Two celestial beings united, their love birthing a child of boundless potential. This child, a Young Deity, possessed the raw power of influence and creation at his fingertips. Yet, fate dealt a harsh blow, leaving him abandoned upon a cold, stone shrine inside a cave, to face the world alone.

A hollow emptiness twisted and churned in the Young Deity's stomach, consuming him from within. His cries, born of desperation and need, echoed through the cavern, a haunting melody of loneliness and hunger.

With the innocence of youth, he reached out with his mind, his whisper carried on the wind, "Feed me."

This simple yet potent command ensnared a passing bird. Compelled by an unseen force, the bird offered its humble meal of worms and insects. But as the Young Deity brought the offering to his mouth, he gagged in disgust, his frustration unleashing a lethal wave of energy.

The bird fell lifeless.

Each creature that answered the Young Deity's call met a similar fate, deepening the chasm between his innocent intentions and the grave outcomes. The cave's air thickened with the tang of copper and the sickly scent of decay.

This changed when the nymphs heard his call. The nymphs, ethereal beings graced with divinity, could not ignore the Young Deity's plaintive cries. Ida, with her cascading silvery hair and eyes of the deepest blue, led her sisters to the child's shrine. The sight of unintended carnage halted their steps, fear rippling through them. Yet, within Ida's trepidation, a maternal instinct flourished. With gentle hands, she offered milk from her goat, a humble, life-giving gift to the famished child.

As the Young Deity suckled at the milk, relief swept through the gathering. The once heavy air, laden with death, now buzzed with life, as vibrant flora burst forth, carpeting the cave floor with lush grass and adorning the walls with fragrant blooms. The barren land beyond transformed, echoing the child's newfound contentment.

Under the nymphs' vigilant care, the Young Deity thrived. Ida and her sisters balanced indulging his playful desires with tempering his might. They invented games to delight the young boy, his laughter echoing in their realm. Yet, his displeasure could shake the earth, summon storms, and provoke volcanic eruptions, reminding them of his potent discontent.

This fragile peace broke with the arrival of another deity, a ruler of the seas, whose envy sparked conflict. Their clash, a maelstrom of divine wills, rent the sky with lightning and filled the air with the roar of thunder. The earth quaked, and oceans roiled in turmoil.

Then, unexpectedly, laughter replaced fury. The deities' powers collided but caused them no harm, tickling them into play. But their play altered the world around them drastically.

The nymphs watched in despair as their tranquil home fractured beneath the gods' careless joy.

In the devastation's aftermath, the Young Deity, Zeus, surveyed the scarred landscape. Ida knelt among the ruins, her silent sobs a testament to their loss. Her tear-streaked face, a silent plea for restraint, met Zeus's gaze, igniting a pang in his heart.

Zeus took to the skies, the full extent of the devastation unfolding before him. The land's pain, the nymphs' anguish, and the silent absence of once-abundant life weighed heavily on him.

In this somber moment, Zeus's understanding deepened. With a gentle glow emanating from his palms, he began to mend the broken world, breathing life back into the scorched earth.

Poseidon, his brother & playmate, began to help.

In high school, the aim was simple: get to college. For someone like me, raised on sardines and eggs, it wasn't just a goal but a dream. Lucky for me, my school was free.

College was the real battle. Costly. Yet, we believed it would lift our family.

Fortune smiled again though. Tutors from top colleges volunteered to mentor. One day, the principal singled me out. He knew me, somehow. "You," he pointed, "be here next Saturday."

I showed up. I put in the work. A mentor took notice. She handed me a college application. "Fill this," she instructed. The form questioned about fees. I ticked "scholarship needed." The entrance fee worried me. "Don't," she advised.

A telegram came months later, nearly overlooked. It confirmed I passed. Full scholarship. I was elated.

That mentor, however, vanished. I couldn't express my gratitude. Her full name escaped me.

Years flew by. I graduated, landed a decent job, and now mentor others. I work full time as a manger and I lead a non-profit part-time in the design field.

Tammy's peculiar love for pickles traced back to Grandma, whose own fondness for the tangy treat ensured our fridge was never without a jar.

Every weekend, we'd visit her Grandma's, and she'd play checkers with her. Sometimes, they'd tend to the garden outside. Other times, they would cook and bake together. Then, they snacked on pickles.

Following Grandma's passing, she seemed to eat more of it.

We thought it wise to address Tammy's growing obsession. The pickle jars, once symbols of her connection with Grandma, now seemed like an excess we ought to curb.

"Where are my pickles?" she demanded after one of her outdoor games, her voice echoing the loss of more than just her favored snack.

"We're cutting back," my wife gently suggested.

Tammy's storm of emotions—anger followed by tears and hard stomps on the floor as she retreated to her room—echoed her turmoil.

