a little red langa. I cooked enough food to feed a small army, just like Ma used to. And as I sat there, watching my daughter kiss my cheek and call me pretty, my heart felt strange—heavy and light all at once. My husband helped me into my saree,with a tenderness I didn’t know I needed. In the evening, Meenakshi ran around with sparklers, her laughter ringing through the air, just like mine had all those years ago. She lit the diyas, grinning up at me with eyes that mirrored my own. As I watched her, exhaustion settled into my bones, but so did something else—a warmth, a peace I hadn’t known in years. I wondered, is this how my mother felt? That bittersweet blend of love and weariness? For the first time since I lost Mama, I understood. Even through the flames, through the grief and guilt, love endured. And as Meenakshi hugged me goodnight, her small arms wrapped tight around my waist, I whispered a quiet prayer to my mother–I hope you felt this too. By: Isita Ghanta

In today’s fast-paced world, teens are increasingly immersing themselves in technology, social media and extracurricular activities. As a result, time spent between teens and their families decreases. This shift raises an important question: what are the consequences of disconnection between teens and their families?  Research shows that the time teenagers spend with their family has decreased significantly over the past few decades. Teens are engaging in less and less meaningful conversations with their parents as a result of rigorous academics or commitment to extracurriculars. Therefore, many teens retreat into their rooms, often glued to their screens. This raises an alert about  potential mental health issues that may arise. A growing body of evidence suggests that strong family bonds play a critical role in protecting adolescents from mental health issues, such as depression and anxiety. Moreover, research also indicates that effective communication with parents is linked to better academic performances and higher self-esteem in adolescents. Without regular interactions, misunderstandings can arise, leaving teens feeling isolated and unsupported.  Studies had also shown that teens that maintained strong family ties are more likely to experience positive outcomes in adulthood, including stable relationships and career success. Conversely, those who lacked parental involvement often struggled with issues such as substance abuse and difficulty forming healthy relationships later in life.  So, with Christmas approaching, set aside time for your family—whether through watching a movie, sharing meals, or simply talking about the day. Put away the schoolwork or extracurricular activities, and spend some quality time with those significant to you so that you won’t regret it in the future! Photograph by: Eden ChenArticle by: Jisara W

Though it was past midnight, the day was prolonged with fireworks and city lights. Parols, little lanterns shaped like stars, adorned the shoddy wiring that kept the commune of San Miguel alive. It was Christmas, and in the Catholic-dominant Philippines, millions flocked to the cathedrals, an onerous gift from Magellan. Come next morning, there would be a mass at every church in the country, though Vincent had no intention of going. In fact, he was far, far away from the present, secluded on a rooftop, staring at a starless sky. His phone had died, and it was futile to try and get some sleep, as the relentless fervour of both worship and celebration conquered all. Children were giving blessings to their elders, karaoke was sung at every household, and he spotted a few of his cousins playing basketball with a dinky hoop while wearing fake jerseys. Their trash-talk intrigued him. The light beckoned to him. The sweet scent of bibingka and baked cassava called to him. The clangour of laughter from his drunk and happy titos and titas urged him to move, especially after he had heard that some Jollibee chicken had arrived. And yet, Vincent lingered on the outskirts like a carcass. It was fitting, as he was a diaspora who could not speak a word of Filipino, and was only here to visit family. Later on, boredom draped over his mind. He could not tell whether it was Kuya Cocoy or Kuya Martin singing a terrible cover of Feliz Navidad, and eventually, the endless noise drove him out. Vincent slipped away down some stairs and jumped two walls, and he wound through the narrow alleys slicked with damp, muddy ground, littered with the joyful trash of yesterday. He went further and descended from familiar landmarks. Festivities dwindled, their light no longer blinking through the tin roofs that once made a patchwork of gleaming hues. There were no more decorations, not a single hint that it was Christmas. His eyes traced the rust of corrugated iron walls. Roadside canals stunk of greywater. The sounds of merriment, once commanding, now ebbed and disappeared. Around him, his surroundings slowly bled into slums. The raw underbelly of the city was exposed. Music dissolved into murmurs, and life and colour waned away. It was as if his own disquiet was mirrored in this void. It drew him in deeper, his mindless wandering unrelenting. Then, he noticed something.  