We tell ourselves stories in order to live. Without them, the world is a tangle of disconnected moments, beautiful, yes, but also frightening in its formlessness. A story gives shape to that chaos, a thread we can follow through the labyrinth of days. In loss, the story becomes one of endurance; in love, one of destiny. Even the smallest joys, sunlight on a window, the laughter of a stranger, find their place when framed as part of a larger tale. We are not only the tellers but also the characters, writing ourselves into meaning so that survival becomes more than endurance. It becomes a life we can inhabit, a life we can believe in.

C.