Anubis watched as his father, Osiris, watered the fields with a simple wave of his finger. Seated on his golden throne, cushioned by a blue linen pillow, he glanced across where Isis scribbled her magical enchantments on papyrus. Nature sprouted through the window in front of her overlooking the fields of Aaru, while Seth patrolled the sandy terrain with his staff.

“Dear, shouldn’t you find a hobby too?” Isis inquired, noticing his gaze.

“I don’t want a hobby, I want a profession like all of you,” Anubis replied.

“Well, son, one must remember to be responsible and consistent in their work. Once you’ve chosen a job, you can’t back out, and you’ll have to wake up early. You know your brother Horus’s watchful gaze won’t forgive you if you break your word,” said Isis.

“I know, I know, but I want to feel useful. I’ll come up with something, you’ll see,” Anubis said, glancing at the screen displaying humans on Earth, particularly Pharaoh Horus Scorpion savoring baklava, honey slowly flowing from his lips, eager to explore the outside world.

“I’ve had an idea! What if we pretend they cease to exist? Just to make the experience more exciting. They can return as if they’ve been revived, after a purifying process, with new identities and all that stuff, of course,” Anubis suggested.

“But Anubis, death doesn’t exist. Souls are eternal,” said Osiris.

“I know, but let’s simulate it. I could manage that process, you know? Oh, and we could even make up a story about ourselves to add more drama—say, my uncle Seth kills my father for the throne, and we revive him. Something like that,” Anubis continued.

It was a sunny morning in the Field of Reeds, and river lilies crackled with light when Horus approached Anubis, whose jackal ears twitched as he slept.

“You slacker, what’s happening with your job?!” Horus said, not even trying to whisper.

“W-What are you talking about? Nothing’s wrong, everything’s up to date,” Anubis said, rubbing his large, slanted eyes.

“Up to date?! What do you have to say about this almost thousand-year-old Methuselah, eh?” Horus inquired.

“Oops,” Anubis swallowed nervously, realizing that the business of death was more convoluted than he initially thought.

There’s no such thing as forgiveness. Asking someone to forgive you is absurd. Why? Because only you can forgive yourself when you believe you have done something wrong and sincerely seek forgiveness. Otherwise, it is just a formality to conform to societal or professional expectations. If you know you have done something wrong, no matter how much the supposed victim forgives you, it won’t bring relief unless you forgive yourself. This involves admitting your mistake, learning from it, and striving to act better the next time something similar happens. In essence, forgiveness is internal reflection.

The same applies to the offended party. They must also work through their feelings and ponder: Why did a certain action bother me? Or is it who it comes from that bothers me? What problem do I have with that person?

Let’s not kid ourselves, if something is not indifferent to us, it means that we have a problem, something to deal with, and it is with ourselves, because that’s why some people get offended by things that others ignore, perhaps due to a childhood trauma, an inherited conflict from parents, or an unprocessed traumatic experience. And by forgiving, I mean letting go of something, a feeling of hatred, it has nothing to do with the other person but with oneself: why one made a mistake and why the other was bothered by it.

Obviously, forgiving doesn’t mean tolerating everything others inflict on us. Forgiveness is a way to free ourselves from mental burdens. If someone doesn’t vibe with us, we shouldn’t force ourselves to be with them, but we also shouldn’t deny them forgiveness. Not forgiving is like telling ourselves that we aren’t allowing ourselves to move on with our lives because of someone else’s mistake. We end up carrying the burden of something we didn’t do ourselves.

“Sounds deep, but are you gonna forgive him or not?” his companion asked, precariously holding the hand of a man hanging from a cliff. “Decide already, he’s heavy and they’re waiting for me at home for dinner.” The man hanging from the cliff, horrified by the height, sobbed, “Please forgive me, I won’t eat your bacon sandwich again.” The other man, smoking a pipe and sitting on a foldable children’s picnic chair, calmly exhaled smoke. “As I said, there’s no such thing as forgiveness. Let go of his hand.”

I’m not the kind of person who dislikes someone without getting to know them, and this wasn’t one of those cases either. But just hearing the sneer in his voice, the way he belittled me, made me feel lesser—as if I couldn’t stand up to him, as if he always held the absolute truth. All those qualities made him absolutely loathsome to me. I know, hate is a strong emotion that nobody should experience, but I can’t help it. His violent attitude and that macabre smile—at least that’s how it seems to me—it’s contempt etched into his face. However, let’s not fool ourselves; that says more about his own personal shortcomings than mine, but I still find the mere act of looking into his rotten eyes full of resentment, low emotions, and his inability to understand how the world works utterly disgusting.