It was warm. It always surprised him how it never got cold here on this archipelago. In the distance, he spotted a figure, illuminated by a single streetlamp. She was quite tall for a Filipino. Vincent recognized her. It was one of his cousins, around his age, maybe a little older. Her knuckles rapped against a shanty window. She spotted him, her gaze a dark, curious shine. Leaning against the remnants of an old wall, her face was soft but also hardened with a cool indifference that seemed to recognize the stranger approaching. In her hand, a thin, hand-rolled cigarette smouldered, emitting ribbons of smoke that twisted and flowed. She took a quick puff. “Naliligaw ka ba?” she asked. Her voice was low and bemused, punctuated by the faintest curl of a smile. “I– I don’t speak Tagalog,” he said, not a single word tinged by an accent. “Vincent Rizal, you?” She chuckled. “You don’t remember your Ate? Ate Sofia?” He shrugged, averting his gaze. Vincent always felt like a trespasser, unable to relate, but then, he looked up and met her eyes.          Sofia took a drag, her lips grazing the paper’s edge with a practiced ease. Afterwards, she extended her arm and offered it. For a moment, he hesitated, the smoke swirling in a thin, ephemeral veil. But then, he took it, pressing the filter against his mouth, tasting the ash and heat. Old and acrid fumes akin to the essence of his surroundings were distilled into his very marrow, and the smoke scratched its way down his throat. It was sharp and unkind, and he coughed hard after, but Sofia’s rough laugh cut through his discomfort. It mingled with the howling cheers from distant streets above them. She wiped away a tear borne from her laughter and smiled. “Let’s go home.” Photograph by Ryan GuervilleArticle by Jasper Jose

Ivanna Scrooge loathed winters. She despised the stale scent of snow-laden air and the way dampness clung to her clothes, a reminder of the nights she had tried to forget. Winter’s bite unveiled its unrelenting fangs into her wallet with increasing heating bills and locked her in neverending traffic. It sank into her bones, haunting memories that she wished could remain buried. She couldn’t think about that night—her last night in that house. But the more she forced herself not to, the more those memories crept in, clawing at the edges of her mind. They tugged back each time she pushed them away, tempting her to remember. It was like trying not to think about an itch; focus only heightened her awareness, the memories getting more difficult to suppress each time they arose.  The memory surfaced without mercy, sharp and stabbing; Ivanna’s mother slumped beside her, blood seeping over her face, the metallic tang thick in the air. Her father looming, a baseball bat clenched in his grip, casting ominous shadows in the dim light. Ivanna didn’t need any ghost from the past to drag her back to that Christmas Eve of her seventeenth birthday—the memory was as fresh as the bruise that had bloomed afterward. Each garish Santa plastered on storefronts now taunted her with reminders of the cheerful drawing she had sketched just hours before that moment—a simple, innocent doodle lying somewhere near the blood-stained floor. She tried to ignore the warmth that suddenly bloomed within her as she watched a father carefully knot a scarf around his daughter’s neck. But that warmth came with a sharp ache, a reminder of days when her own father had done the same, his hands gentle against the chill. Now, that tenderness felt like an echo of something soft long since hardened. She closed her eyes, willing the image away—she didn’t need more reminders that such warmth was never to be felt again. Shuffling to the door, Ivanna scooped up the mail, each step weighted by another empty evening. The stack of overdue bills and forgotten newsletters was familiar, but today her fingers brushed against something else—a package. She frowned. She hadn’t ordered anything. Later, inside her home, she settled into silence, a cold beer in hand and the pile of mail before her on the coffee table. Bills, flyers, that strange package—she eyed it warily, wondering if it was a mistake, something to break the hum of loneliness that filled the room. Inside the package was a small camera and a note scrawled in familiar handwriting: “Love, all of us.” She unfolded the note slowly, her heartbeat quickening. She felt a stir of curiosity as she powered on the camera. On the tiny screen, Jeffrey appeared wearing a hideous plastic tiara, his tall frame hunched comically to fit the frame, a pair of shrunken fairy wings straining against his broad shoulders. He blew a kiss at the camera with exaggerated flair. Just as she started to laugh, the rest of her friends jumped into view, shouting, “We miss you!” Their smiles and laughter filled the room, breaking through her solitude with warmth she hadn’t felt in ages. Ivanna stared at the screen, a mix of joy and ache bubbling up, her defences slipping just enough to let them in. But she pushed the camera aside, the laughter and warmth it brought too much for her to bear. Retreating to her bedroom, she wrapped herself in the quiet. The next morning, the church greeted her with its usual stillness. