The Written Mirror

Somewhere I can appear smarter than I am- "If it scares you, it might be worth doing".

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  • Immigration: A Human Story of Borders, Bias, and Belonging

    Immigration has become one of the most fiercely debated topics in modern politics. It’s a subject that dominates headlines, divides political parties, and often finds itself discussed—loudly and emotionally—at kitchen tables, pub counters, and on debate stages. The reasons are obvious: immigration touches on identity, economics, safety, and belonging. It reshapes the population, redefines national character, and challenges our understanding of who we are.

    And yet, for me, the conversation is also deeply personal.

    I am the child of an immigrant. My very existence is proof that borders can be crossed, that systems can welcome, and that lives can be built as a result of immigration. Without the policies that allowed my dad to come to the UK and plant roots, I simply wouldn’t be here. That admittedly makes me biased when discussing this topic but it also makes me determined to approach this topic with honesty, nuance, and fairness—acknowledging both its challenges and its profound potential.

    Let’s begin with the language.

    The Oxford definition of immigration is “the action of coming to live permanently in a foreign country.” But when you strip away the wording, it’s clear that not all immigrants are treated the same. Take, for example, the term “expat”—defined as “a person who lives outside their native country.” Functionally, these definitions are identical. But socially and politically, the terms carry different weight. Westerners retiring in Portugal, sipping wine in gated communities where English is the dominant tongue and the culture remains untouched, are labelled “expats.” Their presence is seen as aspirational, even enviable. Meanwhile, a family fleeing war in Syria or political persecution in Eritrea, seeking safety in the UK and learning the language to build a new life, are often viewed with suspicion—if not hostility.

    The discrepancy isn’t linguistic. It’s racial.

    It’s also deeply ironic. The British themselves are no strangers to international movement—historically through empire and colonisation, and now through business, tourism, and retirement. And yet, when the movement is inward rather than outward, when the skin is darker or the accent less familiar, the tolerance seems to vanish.

    Of course, this is where defenders of tradition will raise concerns about national identity, British values, and the idea of cultural dilution. “What does it mean to be British?” they ask. “Aren’t we losing what makes us who we are?” But this question ignores a fundamental truth: culture is not a fixed monument. It is a living, breathing thing—fluid, malleable, and always evolving.

    The customs and values we call “British” today would be alien to our ancestors even a century ago. Once, British values included institutionalised classism, racism, and the subjugation of women. Now, they include equality, tolerance, and multiculturalism. That evolution is not a threat; it’s a triumph.

    As the satirical quote goes: “Being British is about driving a German car to an Irish pub to drink Belgian beer before going home to a Swedish sofa to eat an Indian takeaway while watching American TV—only to then be suspicious of anyone foreign” Britishness is, and always has been, a tapestry of borrowed threads. That’s what makes it beautiful.

    But I do not pretend that immigration is free of complications.

    We must recognise the real pressures placed on housing, schools, and public services when population growth is rapid. We must also acknowledge the fear and disorientation people feel when the familiar starts to look unfamiliar. These concerns shouldn’t be dismissed—they should be addressed through intelligent policy, investment, and honest communication.

    Yet, we must also challenge the narrative that immigrants are “taking our jobs” or “clogging up the system.” The reality is that a significant number of immigrants are performing essential roles that keep the country running. According to the UK’s General Medical Council, nearly 40% of NHS doctors qualified outside the UK. From healthcare to hospitality, construction to transportation, their contributions are not just present — they’re vital. So no, Steve down the pub, Nigerians aren’t “swarming” the UK to steal your job as a junior recruiter. And they certainly didn’t edge you out of a medical degree. You were never going to be a doctor. Your three GCSEs and a BTEC in Sport are doing far more to limit your prospects than any immigration policy ever will.

    Furthermore, many of the jobs immigrants are taking are roles that plenty of British citizens aren’t exactly queuing up for. They’re often tough, physical, and underpaid — work that’s essential, but routinely overlooked.

    But statistics and economic arguments only go so far. We must also appeal to something deeper: our shared humanity.

    When people risk their lives crossing oceans, walking through deserts, or hiding in lorries, they are not doing so for fun. They are not criminals or invaders. They are mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters who want exactly what we do—safety, opportunity, and a future. To respond to their desperation with dehumanising terms like “illegal aliens,” as Donald Trump routinely does, is to strip them of their dignity. It’s a failure of empathy.

    So, what kind of society do we want to be?

    One that builds walls, draws hard lines, and guards fortune as if it were birthright? Or one that recognises the lottery of birth for what it is, and strives to offer opportunity to those born on the other side of the border? To me, the answer is clear. I find it unjust that the length and quality of one’s life can be dictated solely by geography, with no option for escape, no ladder to climb, no chance to earn something better.

    I do not argue for open borders without rules. I argue for empathy and humanity when considering the fact that most people in the world are not as comfortable as you or I.

    Yes, let’s protect our resources. Yes, let’s be pragmatic. But let us never forget that immigration is not a threat to be managed—it is a story to be told. A story of resilience, courage, and human connection.

  • Forgeries Of The Heart

    The morning her mother died, the sky was bright. That felt like the first betrayal.

    The kettle clicked off. Lena didn’t move.

    The mug sat waiting, steam curling into the air like a breath she couldn’t release. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked, impossibly loud. Time was still moving — the world was still turning — and yet, everything inside her had stopped.

    They said it was suicide. Quietly, gently, as if the softness of the word would blunt the blade of it. But nothing softened that truth. No kind tone. No measured words. Not even the polite lie: “She’s at peace now.”

