Not every soul that enters your life is meant to remain; some arrive like brief dawns, bright enough to guide you, then fade before the day has fully begun. They teach you the language of tenderness, the weight of trust, and the quiet courage it takes to let go without bitterness. And when they leave, It does not erase the beauty of what was shared. A season may be short and still be sacred; A fleeting moment can still alter a lifetime. So do not count every departure as a lo

It sits upon the wood beside my bed, I see it there, and yet I turn back and look the other way instead. But every once in a while, I'm told that this weight will grow. And I will reach out for it because I have nowhere to go. I lift the cover, let the pages fall, And in that moment, I'll confess it all. But once the prayer is breathed, I turn the light, And leave it resting back within the night. It's like I take one shallow step toward Grace. Then miles of desert fill the e

Editorial Note Some things in life never leave us entirely. A winter morning in Shillong, the warmth of a friendship now lost, a lesson carried from a brief encounter, the persistent pull of faith, or even the constant sound of notifications competing for our attention—each leaves an imprint long after the moment itself has passed. This issue, Lingering Light, is a collection of such imprints. The works gathered here explore what remains after the noise fades: the memories th

Lucifer and Ïong (Blackie) are now ten years old. When they were puppies, they ran wild through our neighbourhood, crossing the stream and darting into the tall pine forest before our home. The forest was vibrant then. Native birds flitted through its branches, bees hummed among flowers, and butterflies danced in shafts of sunlight. Life was gentle and constant. Now, the world they knew is closing in. Everywhere they go, there are fences. The stream they once splashed through