It was as if he had no understanding of the meaning of words like compassion, love, and empathy—as if he had taken a bite with his foul mouth from the dictionary pages where they appeared and renamed it “Barbaric Dictionary.” His disregard for these fundamental values seemed to permeate every aspect of his existence, creating an aura of bitterness that was hard to ignore. To live life without embracing these essential concepts was to live a hollow existence. It was like walking through a world devoid of the qualities that make us human—those intrinsic values that bind us together and create a sense of community.

I tried to explain it to Emma, but her jaw kept chewing as if my speech wasn’t meant for her. She just said, “Why don’t you lower the difficulty level of the game and then you’ll be able to defeat him?” She hadn’t understood a thing. The value of defeating that hateful final boss wasn’t about playing on easy mode, but about stooping to his level and showing what I’m made of. I couldn’t expect Emma to understand the depth of my feelings—the need to prove myself against this obnoxious character. It was about more than just beating the game; it was about overcoming the personal struggle he represented. I needed to emerge victorious over the embodiment of all the negativity and belittlement, and on his own terms.

The android, with cables connecting his brain to his metallic body, stood guard at the entrance of the sewer residence, shielded from the external radiation.

"This one tried to escape," another guard said, holding a bearded man in worn-out jeans.

"Activating protocol for processing the ancient race."

"Wait," the first android said, deploying his blade. "Stop. Don't get mad. Remember, emotions are undesirable."

Plunging his razor into the human's chest, yellowish liquid spurted out. "See? It wasn't human, just an AI disguised. Since the incident that caused our mutation, they’ve been trying to deceive us by adopting our ancestral form!"

“Here you go,” Hugh said, handing him a closed box.

“What’s this? The hamburger you owed me?” Humphry joked, but Hugh just waved goodbye and hurried away. Who knew where he was off to in such a rush, maybe a date or work. Humphry sighed and went back to his office, where he decided to open the box. His fingers felt its rough surface, and his mouth watered in anticipation of the tasty treat he assumed was inside.

Upon opening the box, he discovered tiny figures going about their mundane tasks, seemingly unaware of Humphry’s gaze. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Humphry exclaimed. “He’s left me to babysit these prisoners! It was clearly his turn to watch over them! What a bastard.” As Humphry’s irritation rose, the small figurines inside the box began pointing at the bright light bulb in his office. He managed to close the box just in time to prevent a small rocket from flying out. “These humans and their relentless moon obsession,” Humphry murmured.

I knew her like the back of my hand—perhaps even better. Our morning routine was nearly choreographed: she showered while I shaved in our small bathroom. I swear I could read her mind with all the rambling she did in there. Sometimes I’d say something, sometimes I’d just smile and nod, but she wanted me there, listening, until she was finished and gave over the restroom. And let me tell you, with that bathroom heat, it was like a sauna inside!

Ah, her quirks. Oh yes, she wanted me right there, in the heat of hell, hated even a crack in the door in case a gust of cold air snuck in. Said it gave her chills. You know what I call it? Quirks. What was she talking about in there? What wasn’t she talking about, really? Planning her day, pondering what to eat, even mumbling crazy ideas for her stories, all in this perfectly chaotic symphony that, I guess, she understood.

Singing? I would have liked that, but no, she talked and talked, in a monologue of mental notes, oh yes, I have to do this before that, ah, I almost forgot what I left unfinished yesterday. And don’t you dare touch her towels, all neatly arranged in their designated spot and the bathrobe ready to slip into upon exiting. Of course, more quirks, an inch further and she couldn’t reach it from the shower, as if extending her hand a bit more bothered her.

As she left, I entered. Any affectionate words? Nah, her mental notes continued, occasionally extending towards me; remember to do this or that. A “yes, dear” or a nod would suffice, assuming her attention casually drifted towards me at some point. She’d take a good twenty minutes, insisting that washing her hair was a process, but I’d argue that shampooing and rinsing couldn’t possibly take that long. But hey, that’s just another one of her quirks. That time in the shower was her way of mentally prepping for the day ahead, even if it meant sacrificing a chunk of my time.