    Lena didn’t cry. Not yet. She just sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled tightly around the pale green mug her mother always used. It was chipped on the rim, just a little. Maggie had always refused to throw it out.

    “You don’t throw something away just because it’s a little broken,” she used to say. “That’s when it needs holding onto the most.”

    The irony made Lena’s throat ache.

    It took two months before she spoke out loud in the group.

    The first few sessions, Lena sat in the corner, hands in her lap, listening to strangers spill the worst parts of their lives like coins onto a table. A man cried about his brother’s overdose. A woman with bright red lipstick talked about her miscarriage in a whisper so hoarse it made Lena shiver.

    And then there was Theo.

    He was quiet too. Not shy — just… still. Like someone who had spent so long inside his own grief, he’d made a home there. Lena noticed him because he noticed her. Not in a staring way, not obviously. Just… a glance when she looked up. A nod when someone said something difficult. A quiet understanding.

    They spoke for the first time after the fourth session.

    “You don’t say much,” he said, with a soft smile.

    “Neither do you,” she replied.

    He chuckled. “Touché.”

    She learned that he’d lost his sister. Car accident. Drunk driver. He didn’t talk about it much, but the pain was there, stitched into every word he didn’t say.

    Lena didn’t know why she trusted him. Maybe it was because he didn’t try to fix her. He just sat beside her on the community centre steps, sipping coffee that had gone lukewarm, and didn’t say it’ll get better.

    Instead, he said, “Sometimes I think grief is like water. You hold your breath, thinking you can swim through it. But eventually, you just have to learn to move with the current.”

    Lena nodded. She felt like she’d been drowning for weeks.

    They met at a quiet café near the quay. Theo drank black coffee. Lena didn’t remember what she ordered. He made her laugh once. She didn’t remember how.

    She didn’t know why she let him walk her home, but she did. Maybe it was the way he didn’t push. Maybe it was the way he looked at her like she wasn’t broken.

    Inside, she offered him a tea. He asked for peppermint. She only had Earl Grey.

    While she rummaged through cupboards, he glanced at the photos on her fridge. A picture of her mother Maggie from the 80s, all windblown curls and sunburnt cheeks.

    He asked about her. Lena told him a little. A memory. A song she used to hum.

    It was a small thing. A birthday card.

    Lena found it tucked into the back of a drawer while searching for batteries. Maggie’s handwriting danced across the page, neat but warm.

    To my darling girl,
    I love you more than the stars,
    Mum x

    She traced the letters with her thumb, trying to feel something other than the hollow ache in her chest.

    That night, Theo came over. They’d started seeing each other more often — coffees after group, walks that turned into late-night talks, one dinner where he insisted on cooking and burnt the pasta. Lena wasn’t sure if it was friendship, or something else, or if she even had space in her for anything more.

    He noticed the card on her kitchen table.

    “Your mum’s?” he asked.

    Lena nodded, a small smile pulling at her lips. “She used to say that. That she loved me more than the stars.”

    “It’s beautiful,” he said, gently picking it up.

    It came in the post, tucked between a council tax bill and a takeaway menu.

    Lena didn’t notice it at first. She was halfway through tossing the envelope pile into the bin when her eyes caught on the writing. The loop of the ‘L’, the flourish at the end of her name.

    She froze.

    The handwriting… it was hers.

    Her mother’s.

    Her heart stuttered.

    She stared at it, not daring to breathe. A soft cream envelope. No stamp. No return address. Just Lena Stevenson written in familiar blue ink, the same way her mother Maggie had signed school permission slips and lunchbox notes.

    She sat down slowly, the world narrowing to just her and the envelope. Her hands shook as she opened it.

    Inside was a single sheet of lined paper, folded carefully.

    She unfolded it like it might shatter.

    My darling girl,
    I saw the way you cried for me. I wish I had been braver. I wish I had stayed.
    I never stopped loving you. Even when I couldn’t find the light.
    With all my love,
    Mum.

    Lena read it once.

    Then again.

    Then a third time, her lips forming the words silently.

    She pressed the paper to her nose.

    It smelled faintly of lavender and something warmer — her mother’s old perfume. A scent Lena hadn’t smelled in months. Her throat closed.

    How was this possible?

    The date written at the top?

    Last Thursday.

    Lena’s mind spun. Her therapist had warned her about “grief hallucinations,” the mind’s cruel ways of conjuring comfort. But this wasn’t a hallucination. It was physical. Tactile. In her hands.

    She stood up abruptly, knocking her chair into the table leg. The sound startled her, grounding her for just a moment.

    She clutched the letter like a lifeline and, for the first time in weeks, picked up her phone and texted Theo.

    I need to see you. Now.

    He replied almost immediately.

    I’m nearby. Want me to come over?

    She hesitated, thumb hovering. Then:

    Yes.

    He arrived twenty minutes later, holding two takeaway coffees even though she hadn’t asked.

    She didn’t say hello. Just handed him the letter without a word.

    Theo read it slowly, his brow furrowed in concern. When he looked up, Lena was watching him like someone waiting for a verdict.

    “Well?” she whispered.

    He didn’t speak for a moment. Then:

    “It’s her handwriting,” he said softly. “Isn’t it?”

    Lena nodded, suddenly uncertain. “I… I think so. But how could it be? She’s—she’s gone. She’s gone, Theo.”

    He sat down on the edge of her sofa. “Where did it come from?”

    “No stamp. Just… in the post.” Her voice was a thin thread.

    He glanced at the letter again. “Do you have anything else she wrote? To compare?”

