Soul of Wanderlust

Rae had never been good at saying goodbye. As a child, she would cling to her friends at the end of playdates, her tiny hands balled into tight fists, refusing to let them leave. As she grew older, she got better at masking it—smiling and waving, even as something in her chest felt like it was splintering apart. But some goodbyes were too big to hide behind a smile, like the one she had to face now. The old house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy, like the air was thick with all the things left unsaid. Rae stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes, each one packed with a part of her father’s life. It had been a month since he passed away, and now it was time to sort through the things he had left behind. Her father was a man of few words, but he always found ways to show he cared. He would bring her hot chocolate on rainy afternoons, or play her favorite records even though they weren’t his style. It was these small gestures that Rae missed the most—the lit...

Mei never understood why grief felt so heavy. It was as if her whole body had turned to lead, and each step she took was a struggle to lift herself from the ground. It had been six months since her father passed, and the world hadn’t stopped for even a moment to let her catch her breath. The same routine, the same bus rides, the same emptiness. She thought she’d feel better by now, but every corner of their little house reminded her of him—especially his room. One rainy afternoon, while she was clearing out his things, she found an old, leather-bound journal wedged between two dusty books. The journal felt warm in her hands, its cover smooth and worn, as though it had been held and opened countless times. Her fingers traced the faint initials J.H. , her father's name, before she flipped it open to the first page. In bold, loopy handwriting, the words "Stars to Visit" stared back at her. Beneath the title, there was a list: The Warm Sea The Quiet Mountain The Blooming Gar...

A light drizzle began to fall over the sleepy town of Ashgrove, coating the cobblestone streets with a shimmering gloss. The early morning fog curled around the rooftops, giving the place an almost dreamlike quality. For as long as anyone could remember, the town had been a sanctuary for those seeking peace, for quiet, for something they couldn’t quite find anywhere else. Sitting at a small café, nestled on a corner that overlooked the town square, Elise stared out the window, watching the rain. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, mingling with the soft sounds of cutlery and whispered conversations. The world outside moved at its own slow pace, but for Elise, time seemed frozen. It had been four years since her husband, Nathan, had passed, but the grief still clung to her like a shadow. Every Sunday morning, she would come to this café. It had been their place—the spot where they first met, where they’d sit for hours talking about everything and nothing, where they’d dream of a f...

Jacob had always believed in signs. His mother, a deeply spiritual woman, had instilled that belief in him from a young age. She would often point out the smallest things—a sudden gust of wind, a butterfly landing on a nearby flower—and say, “That’s a sign, Jacob. The universe is speaking to us. We just have to pay attention.” He didn’t always understand what she meant, but he loved the way she spoke about the world. To her, everything was connected, everything had meaning. It gave life a certain magic, and Jacob grew up seeing the world through her eyes, always looking for signs, always hoping to catch a glimpse of something greater than himself. But when his mother passed away, that magic disappeared. The world felt cold and empty, stripped of the meaning she had once given it. Jacob felt like he was wandering through a world without color, without direction. The signs he had once believed in were gone, replaced by a dull, aching grief. His mother’s death had been sudden—a car accide...

Maya had always loved the rain. As a little girl, she would run outside whenever the sky opened up, twirling in the puddles, her hair soaked through, laughing as raindrops danced on her face. Her mother, standing under the shelter of the porch, would watch her, smiling softly. “You’ve always loved the rain,” her mother would say, her voice filled with warmth. Maya never really understood why she loved it so much, but rain made her feel alive. There was something magical about it—the way it washed the world clean, the way it seemed to give everything a fresh start. It was like the earth itself was taking a deep breath, releasing everything and starting anew. As Maya grew older, her love for the rain never faded. It became a constant source of comfort to her, a reminder of her childhood and the happiness she always felt with her mother. Even when the rain kept everyone else indoors, Maya would still slip outside, feeling the cool drops fall against her skin, as though they were washing ...

There was a time when James believed that the world was filled with light, where everything had a sense of direction and purpose. This belief, of course, was largely because of his father—a man of strong character and unwavering optimism. His father was the type of person who never seemed lost, even in the face of challenges. No matter how dark the skies got, he always knew how to steer the ship of their lives through the storm. James remembered vividly how, as a boy, his father would take him out to the harbor near their home. There, they would sit for hours, watching the boats come and go. His father always had a story to tell, each one more fascinating than the last. The one that stuck with James the most was about the lighthouse at the edge of the sea. “You see that light?” his father would say, pointing to the steady beam that pierced the night. “No matter how rough the waters get, no matter how lost the sailors are, that light never goes out. It’s always there, guiding them home....

Sophia had always been close to her mother. From the time she was a little girl, she clung to her, finding joy in the smallest of moments. Whether it was in the kitchen, where her mother hummed soft tunes while preparing meals, or in the garden, where they spent countless hours pulling weeds, planting seeds, and nurturing flowers, Sophia’s world revolved around her mother’s gentle guidance. Her mother wasn’t just her parent; she was her best friend, her confidante, her home. It was the garden that had always felt like their special place. Sophia would spend lazy afternoons out there, her mother kneeling beside her as they dug their fingers into the earth, feeling the cool, moist soil under their nails. Her mother had a knack for growing things. No matter what they planted—roses, daisies, or tulips—they would always blossom under her touch. To Sophia, it felt like magic. She used to wonder if her mother carried some kind of secret—something that made life spring up wherever she went. As...

Margaret sat by the window of her small, cozy home, the warm afternoon sun casting a soft glow on the table before her. In front of her lay a stack of old, worn letters, bound together with a piece of frayed ribbon. Her hands, lined with the passage of time, rested gently on the letters as if they were fragile relics of a life long lived. She hadn’t opened these letters in years, not since her husband, Edward, had passed away. Today, something felt different. The air seemed heavier, the light more golden than usual, and the ache in her chest more poignant than it had been in a long time. With a deep breath, Margaret untied the ribbon and gently unfolded the first letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting, her heart quickening with the rush of memories it brought back. Edward had been a man of few words, but his letters were always filled with warmth, humor, and love. They had met in the early 1960s, at a time when handwritten letters were still a cherished form of communicatio...

In a small, quiet town, nestled between rolling hills and winding rivers, there was a little tea shop named “Morning Dew.” It wasn’t a grand place—just a cozy corner with a few tables, a display of various tea blends, and the lingering scent of herbs and spices that filled the air. The shop was run by an elderly woman named Mei, who had spent most of her life perfecting the art of brewing tea. Mei wasn’t just a tea vendor; she was a listener, a quiet presence in the lives of those who visited her shop. People came to her for more than just tea—they came to share their worries, their joys, and their sorrows. Mei believed that a good cup of tea could soothe the soul, and she took pride in choosing the right blend for each person who walked through her door. One chilly autumn morning, as Mei prepared to open the shop, she noticed a young man standing outside. He looked lost, his eyes red from lack of sleep, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Mei watched him for a moment before openin...