Eunice John
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ABOUT ME
STORY BY Eunice John
'Ashes of silence'
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📖 Chapter 1: The MeetingThe rain fell with a quiet persistence, tracing delicate rivulets down the windows of the small café on Westbridge Street. Aurelia Vale pulled her coat closer, as though the fabric could shield her from both weather and memory. She chose the table by the window—the same one she had chosen for weeks—where the muffled hum of the city outside felt distant, almost unreal.Her gloves were removed slowly, deliberately, and she let her hands rest on the worn tabletop. Her notebook remained in her bag, untouched. Words had been stubbornly absent for days, leaving her thoughts to circle like restless birds.The bell above the door chimed. Footsteps approached, steady, unhurried. A man’s voice followed, low and deliberate, placing an order. Something about it unsettled her—not in a threatening way, but in the way one might be unsettled by a storm approaching silently.She looked up.He stood a few steps away, damp from the rain, holding a black umbrella at his side. Dark hair clung slightly to his forehead, and his eyes—sharp, cautious, and burdened—found hers for a moment that stretched too long. Then he looked away.Aurelia exhaled. The breath had been held unknowingly, and its release left her startled.Minutes passed. The café remained quiet, the clink of cups and soft murmurs around them barely touching the stillness between. Then he moved to the empty chair opposite her.“You look like someone waiting for something that never comes,” he said, his tone neither gentle nor harsh.“I beg your pardon?”His gaze flicked toward her untouched coffee. “It’s grown cold.”Aurelia stared. He was right.“I wasn’t waiting,” she said, unsure if she was telling the truth.“Neither was I.”She studied him properly this time. There was something in the line of his jaw, in the quiet storm of his posture, that spoke of unspoken histories.“Do you often join strangers uninvited?” she asked.“Only when they look lonelier than they admit,” he replied, a trace of humor brushing the corners of his lips.She should have told him to leave.She did not.Instead, she asked softly, “What’s your name?”“Elias.”“Aurelia.”Outside, the rain deepened. Somewhere between that first exchange and the fragile silence that followed, two histories crossed paths—though neither yet understood the cost.
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Whispers of Tomorrow
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Whispers of TomorrowRain had never been something Clara had welcomed. It fell like a relentless drum, tapping against the windows of the small apartment she had called home for the past three years, marking every quiet, empty hour with its steady rhythm. And yet, on this particular morning, the rain felt different—lighter, somehow hopeful. She stood by the window, letting the chill seep into her bones, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, to imagine that maybe, just maybe, life could still surprise her.Her phone buzzed insistently on the countertop, snapping her out of the reverie. The message was simple: “Don’t forget today. It’s your chance.” No sender name, just the words staring back at her in bold font. Clara stared at the screen, her heart thumping. She had waited for this moment for years, every choice, every setback, every small victory all leading to today.The day outside was a blur of gray, clouds hanging heavy like memories she could not shake. But inside, Clara felt a flicker of something warm, something dangerous in its intensity: hope. She had learned long ago that hope was both a friend and a burden—it lifted you when you were low, but it also reminded you of every thing you had lost.She remembered her mother’s words, spoken in the quiet nights of her childhood, before the silence had grown so loud: “You carry the world in your heart, Clara. Don’t let it crush you.” She had tried not to, and yet, somehow, the weight had found her anyway.The streets were slick with rain as she stepped out, umbrella in hand, the world glistening in the soft light of morning. People hurried past, heads down, wrapped in their own worlds, and Clara wondered how many of them carried the same quiet weight she did, hidden behind polite smiles and polite nods.Her destination was a small gallery downtown, tucked between a café and a bookstore, unassuming in every way except for the promise it held. Today was the unveiling of her first art exhibition—her first real attempt to reach out to the world, to leave a mark beyond the walls of her apartment, beyond the suffocating quiet that had shadowed her for so long.As she entered, the scent of fresh paint and varnish wrapped around her like a familiar embrace. The gallery was empty for now, save for the curator, a kindly man named Adrian who had been her mentor in more ways than she cared to admit.“You look nervous,” he said, eyes twinkling.“I feel like I’m about to jump off a cliff,” Clara admitted, forcing a small smile.Adrian chuckled. “Good. That means you care. That means you’re alive.”She nodded, her hands trembling slightly. The first piece she had created—a painting of a small boat caught in a storm—hung at the center of the main wall. Its colors were harsh, jagged, the chaos of the storm almost palpable. And yet, at the heart of it, a small light glimmered, fragile but persistent. That light was her message: even in the darkest moments, there was a spark that could not be extinguished.People began to trickle in, drawn by whispers of Clara’s talent. Some lingered in front of the paintings, some whispered to each other, and some just stared in silence. And Clara? She watched, silently, letting their reactions wash over her, each one a small reassurance that perhaps, the world was ready for her voice.Hours passed like that, a gentle rhythm of observation and quiet pride. By midday, the gallery was alive with conversations, laughter, and the soft hum of piano music playing from the corner. Clara found herself drawn to a particular visitor—a young man, perhaps a few years older than her, who lingered in front of her storm painting with an intensity that made her heart flutter.“You painted this?” he asked finally, voice low, respectful.“I did,” she replied, heart thudding in her chest.He nodded slowly, as if absorbing something far deeper than the image itself. “It feels… like it knows me,” he said.Clara swallowed, unsure how to respond. How could she explain that she had painted not just the storm outside, but the storms inside everyone who had ever felt lost, lonely, or afraid? That somehow, without meaning to, she had captured something universal?“You’ve captured fear and hope at the same time,” he said finally, stepping closer. “It’s… beautiful.”For a moment, Clara’s world narrowed to just the two of them, the rain outside, and the quiet understanding that sometimes, art could bridge the spaces between souls in ways words never could.The day moved on, moments blending into one another, until the gallery was nearly empty again. Clara stood by the window, watching the rain taper into a fine mist. The young man had left, but the impression of him lingered, like a gentle echo of possibility. She realized then that hope was not just about what the world could give her—it was about what she could give the world, too.Weeks passed. Clara’s days settled into a quieter rhythm, but the echoes of that exhibition lingered. Sh
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