    Lena blinked. Then reached for the birthday card — still on the side table.

    Theo held the two pages side by side. “It’s close. Really close.”

    Lena dropped into the chair opposite him. “What does that mean?”

    “I don’t know,” he said. “But maybe… maybe someone’s trying to help you. Give you closure. Or…”

    He didn’t finish the sentence.

    “Or what?”

    He met her eyes. “Or maybe it really is from her.”

    Lena laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Ghost post?”

    “I’m serious,” Theo said gently. “I don’t think I believe in ghosts. But I believe in grief. And grief does strange things to people. It makes us open. Makes us hope.”

    Lena looked at the letter again.

    “I don’t know what to believe.”

    He leaned forward. “Then let’s find out. Together.”

    The second letter came three days later.

    This time it was slid through her door, no postmark, no envelope. Just a folded piece of lined paper with her name written delicately on the front.

    Lena found it on the floor when she returned from a walk — the first she’d taken in weeks that hadn’t been to the corner shop or the grief circle. She stood in the hallway, the letter at her feet like a spirit waiting to be picked up.

    Her pulse beat loud in her ears.

    She opened it carefully, hands trembling.

    You don’t need to look for me. I never left you.
    I’m in the wind you hear at night. The music you play when you can’t sleep.
    You don’t have to be alone, darling girl. I am with you, always.
    Love, Mum.

    Lena sank to the floor.

    Tears pricked her eyes, uninvited. This one didn’t smell like perfume. It smelled like paper and dust and the faintest trace of something she couldn’t place — ink, maybe. Or guilt.

    She pressed her back against the wall and read the letter again and again until the words started to blur.

    Theo came over that evening.

    He brought soup, claiming he’d made too much. Lena didn’t ask if that was true.

    She showed him the letter and tried to keep her voice from shaking.

    “They’re getting more… intimate,” she said quietly. “More specific.”

    Theo read it in silence. Then placed it carefully on the table like it might fall apart.

    “I know this sounds crazy,” she said, “but I feel like she’s watching me. Like she’s here.”

    “Do you want her to be?” he asked softly.

    Lena looked up at him, startled. “What?”

    “Do you want it to be her?”

    “I—” she started, but stopped. She didn’t know how to answer. Wasn’t that the truth? That she wanted it to be her more than she wanted air?

    “I don’t know what I want to believe,” she whispered.

    Theo reached out, gently brushing her hand with his fingers. “Then let’s keep reading. Let’s see where this leads.”

    They started a small ritual after that. Every time a letter came — sometimes through the door, sometimes in the post — they read it together.

    Some were short. Others were pages long.

    They spoke of memories: Lena’s first school recital, the beach trip when she was seven, the book Maggie used to read her every night for a year.

    Details no one else could know.

    That was what scared her the most.

    “How could someone else know this?” she asked one evening.

    Theo shrugged. “Maybe someone who knew your mum. A friend? Someone she confided in?”

    Lena shook her head. “She didn’t have friends. Not anymore.”

    Theo hesitated, then said, “Then maybe… maybe it really is her, somehow.”

    Lena wanted to believe that.

    She really did.

    One night, after Theo left, Lena walked around her flat with the letters spread out across the kitchen table.

    She read each one again, laying them in order, trying to find a pattern.

    They weren’t threatening. They weren’t cruel.

    But something about them didn’t sit right.

    They felt too perfect. Too… calculated. Like someone trying very hard to sound like her mother.

    And suddenly, a thought pierced through the fog.

    She went to the drawer.

    The one where she kept the birthday card.

    The one Theo had picked up that first evening.

    It was gone.

    Lena tore the drawer apart.

    Receipts. Old chargers. An unopened pack of batteries. But no card.

    Her heart hammered against her ribs as she sifted through every sheet of paper, every envelope, every photo she hadn’t looked at in months.

    Gone.

    The birthday card — her card — was gone.

    She sat on the floor, dizzy with something between panic and disbelief. Had she moved it? Misplaced it? Thrown it away in one of those foggy, grief-blurred days?

    Or had someone taken it?

    Her mind offered a name she didn’t want.

    Theo.

    No. That was ridiculous.

    Wasn’t it?

    He’d been nothing but kind. Patient. He’d listened when she ranted. Held her when she cried. Read every letter with her, never mocking, never doubting.

    But he’d seen the card.

    He’d touched it.

    And now…

    Now each letter that arrived seemed to echo something familiar. Not just memories — but phrasing. Tone. Her mother had a very particular way of speaking. A warmth stitched into her sentences. These letters mimicked that tone perfectly.

    Too perfectly.

    Lena sat back against the cupboard and closed her eyes.

    “Stop it,” she whispered to herself. “You’re spiralling.”

    But the unease wouldn’t let go.

    The next time she saw Theo, she said nothing.

    She let him talk. About his week. His job. The book he was reading. He made them tea — peppermint, now a shared habit — and asked if she wanted to go for a walk.

    Lena nodded.

    They walked to the pier. The wind was sharp, salty. Theo offered her his scarf, and she let him wrap it around her neck, watching his hands move, gentle and practised.

    “I’ve been thinking,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “About the letters.”

    He glanced at her. “Yeah?”

    “I’m wondering who else might’ve had access to her writing. Like… old friends. Maybe someone at the school she used to teach at.”

    Theo was quiet for a beat too long.

    “Maybe,” he said finally. “Do you want to look into that?”

    “Maybe.”

    She didn’t trust herself to say more.

    That night, Lena couldn’t sleep.