Yet, as time passed, we promptly forgot about this day, until she was 16, and she learned about pickleball, a sport blending elements of tennis and badminton.

"Remember the pickle ban?" she teased, jar in hand, a nod to both her defiance and cherished memories of Grandma.

"We only wanted what's best for you," my wife sighed, her words laden with unspoken regrets and the weight of parental decisions.

"I know," Tammy's response, softened by kisses to our cheeks as she went off to play pickleball.

An unforeseen accident on her way to the game abruptly changed our lives, her injuries a stark reminder of life's fragility.

We saw her in the hospital, wrapped up in bandages, with metal rods protruding from her. My wife cried when she saw this and stepped out.

"Will I lose a limb?" she whispered in the hospital, her vulnerability piercing through the veil of resilience.

"No," I reassured, clinging to hope and the promise of recovery.

Rehab came with Tammy's loss of appetite. She looked gaunt during my visits.

"Did you know," I told her a story, "your grandmother was the first woman to win our local marathon?"

"She was?"

I nodded. "She looked so thin then, didn't have much of an appetite, but she still practiced for the marathon. To force herself to eat more, she discovered something that got her going."

Tammy listened curiously.

"She learned that pickles would give her an appetite." I smiled. "That's how she eventually grew strong enough to win."

"I miss her," Tammy cried and hugged me.

I was teary-eyed but took out a jar of pickles and handed it to her.

She hugged me even tighter.

When Tammy left the hospital, she playfully taunted, "And you thought these were bad," holding up a pickle she was snacking on.

She looked healthier.

Months later, pickleball became a regular family affair.

I walked to my brother's house, champagne in hand, squinting at a message on my phone: "You're actually coming?"

I knocked.

Stan opened the door, surprise fading into a welcome. He pulled me into the throng of a pool party, a raucous blend of splashes and shouts.

My office attire felt misplaced. I ditched the tie, rolled up my sleeves, and blended in.

Selina was there, laughter mingling with friends'. She waved. I was about to wave back when beer drenched my shirt, courtesy of a careless bump.

"Danny!" the culprit yelled. "Sorry, man! You're actually here!" He vanished before I could reply.

Selina's laughter caught my ear again. I managed a smile.

Stan clapped my back. "Thought you'd be chained to your desk. Good to see you."

Before I could answer, a friend cut in. "Stan, time for your speech. Before everyone get's too drunk."

Stan nodded, leaving me with an unanswered question.

I found Selina in the house, splashing water on her face. "Danny! You made it!"

Her words echoed the sentiment I'd heard all day.

"I saw your photo in Stan's posts. Been back long?"

She blinked. "A year, Danny. And you? Buried in work?"

"I code. Fix things. There's this bug..." I trailed off at her laughter.

"Lost me," she said.

"High school feels like yesterday," I mused.

She smiled. "Thought you'd make a move back then."

I stumbled over words, but we were interrupted.

"Selina, it's time," her friend said.

"For what?" I asked.

The crowd hushed as Stan took the mic, Selina by his side. "We've been together a while, but now it's time take the next step. I proposed.." he started.

I froze.

"...and she said yes," he finished.

The crowd erupted. I clapped, heart sinking.

I congratulated them, the words heavy.

Exiting the chaos, I wandered, phone in hand, scrolling through memories I wasn't part of.

"God, where have I been?"

"In a moment," Antiro said, barely glancing up from his workbench. His latest potion simmered, on the brink of unlocking youth itself. Hunger and the outside world held no sway over him now.

Zenaya, his daughter, set a bowl of steaming soup beside him, her kiss a fleeting warmth on his brow. "I'm off to the village," she said, her voice a soft intrusion into his concentration. "For the festivities."

He grunted, his mind chained to his experiments.

"The festivities, Father," Zenaya persisted, her words heavy with the echo of missed moments, "for you."

"That's tonight?" he asked, the realization dawning like a distant storm.

With a sigh, Zenaya donned her cloak. "Be there," she implored before disappearing into the evening.

Her exit was nearly thwarted by Dr. Etaro, his entrance marked by a polite tip of his hat and a concerned gaze.

"Good evening, Zenaya," he greeted, stepping aside as she hurried past.

"Doctor," she replied, pausing. "Remind him, please."

Inside, Dr. Etaro found Antiro ensnared by his quest for immortality.

"Chasing shadows again, Antiro?" Etaro's voice was a mix of humor and concern.

Antiro's grunt was his only reply.

"Antiro," Etaro said, more firmly, "we need to talk."

"I'm close, Etaro," Antiro said, his eyes never leaving his work. "The potion, it's nearly complete."

"Antiro," Etaro interrupted, "you're ill. The tests showed a rare condition. Your time is running out."