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting soft colours on the worn pews. The faint scent of old wood and melting candle wax filled the air. In the silence, the priest’s murmured words floated softly, blending into the space—a steady rhythm that steadied her nerves. She often came here to quiet her mind, letting the stillness envelop her in a way that little else could. Ivanna blinked, her gaze trailing to the nameplate at the altar, suddenly realizing that the priest’s murmured prayer was for her. Her name sat engraved on the simple metal plate, cold and stark. The priest caught her eye, his expression softening as he nodded in her direction. “We’re closed, I’m afraid. A funeral. The old woman… she had no one,” he said, his voice low, carrying a gentle, unspoken sadness. Ivanna swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her. She glanced around the empty pews, imagining a life that faded without witnesses, without warmth or friends to grieve the loss. An ache stirred in her chest, but she forced herself to nod, turning back toward the door. The quiet had offered her solace before but now it felt like a warning, lingering in the echo of her footsteps. The phrase echoed in Ivanna’s mind: The old woman had no one. Just like her. A chill ran through her, as she imagined her own life ending in such a silence, marked only by a few murmured words from a stranger. Unless she let go. Unless she stopped clutching fragments of the past, allowing old wounds to keep her heart walled off from everyone. The weight of her decision hung in the air, fragile yet full of promise. For once, she wanted more than the memories that haunted her.  She couldn’t wait until it was too late. Taking in a deep breath, stirrings of the unfamiliar arose in her chest—hope. She would discover a way out of her shadows and the past into the light of her future. Photograph by: Jeffrey JiangArticle by: Isita Ghanta

Boxes stacked haphazardly lined the walls. Each one was labeled in Mom’s neat handwriting.   I couldn’t quite recall the last time I heard her voice.  I had almost forgotten her laugh until the recording crackled and I heard it again: a little breathless and sweet.   I am not in the attic anymore. I’m transported to the lively kitchen of the year 1998. Christmas tunes floated gently in the air, the warmth from the oven embraced me. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg swirled through the room. I stirred the bowl with all my might while bits of batter were flying onto the countertop, but Grandma didn’t mind. She stood tall beside me. Her hands gently guided mine, as we folded the dough over and over. “Slowly now, dear, you don’t want to tire out the dough. It’s like giving it a little massage,” She’d say, while her wrinkled fingers folded the mixture expertly. She always hummed the same carol as we worked—Silent Night. I’d always sneak a piece of the raw cookie dough, and she’d catch me, “Only a little, now,” she’d laugh, wagging a flour-covered finger at me. “We still need enough for the cookies!” Her laughter would bounce off the walls, and I’d giggle too, my cheeks warming as I brushed the flour from my nose. Then, silence.   The recorder stopped abruptly.   I am not in the kitchen anymore. I’m all alone in the attic, clutching the antique machine as if it was her, as if it could bring her back. The gap between us feels impossibly wide, like the attic rafters that stretch above me. But then, I hear a tiny voice behind me.  “Mom?”   I turn and see the small frame of my daughter standing in the doorway. She held two aprons in her chubby hands and looked up with her wide eyes.   “Can we bake some cookies?”   “Of course, sweetheart,” I say, my voice trembling just a little. We head downstairs to the kitchen. I set the recorder on the counter and pressed play again, letting Grandma’s voice fill the room. Her words crackle through the speaker, as though she’s standing there beside us, guiding us step by step through the recipe that was written long before either of us were born.   As I show my daughter how to knead the dough, I guide her tiny fingers just as grandmother had once guided mine. The dough is sticky between our hands, clumps of flour clinging to our fingers and dusting the countertops.  The recorder hums quietly in the background, and I catch fragments of Grandma’s voice, mixing with the faint strains of an old Christmas tune— “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”  The past isn’t gone. It’s here, living in the act of kneading dough, of dusting flour on tiny hands, of humming that old Christmas tune that filled kitchens long before I was born and will fill them for the years to come.   “Are they ready, Mom?” my daughter asks, peering up at me with flour smeared across her cheeks. As the timer dings and we pull the tray from the oven I smile, kneeling down beside her. “Yes, sweetheart. They’re just perfect.”   As we sit together and share the first warm bite, I realize I am sharing what remains— one memory, one cookie, one moment at a time. Photograph by Eden ChenArticle by Dharaneeswar