    She sat at her kitchen table, a half-finished mug of tea going cold in her hands, and stared at the letters.

    She took one and held it up beside a new sheet of paper.

    Then, slowly, she picked up a pen.

    She tried to copy it. The curve of the ‘L’. The gentle slope of the ‘y’. The spacing between the lines.

    It was harder than it looked.

    Her hand cramped after a few lines. The result was clumsy. Imitation. Not replication.

    She set the pen down and stared at her attempt.

    Then she pulled out her phone and typed:

    “Can someone fake handwriting?”

    The results spilled in.

    Articles. Tutorials. Videos. Tools. Devices. Handwriting mimicking techniques.

    One link caught her eye: “How to forge handwriting: The psychological art of deception.”

    Lena didn’t click it.

    She just stared.

    The next morning, a new letter arrived.

    This one was different.

    It wasn’t loving. It wasn’t warm.

    It said:

    I know you’ve been doubting.
    I wish you wouldn’t.
    I don’t want to be angry.
    But you’re making it hard to stay close.
    With love,
    Mum.

    Lena stared at it.

    Her blood ran cold.

    Lena didn’t sleep that night either.

    The letter sat on the kitchen table, face up, like a warning. The words pulsed in her mind:

    I don’t want to be angry.

    Maggie never wrote like that. Even at her worst — even when they fought — she never threatened, never guilted. Her love had been constant, quiet, unconditional.

    This letter wasn’t her.

    It was someone playing her.

    Lena’s stomach twisted.

    She knew what she had to do.

    The next day, she told Theo she was going to see her therapist and needed some time alone.

    He didn’t question it. Didn’t offer to come. Just nodded, kissed her forehead, and said, “Let me know if you need me.”

    As soon as the door shut behind him, Lena moved.

    She knew she had a short window. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, before he doubled back for something he “forgot.” He’d done it before. She hadn’t noticed the pattern until now.

    She grabbed her keys, threw on a coat, and walked — fast — the four blocks to Theo’s flat.

    He’d given her the spare key weeks ago, during what she now suspected was a carefully staged moment of “trust.”

    She hesitated only a second at the door before unlocking it.

    Theo’s flat was clean.

    Too clean.

    No dishes. No clutter. The kind of tidy that felt curated. Like a showroom dressed to resemble a life.

    She moved quickly. She didn’t know what she was looking for — just that she had to find something.

    Top drawer in the desk: empty folders, notebooks, receipts.

    Bottom drawer: envelopes. All the same kind as the ones her letters came in.

    She froze.

    She picked one up — same cream colour, same paper weight.

    Her hands started shaking.

    Behind the envelopes, she found a notebook.

    Her mother’s name was written on the cover.

    Maggie Stevenson.

    Lena opened it.

    Inside: practice handwriting. Pages and pages of Maggie’s phrases, copied again and again. Some shaky, some almost perfect.

    I love you more than the stars.

    My darling girl.

    You don’t have to be alone.

    And then:

    I don’t want to be angry.

    Lena’s breath hitched.

    At the back of the notebook was the birthday card.

    Her birthday card.

    The one Theo had touched.

    She clutched it like a wound.

    A noise at the door.

    Footsteps.

    Lena snapped the notebook shut and dropped it back into the drawer. Too late.

    The key turned in the lock.

    Lena froze.

    The door creaked open behind her.

    “Lena?” Theo’s voice, quiet — but not surprised.

    She turned.

    The drawer was still open. The notebook lay exposed. Her mother’s card trembled in her hand.

    Theo stepped into the doorway, and for the first time since they’d met, he didn’t smile upon seeing her.

    He didn’t ask what she was doing.

    He didn’t pretend not to know.

    He just stared — silent, still — like a wolf deciding whether to lunge or lie.

    Lena’s heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out her voice. “How long?”

    Theo’s jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be here.”

    Her throat was bone-dry. “How long have you been lying to me?”

    He didn’t answer.

    He didn’t need to.

    He stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.

    Lena backed away from the desk, bumping into the chair.

    “You lied to me,” she said.

    Theo didn’t move closer — not yet. Just watched her like a puzzle that had stopped being fun.

    “You broke into my flat,” he said softly. “That’s not very trusting, Lena.”

    She almost laughed. “You manipulated me. You forged letters from my dead mum. You watched me fall apart and made it worse.”

    He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, like she was being unreasonable. “I didn’t fake caring. That part was real.”

    She flinched as he took a step forward. One pace. Deliberate.

    “It wasn’t meant to go this far,” he said, his voice getting louder. “But I saw you. God, Lena, you were shattered. I gave you something to hold onto.”

    “You gave me delusion,” she snapped, tears welling. “You pretended to be my mother.”

    He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “I didn’t pretend to be her. I gave you her voice. I gave you comfort.”

    “No,” she whispered. “You gave yourself control.”

    Something flickered behind his eyes. A glint of frustration. The truth catching its breath.

    “You really think I just happened to walk into that grief circle?” he said. “I read her obituary. I knew her name. I chose you.”

    Lena’s stomach dropped like a stone in water.

    “You found me,” she said, numb.

    “I studied you,” he corrected. “Everything about you. I knew you’d be receptive. I understood you.”

    “You stalked me.”

    He took another step. “I saved you.”

    Lena backed into the table. “You infected me.”

    Theo’s face twisted — pain, pride, something darker.

    “I gave you someone to believe in.”

    Lena’s hand dipped into her coat pocket. Her fingers wrapped around her phone.

    Theo’s gaze followed the motion. “What are you doing?”

    She pulled it out and hit record. “I’m recording this.”

