Originally this story came to me in a dream. I had dreamt that when we die, there is a place waiting for us beyond any realm of religion called Pandore. It's where the wicked, damned, and unredeemable reside. This place beckons for lost souls, and Clay, although not dead yet, is fighting fate so that he does not become one of them.

I'm hoping to make this a 20 book series. Currently, I have a few out but was recently diagnosed with a genetic brain disorder that has significantly slowed me down.

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

_______________________________________________________________________

sanaz seyed esfahani

*This story is about Y/n and Tom Holland they are working on a set together to film civil war (Movie) Y/n is playing a girl character named EVERLIGHT in the movie. When Y/n gets to the movie set everyone is welcoming Scarlet "Heyyy" Chris "Hi you must be Y/n.." Chris Hemsworth "Hey hey girlll." Everyone else except Tom "HEYYYYYY." Tom just stares Y/n down coldley.*

what will happen????

Nick was a quiet, reserved man, burdened by the weight of loss and illness. Orphaned at a young age, he had learned to navigate life alone. His friends teased him endlessly about his single status, all of them happily married while Nick remained indifferent. Despite his worsening health, he never missed a day at his managerial job.

One morning, as he was engrossed in paperwork, a soft voice interrupted him. “Excuse me, I’m here for an interview. Can you tell me where to go?”

Nick glanced up, and his heart skipped a beat. It was Lia, his former classmate—the girl he had secretly admired in school. Shocked, he pointed her toward the interview room. “Go that way,” he said curtly.

Lia frowned. “Why are you being so rude? I’ll see you after the interview,” she said, walking away.

Nick’s mind spiraled. What if she got the job and became his superior? Would she fire him?

After her interview, Lia approached him with a smile. “Nick, come with me,” she said.

Nick hesitated, taking off his manager’s name tag. “What are you doing?” Lia asked.

“You’re going to fire me, right? Why pretend?” Nick said bitterly.

Lia chuckled. “You’re crazy! I’m not here to take your job. Put that back on!”

They went for a short walk, reminiscing about their school days. “Nick, you were the brightest and most disciplined student. Why are you settling for this job?” Lia asked, her voice laced with concern.

Nick lowered his gaze. “This job is what my qualifications could get me, and I’m content. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Before he could leave, Lia grabbed his hand. “Why won’t you look me in the eyes?”

Nick pulled his hand away, mumbling, “Because…”

At that moment, Nick’s coworker interrupted, saying the boss was calling him. He walked away, leaving Lia curious and determined to uncover the truth.

Later that evening, Lia called him. “Nick, don’t hang up! Why are you avoiding me?”

Frustrated, Nick yelled, “What do you want from me?”

“I want to marry you,” Lia said calmly, “and I need your help to destroy your boss.”

Nick froze. “Why?” he finally asked.

Lia explained her tragic story. Two years ago, she had been an online business partner with Nick’s boss. Trusting his promises, she sold her house to invest in their venture, but he defrauded her and disappeared, leaving her homeless. To make matters worse, he attempted to harm her brother, who succumbed to his injuries.

“I want revenge,” Lia said, her voice trembling. “Marry me, and together, we can bring him to justice. Afterward, I’ll set you free.”

Reluctantly, Nick agreed, but with one condition: no divorce. Despite their differences, they worked as a team, hatching plans to expose the boss’s corruption. Time after time, their attempts failed—until Nick devised a clever trick.

One day, Nick managed to transfer 1 million rupees from the boss’s account to his own without raising suspicion. When the boss discovered the loss, he called Nick in a rage, only to collapse after drinking drugged water Lia had prepared.

Nick seized the opportunity, donning a mask to confront the unconscious man. When the boss awoke, Nick ordered him to transfer 7 million rupees to his account or face the consequences. Trembling, the boss complied.

Over the next few weeks, Nick repeated his ploy, draining the boss’s finances. Eventually, the boss was bankrupt and desperate. He handed over the keys to the office, admitting defeat. “You’re the only one I can trust, Nick. Take the company. I can’t even pay my employees.”

Nick smirked. “At least now you understand what it feels like to lose everything.”

As security escorted the disgraced boss out, Lia walked into the office, stunned to see Nick sitting in the boss’s chair.

“Nick, why are you here?” she asked.

Calmly, Nick revealed everything. Lia was speechless, tears welling in her eyes. “So… now you can divorce me,” she said hesitantly.

But Nick shook his head. “I don’t want a divorce. Let’s build something new—together.”

And so, their partnership turned into a lifelong bond, transforming their shared pain into a story of love and triumph.

The End

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