Rhys slumped beneath the ancient oak, his shoulders heavy with defeat. The rejection letter crumpled in his pocket felt like the weight of the world. Tears traced silent paths down his cheeks as he stared blankly at the ground—hopelessness had hollowed him out. Then, a rustle of leaves. A small boy appeared, clutching a wooden paint box and a sun-bleached canvas. Without a word, he settled beside Rhys and began to paint. Strokes of gold and green bloomed across the fabric—summer’s vibrance, spring’s tender buds, winter’s stark elegance, autumn’s fiery surrender. Rhys watched, transfixed. “Why this?” he finally asked, voice rough. The boy didn’t look up. “Because it’s magic,” he…

The Girl Who Learned to Love Her Map Lia lived in a world of polished surfaces—where smiles were filtered, skin was airbrushed, and imperfections were something to be erased. Every billboard, every screen, every glossy magazine whispered the same lie: Perfection is beauty. Beauty is power. She hated her reflection. The freckles scattered across her nose like constellations she couldn’t name. The faint lines framing her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way her cheeks flushed unevenly in the cold. She covered them with layers of concealer, smoothed them with digital edits, angled her face away in photos. If only I could be flawless, she thought, then I’d belong. One rainy afternoon,…