    For a second, he looked stunned.

    Then he smiled. Not kindly. Not even human.

    “Oh, Lena,” he said, voice syrup-thick with mock concern. “You’re not well.”

    She stared him down, tears now flowing freely. “Don’t.”

    He took a slow step forward. “You don’t know what’s real anymore. That’s what grief does, remember? It distorts things. Makes people paranoid.”

    “I know what’s real,” she sobbed. “And I know what you are.”

    He didn’t blink. “I was the only one who stayed.”

    “You stayed,” she spat, “because you built the cage.”

    Theo’s mask cracked. Just slightly.

    “You’re going to destroy everything we shared,” he said, voice tight.

    “There was nothing real to destroy.”

    The room was heavy with it — the final, breathless silence.

    Then Theo stepped back.

    Straightened his coat.

    Turned toward the door.

    And walked out without another word.

    He didn’t slam it.

    He didn’t say goodbye.

    He just disappeared.

    Later That Night

    Lena sat on her bathroom floor, all the letters piled in a bin beside her. Her phone lay face-up next to her, the voice recording still open.

    She didn’t delete it.

    Not yet.

    She needed to remember what manipulation sounded like.

    The police report was filed that night. She didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. She half-expected the door to creak open at 3 a.m., for Theo to be standing there in the dark, holding a new letter.

    But the night passed.

    And the next one.

    And the next.

    The police took her seriously.

    To Lena’s surprise, they didn’t ask if she was exaggerating, or confused, or grieving too much to think clearly. The moment she played the recording, everything shifted.

    Theo Holloway — if that was even his real name — had no fixed employment, no next of kin, and a long trail of aliases. No criminal record, but restraining orders. Three. None recent. Two expired. One still active in Devon. All women who had lost someone close to them.

    They searched his flat and took the notebook. The letters. The envelopes. The birthday card.

    “We may not be able to charge him,” the officer warned, “but he won’t come near you again. Not legally.”

    Still, Lena changed the locks the next day.

    The flat felt different now.

    She cleared out her letters. Burned them in a cheap metal bin on the balcony. She watched the flames eat the pages slowly, curling each ‘darling girl’ into ash.

    It didn’t make her feel better.

    But it made her feel done.

    She bought new tea. Rearranged the living room. Finally opened the care package her friend had sent after Maggie’s death — the one with the bath salts and calming teas.

    She drank one that night. Lavender and camomile.

    She realised it was the first time she’d felt peaceful in weeks.

    Three weeks passed.

    Theo didn’t return.

    No letters. No knocks. No shadows on the stairwell.

    She went back to the grief circle. The chair he used to sit in was empty.

    She didn’t take it.

    She spoke that night. For the first time in months, she spoke freely.

    “I don’t think grief ends,” she said. “I think it changes shape. It goes from being everything, to being something you carry.”

    The group nodded. No one interrupted. That was the thing about grief circles. Everyone understood the language.

    Afterward, the woman with the red lipstick squeezed her hand. “Your mother would be proud,” she said.

    Lena smiled.

    This time, the words didn’t hurt.

    Six Months Later

    The sea was calm.

    Lena stood at the same cliff where they’d scattered her mother’s ashes. She hadn’t been back since that day. The day everything changed.

    She held a new letter in her hand — one she wrote herself.

    It wasn’t long. Just enough.

    She weighed it with a stone and tossed it into the wind.

    It fluttered for a moment, then vanished over the edge.

    She whispered something into the salt air.

    And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.

  • The Colour She Left Behind

    The fire crackled gently, casting flickers of gold across the worn oak floor. Rain tapped at the windows in soft rhythms, like nature had slowed down for a while.

    I sat across from Grandpa Tom, legs tucked beneath me on the carpet, a steaming mug warming my hands.
    We hadn’t spoken in a while. Just… existed together. That was always easy with him.

    How to describe Grandpa Tom?
    He was old. How old? Hard to tell. If you picked a number at random, he was probably a little older than that. His body was frail, stooped, and weary, but his eyes—his eyes still burned with the fire of youth.

    I looked at the photo on the mantelpiece.
    A black-and-white image of a woman laughing, mid-spin. Barefoot. Alive.
    My grandmother, Rosie.

    “How old were you, Grandpa?” I spoke carefully, not wanting to upset him. “How old were you when you met her?”

    I need not have been afraid, for the twinkle in his deep blue eyes returned, and a faraway look drifted across his wrinkled face.

    “I was nineteen,” he said contentedly.

    “And how did you know she was the one?” I continued.

    His smile broadened, but a small tear welled in his sea-blue eyes.

    “She made me feel like I was truly living,” he spoke slowly, as if the memory was a candle he was trying to keep lit for as long as possible.

    “I wish I could’ve met her,” I said, almost to myself.

    “I wish you had too,” he replied softly.

    I hesitated, then asked, “Will you tell me about her? I don’t mean just the stories Mum tells. I mean… what she was really like. To you.”

    He leaned back in his chair and let out a long, thoughtful breath.
    Then he began.

    Summer, 1954.

    The air was thick with sun and jazz.

    Tom was nineteen, shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled, a cigarette dangling from his lips—more for effect than habit. He stood by the edge of the lake, a guitar slung lazily over his back, trying to look indifferent.

    Trying not to stare.

    She was sitting a few metres away on the jetty. Barefoot. A paperback balanced on her knees, her chocolate hair twisted into a careless knot that danced in the wind.
    Her red dress, bright as a poppy, billowed gently around her legs.

    “You’re staring,” she said, without lifting her eyes from the book.