Meanwhile, as I bathed, she’d methodically dry herself off with her perfectly organized towels, all while listening to some online tech news or AI updates. And let me tell you, those themes always heated her up; whether it was about job security or the future of humanity, she’d express her dissatisfaction loud and clear, even above the sound of flowing water. Despite all of the criticisms, she’d be the first to join the bandwagon and replace me with the first intelligent android robot to be released.

When I stepped out of the shower, she was nowhere to be found. If I had asked her to wait for me while I showered, she would’ve probably rolled her eyes. Yes, folks, when I finally emerged, she had already devoured breakfast and was eagerly waiting for me to finish so she could brush her teeth. “Sorry for taking five minutes, darling,” I said sheepishly. But that day, when I emerged, there she was, waiting for me with a mischievous grin. It was my birthday, yes, that must have been it, she remembered. “No milk left, hun. Did you drink it all yesterday?” she quipped sarcastically. “Yes, guilty as charged. I chugged it all down, all the way, just like you drain my patience every morning.” But I love it. She treats me so candidly, showing all her quirky stuff and vulnerabilities. And that, my friends, that’s love. Or so I hope.

Okay, let’s think of nice, relaxing things. Writing, yeah, I like that, although writers don’t have much of a future anymore, not like before anyway. With AI, nobody looks for writers, painters, or programmers. This AI is going to replace us. Soon we’ll have an android at home, like in the game Detroit: Become Human. I loved playing it, but now that it’s closer than ever, if they were to kill us Terminator-style, I’d understand, but to replace us and leave us without jobs, without value, without goals, without anything… there’s nothing worse than having nothing to look forward to, nothing that excites you. It’s like being in a depression. Oh no, here I go down the rabbit hole again, let’s focus. Okay, my phone still has no coverage or internet signal. AI controls everything, but if you lose your internet connection or your digital device, you lose your life. You have nothing—no social networks, no friends, nothing to read, no terrible news to complain about. You’re cut off from the world, unable to talk to anyone, without access to your photos, documents, things you’ve written, basically your memories, because we don’t have memory anymore. They fill our minds with useless information and advertising that we don’t need at all while we forget how great we had it at our favorite singer’s concert last week. I don’t even have that memory because I was recording with my phone, a phone that now, without battery, is as if none of that ever existed. The Great Blackout, oh my God, they say we’re going to lose our lives. I don’t even have physical books anymore, only online games and magazines, we’re going to lose everything. Oh no, focus again, no, I can’t, yes you can, focus quickly, someone will soon notice you’re trapped in the elevator and they’ll get you out. Don’t think about the bad stuff, focus on the good. Let’s see what I have in my bag, I don’t even have food or water, great, I’ll probably survive for about 5 minutes. Why do I never bring anything? Oh yeah, because my bag gets heavy and my back, which is already a mess, gets worse. Just what I needed. I’m starting to get thirsty, my throat is dry, I’m coughing, I’m having an allergy attack. How can pollen get into this space of less than one square meter? I don’t think it’s that, you’re paranoid, go back to thinking about good things, like what you were going to do today. I had a date, well, considering what time it is, I think I don’t have it anymore. Is it me or is it getting hotter here? Oh no, it’s not heat, is it lack of air? No, calm down, you’re a hypochondriac. Well, what floor was I on? It’s only the fifth floor, there’s not that much height below in case the elevator ends up falling because of my own weight. I don’t weigh that much, even if I cheated on my diet, the cake I ate last weekend couldn’t have made me gain that much weight, could it? How can something that weighs less than a kilo make me gain two kilos? Can someone explain that to me? Anyway, don’t look down, just don’t think about that. Wait, is that a spider over there? In that corner? Oh no, a beetle? Please don’t tell me it is, alright, just, step on it, come on. Oh no, imagine if it was a bee and it stung me in this space where I can’t run away. Maybe it’s just a speck of dust, don’t move, oh God, it moved, it moved! “Is there someone in there?” Yes, yes, there’s someone in here, me and the beetle, I mean just me, please! “The elevator got stuck between two floors, we’re going to open the doors and get you out, okay?” Okay, I can do it, it’s over, everything will be fine. Oh my God, I’m drenched in sweat, how am I going to go to work like this? I look like a wet hen, and let’s see, oh no, I smell terrible. What the hell are deodorants for anyway? They only smell good when you just got out of the shower, right? Perfect, why would I want to smell good when I already smell like soap, huh? “Give me your hand, miss.” I’m trying but I can’t reach it, I can’t reach. “Please, I can’t open the door anymore, give me your hand, don’t unbalance the platform, miss.” Unbalance? I don’t weigh that much, no, you don’t either, please, I already have enough with my cat’s judgmental look every time I have dessert at home. I can’t reach, I can’t move, I can’t, oh no, don’t tell me I’m going to faint right now. A little more, just a little more, everything is spinning around me, but a little more, “miss, please, give me your hand…” almost, I’m almost there. Does it smell like smoke? I don’t smoke, I used to smoke but not anymore, I overcame it like a champion, it didn’t cost me much, I just gained 30 kilos in the process and a whole wardrobe of new clothes. “An elevator component has burned, we have to get out of here quickly, miss, hurry up” don’t you see I’m already doing it? Can’t you open the doors more? I can’t fit through here, open it more, I don’t fit, ugh, what a cough, it smells burned. Where is the man? Wasn’t there a man here stretching his hand? Has he disappeared? Or is it the smoke that doesn’t let me see anything? Hello? Is anyone here? There’s something here, it must be the man’s hand, it’s metallic, it can’t be, well, grab it anyway, oh, it’s come loose, what was this? The elevator handle? Ouch, my back, great, at least my fat ass stopped the fall, hello cockroach, now I can see it well from the ground, yes, it was a cockroach, great, it’s climbing up my leg, I can’t move or see anything, it smells too burned, well, this is as far as we’ve come. I can’t breathe. Goodbye. The alarm clock. “Wake up sleepyhead! It’s my birthday!” “Son, I know it’s funny to you, but how many times have I told you not to put your hands in your aunt’s face?” Ugh, I’m finally breathing again, what happened, God, I’m drenched in sweat, what time is it? So late, ugh, today is my nephew’s birthday, I have to go pick up the cake, although I’m not going to eat it, I’m on a diet, but skipping it for one day won’t hurt, and the piece of cake I eat can’t weigh that much, right? 250 grams? As a maximum I should only gain a few grams, shouldn’t I? That would be the logic, I think.

