Mary stood in line, feeling the panic rise as she fumbled through her purse. “Oh no,” she muttered under her breath, her face flushed with embarrassment. She looked up at the cashier with an apologetic smile. “I must’ve left my wallet in John’s car. I’m so sorry, but I’ll have to leave these.” The cashier had already started to return her items when a voice from behind spoke up. “Wait, ma’am! You don’t have much, I can cover it,” said a boy, no older than twelve. Mary blinked, surprised. “Oh

They say neighbors can either be friends or enemies, but I never imagined mine would be both at the same time. What started as a simple favor turned into a bitter conflict and a shocking twist I didn’t see coming. My name is Prudence, and I’m 48 years old. I’m a mom of two, trying to make it on my own since my husband, Silas, left six years ago. Now I work from home, doing a call center job that pays the bills but doesn’t fulfill me in any way.

We all age, and eventually, we all face the end of our lives. It’s a part of the human experience. I’m not particularly scared of dying, I see it as something beautiful and natural. But what truly terrifies me is the idea of growing old and becoming unable to care for myself. The thought of needing help for every little thing—being unable to go to the bathroom by yourself or forgetting the names of your own children—that’s not living. That’s a nightmare. Maria was spending her last days in a