    Tom blinked. “Am I?”

    She raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You want something, music boy?”

    A pause. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Only your name.”

    She shut the book with a snap, stood up, and walked toward him, her footsteps a whisper on the wood. When she stopped in front of him she grinned, her eyes searching his like she was reading a book of her own.

    “Rosie,” she declared, her voice dancing with amusement.

    Tom didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Her name echoed through him like the first chord of a favourite song.

    They spent that summer like it might vanish at any moment.

    Days melted together in a golden haze of sun, grass stains, and jazz records spinning in Rosie’s room. They lay beneath open skies talking about everything and nothing—books, music, dreams, the kind of lives they wanted to lead. Tom had never met anyone who looked at the world like she did.

    Rosie saw the world in layers. While others walked past a crumbling wall, she stopped to admire the way the moss painted it green like a brushstroke. She found poetry in the mundane, magic in the overlooked.

    She made him feel things.
    Not just love. Life.

    One evening, just before sunset, they danced barefoot in her kitchen, the sound of music crackling from a dusty old radio.
    Rosie wore a red ribbon in her hair, a flash of colour that bounced as she twirled gracefully.

    “You’re terrible at this,” Rosie laughed as Tom stepped on her toes for the fifth time.

    “In my defence, you’re very distracting,” he laughed.

    She shook her head, but her smile softened, her gaze holding his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

    Then he said it.

    “I will love you in every life I live, Rosie.”

    She kissed him then, slow and certain, as if sealing a vow neither of them yet understood.

    Years passed.

    They built a life together—messy and beautiful and full of music.

    In 1958, they welcomed a daughter. A tiny thing with Rosie’s eyes and Tom’s laugh. They named her Marianne.

    There were sleepless nights and burnt dinners and bills they barely scraped together to pay. But there was love in every corner of their little house. Rosie turned the mundane into magic, even in motherhood. She sang lullabies that made Tom cry quietly in the hallway.

    “She’ll be strong,” Rosie once said, brushing Marianne’s tiny hand with her thumb. “She’ll be curious, and kind, and full of wonder.”

    She was.

    Spring, 1982.

    That was the year they found it.

    At the appointment, she wore her red scarf—the one she always claimed made her feel strong.

    “If I’m going to be told something awful,” she had said with a small smile, “I might as well wear a little fire around my neck.”

    The diagnosis came quietly, without ceremony. Words like aggressive and terminal hung in the sterile air like thunderclouds. Tom’s ears rang as the doctor spoke, but Rosie just nodded, like she already knew.

    In the car, Tom gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.

    Rosie reached across the seat and took his hand.

    “Don’t mourn me before I’m gone,” she said gently. “I’m still here. Right now. With you.”

    She was still Rosie.

    She wore her red scarf the last time they went to the lake. Her hands trembled when she took off her shoes, but she still stepped into the water, teeth chattering, a triumphant grin on her face.

    “I want to remember what it felt like to be free,” she said.

    Tom stood beside her, holding her hand, and tried not to cry.
    But Rosie noticed. She always noticed.

    That night, they lay under the stars again, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her like they could keep her tethered to the earth.

    “I’m not scared of death,” she murmured. “I’m scared of being forgotten.”

    Tom held her tighter.

    “I’ll carry you in everything I do,” he promised. “Every song. Every story. Every heartbeat.”

    Winter, 1982.

    The sun rose gently, as if afraid to disturb her.

    Tom was by her side, holding her hand. Her breath was shallow, her body still, but her face—her face looked peaceful. Almost smiling.

    He whispered to her through the morning stillness, a thousand memories folded into one final moment.

    “Thank you,” he said. “For loving me. For making me more than I ever was. For Marianne”

    She looked at him, just once more, and in her eyes was every summer, every laugh, every moment they’d ever shared.

    “I will love you,” she mouthed silently, “in every life I live.”

    Then her eyes closed.

    He stayed with her for hours. Not saying a word. Just watching her face—peaceful, like she was dreaming of dancing barefoot again, of lakes and laughter and jazz.

    And the world didn’t end.
    But it changed.

    Present Day.

    Grandpa Tom wiped his eyes with a trembling hand, his voice quieter now.

    “She gave me your mother, Liam. And your mother gave me you.”

    I stared at him, an ache in my chest.

    “How did you go on?” I asked.

    “I didn’t,” he said hoarsely. “Not at first. For a long time, I just… survived. But eventually, I realised something.”

    He looked at me, his expression impossibly tender.

    “What is grief, if not love persevering?”

    I let the words settle inside me. Heavy. Beautiful. True.

    “She never left me,” he said. “She was in the way I made tea for two, long after she was gone. In the lullabies I sang to your mother. In every story I told you at bedtime. Love doesn’t end. It changes shape.”

    We sat in silence then. But it wasn’t stormy. It wasn’t heavy.
    It was warm. Full.

    “I want to live a life full of colour,” I said after a long time. “Like she did.”

    Grandpa Tom’s eyes flicked to the old photo above the fire—Rosie mid-spin, her face alight with joy.

    “She’d say start with red,” he said, smiling gently. “Always red.”

    That evening, as I left Grandpa Tom’s house, golden leaves drifted across the pavement, dancing in the wind like they had somewhere to be.

    I looked up. The sky was streaked with soft hues, like the world was painting something just for her.

    And I realised—she wasn’t gone.
    Not really.

    She was in the stories.
    In the stillness.
    In the love that had outlived her.

    She was in Grandpa Tom.
    And now—she was in me.