I wake in vain

I dream of love as time runs through my hand

Baby, won't you understand

That your wish is my command

I've got this feelin' that won't subside

I look at you and I fantasize

As I look into your eyes I see the sunrise

The light behind your face helps me realize

Oh, think twice, it's just another day for you

You and me in paradise

Every move you make

Every step you take

Nothing but a heartache

Hits you when it's too late

You know that I want to be with you all the time

You know that I won't stop until I make you mine

You know we're two hearts believing in just one mind

Together forever till the end of time

“Mortimer! You can’t just keep chomping down on ice cream like nothing’s happening?” “Sure I can, I’ve only got a few months left till retirement, why should I care?” “Because I doubt they’ll even grant it to you if you don’t nab those thugs.” The sound of a toilet flushing. His partner Pepe emerged from the police station bathroom and strolled over to Mortimer’s desk, where he had his feet up while indulging in a sweet vanilla ice cream in a glass cup. He clicked the TV remote, with an exaggerated grimace. “End of shift, catch you later,” he said, leaving nonchalantly. The TV blared news Mortimer wished he could ignore. “We confirm that five different branches of the same bank have been hit simultaneously. The masked bandits have made off with the loot, thanks to hostages that have left our police forces stumped. The heist has been pinned on the criminal gang known as The Quintuplets, who always strike in five different yet coordinated spots, leaving law enforcement authorities perplexed. Citizens are asking, why can’t our police guardians quell the chaos and...” Mortimer grunted and switched off the TV, annoyed by the report.

Mortimer thought it would be better to turn on the radio instead of the television, as he didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts that were echoing the weight of duty too loudly in his head. The old radio in his drawer remained there, undisturbed by the events unfolding in the evening darkness. “And now, we present to you the new hit from the Korean band composed of five brothers. Which one is your favorite? Let’s hear what their fans have to say about this band of quintuplets.” “No, not more quintuplets! Leave me alone!” Mortimer exclaimed, turning off the radio.

“Sir, we have identified additional individuals for interrogation. There are five actual quintuplets with a history of supermarket theft,” said Ronald, one of the officers.

“Are you serious, Ronald? Just because they’re called ‘the quintuplets’ doesn’t mean they’re actual siblings, they’re just a group of five. We shouldn’t be looking for real brothers, that won’t give us the answer,” Mortimer dismissed the idea.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be more refreshed. Let’s finish today’s shift and let the night shift take over,” Mortimer insisted.