Antiro scoffed, denial his first reflex. "I've never felt better."

"The disease won't wait," Etaro pressed, his voice laden with unspoken urgency.

Antiro fell silent, the truth settling in like a heavy cloak. "I know," he admitted, a whisper in the dim light. "I discovered the disease after testing the last batch of potions on myself.

"Then come to the village," Etaro urged, "live the time you have."

Antiro wavered, torn between his life's work and the undeniable truth of Etaro's plea.

More words flew back and forth. Voices raised as the dawn's light approached.

Etaro turned to leave, pausing at the door. "The trouble is, you think you have time, Antiro. You don't."

Alone, Antiro was left to confront the silent witnesses of his obsession—the unfinished potion, the empty chair, the fading light. In the stillness, he pondered the cost of his pursuit, wondering if the true elixir lay not in his flasks but in the fleeting moments of life passing him by.

Why consider a 2.5-hour bus ride at dawn for a 2000-foot ascent?

We, bound to desks as marketers and creatives, seemed ill-suited for such trials.

"It'll be fun," they assured.

"A grand adventure," the seasoned hiker among us claimed.

Yet, halfway up, confronted by a daunting slope, I hesitated. Ahead, some advanced. Behind, others waited.

I paused, recalling past hurdles: the self-doubt of youth, academic trials, career gambles. Within those memories, I found a stubborn grit.

Dum spiro spero. While I breathe, I hope.

With resolve, I gripped the rock and climbed.

In a town with scarce choices, my marriage was more a contract than a courtship, dictated by necessity and my father's insistence on heirs. We had a daughter first, then a son. With that, I considered my obligations fulfilled and turned my attention to the estate, leaving little room for matters of the heart.

Whispers followed me. "Unhappily Together," they echoed in the corridors, murmured by the maids. I met them with a sharp retort, "Mind your own damn business!" but the words lingered, a constant murmur in the background of my life.

It was Peter, the younger, who first dared to breach the walls I had built.

"You have no love for mother?" His question, simple yet loaded, caught me off guard. Before I could muster a defense, Sasha, his sister, drew us into an embrace, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm between us. "You'll understand about obligations when you grow up," I muttered.

Over time, their mother, undeterred by convention, took to teaching, instilling in our children a wisdom I had overlooked. I sneered at this then, but Peter and Sasha found time to visit her in school.

"Do you know the Velveteen Rabbit?" Peter once asked me. It was during one of our rare family gatherings that Peter shared the story of the Velveteen Rabbit, a narrative about love's power to transform and make real a worn-out toy. I smiled at his story.

During his teens, the war took Peter, his letters home a facade of bravery masking his underlying fear. Sasha remained, her presence a constant, gentle nudge towards a semblance of balance.

Peter returned from the war altered, his spirit dimmed by his experiences. Yet, in moments with Sasha, the shadow of his former self would occasionally reappear.

"I understand about obligations, Father," Sasha once cried angrily at me. "I understand it every time I see Peter!"

I felt a pang at this. In a fleeting impulse for unity, I suggested a family portrait.

As we fidgeted before taking the picture, I placed my hand on Peter's shoulder, leaned over to him, and said, "My son, you are not worn out. You are loved, after all." He turned to me, confused at first, then nodded.

The resulting image, now hanging in the main hall, captured our complex interrelations, a silent testament to the unspoken bonds and tensions among us.

In my later years, as the estate's demands waned and my energy ebbed, I sought solace in solitude, contemplating our silent bonds.

I would go to the school, which I had never visited, now much bigger as I contributed, quietly at first, more to its development. My wife, now its Principal, eventually learned of my donations, and helped me walk with my cane.

Peter found love himself. Married an intelligent woman, and they are now often in the city. I wrote him regular letters now, which seems to have been the only thing I could do.

Sasha takes care of the estate. She's managed to make a business out of pigs and farms. Perhaps her early education from her mother actually paid off.

Compelled by a newfound recognition of my deep, unspoken affection, I penned heartfelt letters to each, laying bare my regrets and realizations.

"Sasha, forgive me. I imposed upon you obligations as my father had imposed on me. I now realize you should have been freer to pursue your own passions."

"Peter, my son, the courage you showed, both on the battlefield and within the walls of our home, taught me the true meaning of bravery. I regret not understanding sooner the weight of the obligations you carried, and I wish I had been there to share that burden with you."

"To my wife, your strength and grace in the face of our arranged union and the challenges that followed have been the silent backbone of our family. I see now the love you've quietly woven into the fabric of our lives, and I regret not recognizing and honoring it sooner."

"That's my story," I said, staring at the suited man beside me.

Death nodded, reached for my hand, and we moved on.