  • The Gospel of The Clifftop Crown

    I never wanted the throne.

    That’s what I told him. That’s what I told them all.

    My name is Freddy—well, officially it’s Prince Frederick the Second, named after my father. I was the gentle one. The quiet prince who loved books more than blades, who wandered through forests instead of courtrooms, who watched his father rule not with envy — but reverence.

    King Frederick the Great — my father, my hero.
    A man of rare kindness. Of impossible strength.
    He ruled Ardalan with a golden hand, warm and fair, just and feared. They called him the Heart of the Realms. I simply called him Dad.

    He was the kind of man who knelt to help a beggar and dined with generals in the same breath. And he loved me with all of him — even when I flinched from his legacy, when I whispered, “I’m not like you.”

    He would smile, ruffle my hair and say, “That’s why you’ll be better.”

    I believed him.

    He believed me.

    It was meant to be a simple afternoon.

    Just the two of us walking through Veilwood — his favourite place in the kingdom, where the trees whispered secrets, and the wind tasted clean. There were no guards. No advisors. Just father and son. We laughed. He told stories of when he was my age — wrestling with politics and nightmares in equal measure.

    I remember the way the light broke through the canopy, catching the silver in his beard.

    Then we heard it.

    Rustling. Steel. Footsteps. Too many.

    Bandits.

    His face shifted in an instant — calm to alert, like a wolf smelling blood. Even older now, he was formidable. He drew his sword, placed me behind him.

    “Run, Freddy.”

    We bolted through the trees, breathless. The sounds behind us grew louder, closer. Then the forest broke into sky.

    A cliff.

    We stopped at the edge, wind biting our faces, the drop beneath us vanishing into mist and stone.

    I turned to him. “We climb,” I said. “Hold the ledge, wait them out. They’ll think we jumped.”

    He blinked. Then — pride. That soft fatherly pride that I’d always lived for.

    “Brilliant,” he said, clasping my shoulder. “You think like a king.”

    He dropped first, gripping the rocky edge with strong, weathered hands. “Come on, Freddy!”

    I didn’t move.

    He looked up, puzzled. “Freddy?”

    The bandits spilled from the woods like shadows. My father heard them, his face blanching. “Freddy, they’re here! GO!”

    But I stayed.

    The first man approached me. Scarred, savage, eyes like stone.

    And then he knelt.

    One knee to the ground. Head bowed.

    Another. Then another. All of them. Kneeling before me.

    My father’s face twisted into something I’d never seen before — pure confusion. Then horror.

    “No,” he whispered. “What is this? Freddy, what is this?!”

    I walked slowly to the edge of the cliff. I knelt beside him, his fingers white with strain as he clung to the rock. His blue eyes — the ones I’d inherited — searched mine, desperate.

    I crouched, gripping his fingers gently. One by one, I began to prise them from the rock.

    His breath caught. His face twisted in disbelief. “Son, no—Freddy, no!”

    And then, at last, I spoke.

    “Your Majesty,” I said, voice suddenly smooth as silk. “Your reign was long. Peaceful. Celebrated. But peace is a lullaby that puts empires to sleep. You taught me kindness. Mercy. Diplomacy. And I thank you. Truly, I do. Because now I know the tools to break a kingdom without ever raising a sword.”

    Another finger slipped.

    “You saw the people’s love as your strength. I saw it as their weakness. You ruled by worship. I will rule by fear.”

    He panted in desperation, trying to find footing, to pull himself up, but there was nowhere to go.

    “These men,” I gestured to the bandits below, “are no bandits. They are soldiers. Forgotten by your treaties. Scorned by your mercy. I gave them purpose again.”

    Another finger gone. Only two left.

    “I was born in your shadow, Father. And in the shade, things grow twisted.”

    Tears streaked his face, carving paths through sweat and grime. “Freddy… please. I love you.”

    “And I loved you too,” I murmured. “But love is for boys. And I am a king now.”

    “Freddy… help me. Please.”

    I tilted my head, studying him — the pitiful shake in his shoulders, the way his fingers clung to the edge like brittle roots on a cliffside, tearing loose one by one.

    “I never wanted the throne,” I said, voice velvety soft.

    His eyes widened, lip trembling. “You’re lying.”

    I leaned in, close enough to see the reflection of myself in his tears. Then I smiled — slow, deliberate, cruel.

    “Yes. Yes, I am.”

    And with a flick of my wrist, I peeled away the final finger.

    He didn’t scream.

    He just fell.

    The wind swallowed him whole.

    I straightened. The cliffs behind me offered no comfort. The men below did not cheer. They simply watched — as I turned from the edge, the smile still lingering, quiet and satisfied,

    My voice did not tremble.

    “Let it be known,” I declared, “that King Frederick the Great has fallen to his death in a tragic accident. The prince tried to save him… but it was too late.”

    A silence. Then applause.

    I smiled again, soft and serene.

    “I am King now.”

    And in the Four Realms, where kindness once ruled, a new name echoed in the dark.

    Frederick the Black.
    The boy who smiled.
    The son who waited.
    The shadow that took the crown.

    I never wanted the throne. 

    the lie coiled like smoke in my mouth, sweet and effortless. The meek shall inherit the earth, they said. But the strong shall write the scripture. 

    My gospel begins today.

    And every verse drips red.