“But...” Ronald tried to argue.

“There are no valid ‘buts’ in this situation,” Mortimer said firmly, asserting the authority he had granted himself, and he headed toward the subway to return home.

To avoid spending time with his inner self, Mortimer decided to pull out his mobile phone and start playing a monster and dungeon-themed RPG game. Despite his advanced age, he was an avid fan of video games and easily passed the first levels of the daily missions. “Here comes the boss,” he thought.

That day’s boss was the Lernaean Hydra, a creature with five heads, and its special move was splitting into five quintuplets of itself. “Oh, come on! It has to be a joke. They’re haunting me everywhere I go,” Mortimer complained, abruptly turning off the screen and losing the game immediately.

Suddenly, everything became blurry around Mortimer, and he woke up in his bed, disoriented and drenched in cold sweat. “Oh, it was just a dream, a nightmare, really. I don’t understand why quintuplets kept chasing me,” he muttered to himself.

“Grandpa, Grandpa! Wake up! You promised to play with us today!”

“Yeah, Grandpa! I want to go iguana fishing!”

“No! He said we would brush my dolls’ hair together and shave their heads with his razor!”

“He won’t be doing any of that because first he has to help me with my math homework. I don’t understand how this works! It says here, ‘How many candies are left if I’m given six and I’ve already eaten two?’ I don’t have any left because Mom only lets me eat two a day!”

“Grandpa, why are you looking at us like that? Come on, cheer up! You’re almost retired, and then we can always be together forever! Won’t that be great?”

And Mortimer understood why.

A few days remain until Mother's Day, and as I sit down to write this letter, I can't help but wonder: what significance does that day truly hold? None at all, if throughout the year one doesn't cherish their mother—this day won't change that. It's akin to cramming for an exam the day before, it might yield results, and with luck, you could even deceive the teacher, but you can never deceive yourself. As I pen this letter, I can't help but feel ridiculous, because why can't we humans express ourselves freely as we desire? Due to our own limitations, embarrassments, traumas, and inner conflicts, we resort to using cards and physical gifts as a crutch, instead of seizing the moment to openly share our feelings on any given day. But since we're already here, I'll embrace the sentiment of this card.

In my day-to-day life, I don't often express these types of things—attribute it to any excuse you'd like: being busy, lacking time, or simply not being in the right mood, but deep down, none of these reasons suffice. The truth is, we find it difficult to express love, yet find unwavering strength in voicing our opinions when angry or upset, in fear of being trampled upon. But expressing love terrifies us. We are afraid of not being loved, afraid of not having a mother who cares for us, and when we have one, we’re afraid of losing her.

Because let's admit it, we all love our mothers—not solely for the immense sacrifices they've made in raising us amidst adversity. That's not what matters, as every mother faces her unique challenges and deserves our love, regardless of her journey. So, I won't tell you, Mom, that I love you because you've given everything for me, because yes, of course you have, but that's not the reason. It's not for what we've been through together or the things you've done—it's for who you are, because you're my mother. And I didn't have to attend any school to learn how to love you.

Lifelong lessons hold no sway when it comes to loving and caring for you, Mom. A mother's love for her child remains steadfast, even if they've gone astray or fallen into the darkest of paths. Because everything learned and all the morality one believes they possess would vanish in an instant, without a second thought, if their mother is in danger. It doesn't matter what must be done or how many heads must be trampled, no matter how terrible we know it might be, and certainly, if it were for ourselves, we wouldn't do it—but for our mother, who gave us life, yes, without a doubt.

And again, no, I'm not grateful for being alive, I don't owe you my life because I didn't ask to be here, you chose to bring me into this world. This letter isn't about gratitude, it's about justice, it's about truth. At this point in the letter, I feel power and bravery, but it soon turns to tears and emotion—damn it, I didn't want to cry. Anyway, let's leave it here, because watching a child cry isn't the best gift a mother could receive, though I know that when you read this, you'll cry too.

The example you've set for me has taught me that I didn't need it at all. I didn't need a role model to follow to become as great a mother as you, I only needed your love, and that is more than enough.

If there's something I don't understand or don't agree with, I'll tell you. If there are things you do that I believe aren't correct or aren't good for you, I'll tell you without hesitation, only to try and help you. So, isn't this the most unconditional love of all, not needing to cite anything specific to justify that I'll always be by your side?