Aadyabir Singh

I’d always known there was an unspoken difference about my grandfather. It was in the way he looked out the window, eyes tracing an expanse far beyond the horizon, like he could see another world out there. Word around the town was that he’d been a hero, that he had done things he’d never talk about. To me, he was just Grandpa: quiet and steady, with shaking hands whenever he stirred his coffee. Eventually, on a rainy afternoon, my curiosity got the best of me. Unsure of what to expect, I asked him, “Grandpa, why did you go to war?” He didn’t answer. When our eyes finally met, I saw a soft pair of black pearls, carrying a sadness I couldn’t quite understand. Finally, he spoke. His voice was steady, yet accented with an explainable heaviness. “Young men go to war,” he began. “Sometimes because they have to, sometimes because they want to. Always, they feel like they’re supposed to.” The empty air was now filled by the lingering weight of his words, heavy and unspoken. Grandpa took a long breath, as if he was reaching back through the years, wanting me to see what he’d seen. “When I went,” he said, his voice softer, like he was talking to himself as much as to me, “I thought I was doing the right thing. They told us we were brave to go, that only cowards stayed behind.” He looked down at his hands, rough and worn, like they still remembered the feel of a rifle. “Somewhere along the way, people started confusing courage with fighting. And they called laying down those arms cowardice.” I sat there, quiet, feeling the weight of his words settle in. The war wasn’t flags or parades, not like the stories they told in movies. It was something else, a reality bigger and darker, stretching far beyond any battle. Grandpa’s gaze drifted to the window, toward a world he once thought he could protect. “I lost friends out there,” he said, his voice brittle. “Good men who thought they were doing the right thing. We all did, believing that courage meant going forward, that we were heroes just for being there.” His voice broke, just enough. “But after… when it was over… I started to see that maybe real courage was finding peace, forgiving myself for all the things I couldn’t change.” I looked at him, feeling my heart race, as if I were holding a fragile memory, a piece of his past he’d hidden away. He looked back at me, eyes soft, filled with an emotion almost like regret. “It’s easy to tell someone that bravery means fighting,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now. “But sometimes, the bravest thing is to walk away. It’s facing what you’ve done, what you couldn’t stop, and choosing to keep going.” I nodded, even though I didn’t fully understand. Yet, I felt closer to him than ever, like I was carrying a part of his story now, a burden he kept to himself for years, decades. I considered him not as a soldier with a weapon, but as he was now, sitting across me, facing a world that still held expectations for him to be strong. The silence settled between us, not empty, but full, filled with all the things he’d never said, all the things he’d carried alone. In that silence, I realized courage wasn’t what I’d thought. Sometimes, it looked like this—a man who had put down his arms but continued on, day by day, his story held quietly in his heart. Glancing at his rough hands and wrinkled face, it hit me: He was a hero, not just for going, but for coming back, for learning to live with what he’d seen and lost. Sitting there with him, I made a promise to remember, to carry his story not as a badge of pride, but as a legacy to honour. When he spoke again, it was barely more than a breath. “Don’t let anyone tell you what courage is. Sometimes, it’s doing what everyone else is afraid to do. And sometimes… it’s letting go.” Photo by Jeffery JiangArticle by: Andrew Miao

The idea for ‘the nook’ was sparked when a worker at our school store rudely dismissed me, saying, “You came early, I will NOT sell you any noodles. Get out.” At first, I assumed he owned the store and immediately wanted to compete, driven by the idea of stealing his customers. My frustration only grew when a friend complained, “All they do is buy stuff from Costco and resell at higher prices!” It was one of those casual protests, but it stayed with me. Fueled by a mix of annoyance and ambition, I began crafting a business plan. I envisioned ‘the nook’ as a food corner where students could buy snacks, lunches, and drinks at affordable prices, while experiencing the warmest service imaginable.  People often say, “The worst they could say is no.” But my principal said “no” six times in a row, insisting it was impossible to open another school store. I mentally calculated the money I was losing and grew bitter with the school store’s monopoly.In a seemingly desperate move, I approached the teacher who managed the school store, proposing a collaboration. I’d operate under their name and give them a share of the profits. He agreed, but it was postponed for months until I presented him with an 80-response survey, all confirming students’ eagerness to buy from ‘the nook.’ Finally, he asked, “What do you need to start? A table?” That moment felt like a highlight of my high school career–I could almost hear the sound of coins pouring in.  But, they didn’t. On my first day, a few students tried to steal snacks and mocked ‘the nook.’ I angrily snatched back granola bars, questioning why I’d started this venture. Where I had once felt triumphant, I now felt defeated. One day, as I was storing products in the school store’s freezers, the teacher shared how all their profits went toward scholarships, school merchandise, and pizza parties for students. Suddenly, my initial motivations feel misguided. Was I trying to compete against a community resource, assuming the worst about them? That day, I promised myself that I would support and not oppose our student community. When we sold out of our initial Costco stock, I began sourcing from local businesses, adding items like soap bars, chocolate, tea, chips, and soups. The local shop owners we partnered with shared how our collaboration has strengthened community ties. One even mentioned the therapeutic nature of such connections, though I laughed it off at the time. Another moment of realisation came during a friend’s presentation about his depression. He shared his experience of being abandoned and losing a friend to violence. He spoke about how, while people often seem desensitised to death due to social media and video games, witnessing it firsthand can be devastating. My friend had been one of those affected, withdrawing from society. Government aid barely covered his needs, and he had to work to afford expensive therapy. Looking at ‘the nook’s’ small money box, I decided to give him our first $157 in profits. He insisted on helping, so he became a new member to the team, working to pay for therapy. As the year went on, our team grew to ten student workers, all earning money to support their well-being. “Your store has become a beacon of hope,” my friend wrote in a letter he gave me at graduation. “Not just providing the financial support I need to continue therapy but also creating a sense of community and belonging that I had been missing.” He is improving, attending therapy once a month instead of twice a week.  Eventually, ‘the nook’ collapsed–literally. As I scrambled to gather scattered coins and snacks, hands reached out to help: old customers, new ones, even the kids who tried to steal granola bars. In that moment, as I thanked everyone repeatedly, I saw the impact ‘the nook’ had made. It’s apparent that it had become more than a food stand; it built a community I was proud to be a part of. Story by: Jessie Luo