  • The Illusion of Divine Benevolence

    Throughout history, religion has attempted to answer humanity’s most profound questions: Why are we here? What happens after we die? Is there a higher power governing our existence? These are questions that, by their very nature, demand humility and intellectual curiosity. Yet, the most dominant religious traditions assert, with unwavering confidence, that they hold the absolute truth. To commit oneself entirely to an institutional belief system is to commit intellectual suicide—an act of self-imposed ignorance that severs the possibility of engaging with new ideas, alternative perspectives, and the lived experiences of others. In doing so, one does not seek truth but instead embraces the comfort of certainty at the expense of understanding.

    I consider myself agnostic, in the sense that no human can claim definitive knowledge about the existence or nature of a higher power. However, among the competing explanations for the universe, atheism offers the most logically consistent and evidence-based framework. The problem of suffering, in particular, dismantles the notion of an omnipotent, benevolent God. No argument—philosophical or theological—has ever sufficiently justified the existence of pointless, senseless suffering, especially when it extends beyond human free will and enters the realm of animal cruelty, natural disasters, and the indiscriminate horrors of disease, famine, and genocide.

    The Problem of Evil: A God That Must Beg for Forgiveness

    In a Nazi concentration camp, a Jewish prisoner once wrote, “If there is a God, He will have to beg for my forgiveness.” This quote encapsulates one of the most devastating challenges to religious belief—the existence of unthinkable human suffering under the watch of a supposedly all-powerful, all-loving deity.

    Religious apologists often cite free will as a defence against suffering. But free will, as a concept, does not adequately explain the scale and nature of evil in the world. If God created humanity, he deliberately calibrated the balance of good and evil within us. If free will is so sacred, why did God allow it to manifest in a world where people rape, torture, and murder children? Religious believers often pray to God, and then thank him for answering those very prayers. If free will is so sacred, why does God intervene in petty personal prayers yet remain silent when genocides occur and human beings are begging for biblical aid? The standard response—that suffering has a greater purpose—is an insult to human intelligence. A mother watching her child die of starvation does not gain moral wisdom from the experience. A rape victim does not become spiritually enlightened through trauma. And even if human suffering were somehow necessary, why does this extend to animals, who possess no moral agency and gain nothing from their suffering?

    Animal Suffering: The Theological Argument That Collapses Religion

    The free will argument completely disintegrates when applied to non-human suffering. Alex O’ Connor raises that a deer bleeding out on the road, its last hours spent in agony, does not grow spiritually from the experience. A parasite that burrows into a child’s eyes and blinds them, as Stephen Fry once pointed out, does not serve some divine plan. These are cruel, purposeless realities built into the very fabric of our world. If an all-powerful, all-loving God exists, he designed this system—a system where pain, predation, and disease are fundamental components of life.

    One cannot reconcile the idea of a compassionate creator with the existence of pointless suffering. If a human designer created a world that functioned in this way—where children were born with fatal diseases, where entire species existed purely to be tortured by nature, where pain outpaced pleasure for many animals—we would call that designer a monster. Why should the standards be different for a God? If anything, an omnipotent being has less excuse for such negligence, not more.

    The Arrogance of a God Who Demands Worship

    Even if one could excuse God’s indifference to suffering, why does He demand worship? The Abrahamic God, in particular, does not simply ask for belief—He commands constant adoration, submission, and obedience. This alone raises disturbing philosophical questions.

    If God is perfect, self-sufficient, and all-powerful, why does He require praise? Why is He so jealous of other gods? Why does He demand faith rather than provide undeniable evidence of His existence? These traits are not those of a benevolent ruler but rather those of a fragile, insecure dictator. Imagine a human king who:

    • Allows his people to suffer,
    • Provides no direct communication,
    • Punishes those who fail to worship him,
    • And expects eternal gratitude despite his indifference.

    We would call such a ruler a narcissistic tyrant, yet this is exactly how the God of major religions presents Himself. And yet, He expects humanity to bow, sing praises, and live life in constant gratitude. If God exists, He is not benevolent—He is indifferent, cruel, or deeply insecure.

    Why Religion Persists: Comfort Over Truth.

    Despite these contradictions, religion remains dominant. But this endurance is not due to its intellectual strength—rather, it thrives because it offers psychological comfort. The promise of life after death, the illusion of cosmic justice, and the desire for moral absolutes are deeply appealing. Atheism, by contrast, offers no comforting afterlife, no divine justice, no grand cosmic plan. It requires individuals to accept reality as it is, not as they wish it to be.

    Yet, in this acceptance, there is a deeper form of empowerment. If the universe is indifferent, then we must create our own meaning. If there is no cosmic justice, then it is up to us to build an ethical society. If God does not intervene, then our actions—our kindness, our courage, our resilience—matter more than ever.

    I do not claim to have all the answers, but I do know this: the suffering in this world does not point to a benevolent deity. If God exists, He has abandoned us. If He does not, then we are truly alone—but perhaps, in that solitude, we are finally free.

    Final Thoughts: The Agnostic’s Standpoint

    I remain agnostic, not because I find theism convincing, but because absolute certainty is impossible. However, based on the available evidence, atheism offers the most coherent and rational explanation for the universe. As Richard Dawkins says, I believe in god to the same extent to which i believe in vampires or fairies. There is equal evidence for both.

    The problem of suffering is not a minor inconvenience in religious philosophy—it is a fatal contradiction that no theological framework has ever solved. And as long as religion demands worship of an absent, indifferent, or cruel God, it will always be built on a foundation of fear and submission rather than truth and understanding.

    It is not disbelief that is dangerous—it is the unquestioning acceptance of dogma. True intellectual freedom comes not from faith, but from the courage to say:

    I do not know—but I will seek, I will question, and I will never be afraid of the truth. If the divine exists, it is not threatened by my questions but illuminated by my search.