My brown eyes. I had always hated them— hated how people would laugh and say That they were ugly, the color of dirt or tree bark.

I’d sit on my bed, staring through the water that filled them, wishing the new day would bring me new, different colors. Maybe blue? Maybe green, so I could be pretty.

That was until I met you.

You said my eyes were the first thing you noticed. That they were “the prettiest shade of brown you had ever seen.”

You said they were beautiful— like rocks on the ground, secretly gemstones under all that grime, like topaz and smoky quartz.

You said they reminded you of your childhood teddy bear, the one you snuggled with when you needed comfort.

I didn’t understand.

I stood there, dumbfounded, trying to deny your words: that my eyes were beautiful, that they were anything but dirt and tree bark, that they were more than the normal rocks people kick aside like trash.

I didn’t think anyone could love the color brown.

But you told me they were the shade of your memories, the shade of history. You told me I wouldn’t dare call Queen Charlotte’s eyes dirt. How could anyone say her eyes weren’t beautiful? How could anyone deny a queen’s eyes—the same color as her skin?

You showed me a perspective I hadn’t known existed: a world beautifully written, drawn in pages, not just plain words, but words that meant something.

I could tell. I could tell by the way my lips curved into a small smile.

I now sit at the edge of my bed, smiling at my reflection. My brown eyes are no longer something to hide. They are a mirror of the earth, a bridge to the memories of others, a reminder that beauty isn’t in being different, but in being real.

I’m ready to meet the new day— grateful for these brown eyes, and the way they connect me to you.

The cobblestone alley reeked of sulfur and ozone, the acrid stench left in the wake of wild magic. Lanterns lining the street flickered erratically, their enchanted flames struggling to hold steady against the roiling energy in the air.

Two figures stood at opposite ends of the alley, their silhouettes cast in sharp relief by the wavering light. The younger boy, no older than twelve, clutched a silver dagger in one trembling hand. His other hand glowed faintly, a swirling orb of green light taking form as he whispered an incantation under his breath. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, but his wide, panicked eyes betrayed his inexperience.

At the far end of the alley, the older boy – perhaps fifteen – grinned, a cruel, confident curve to his lips. His hands were bare, yet sparks of crimson magic danced between his fingers like playful embers. “You really thought you could take it from me?” he said, his voice low and mocking. “That was brave. Stupid, but brave.”

The younger boy took a shaky step backward, his heel catching on loose stones. “You don’t understand! If you keep it, it’ll consume you!”

The older boy laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the narrow alley walls. “Consume me? It chose me. You don’t even know how to use it.” He raised a hand, and the air around him seemed to ripple with heat. “But I’ll show you what it can do.”

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled a bolt of fire down the alley. It roared to life, illuminating the street in blinding orange light. The younger boy barely had time to react, throwing up his glowing hand in desperation. The green orb expanded into a shimmering shield, and the fireball exploded against it with a deafening crack.

The force of the blast threw the younger boy backward, his shield flickering like shattered glass. He scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The green magic coalesced into sharp tendrils that shot forward, snaking through the air toward his opponent.

The older boy’s grin faltered as he sidestepped the first tendril, but the second wrapped tightly around his arm. He snarled, his free hand igniting with crimson fire that he slashed at the tendril. The green magic recoiled, hissing like a wounded serpent, but not before leaving a raw, blackened mark on his skin.

Their fight became a storm of color and chaos, the alley alight with bursts of green and crimson. The cobblestones cracked beneath their feet, and the enchanted lanterns shattered one by one, plunging the scene into a dance of shadow and light.

The younger boy’s voice rose above the chaos, cracking with fear and desperation. “You don’t understand! If you kill me, the curse will take you next!”

The older boy hesitated for just a fraction of a second, his flame wavering. In that moment, the green magic surged, a spear of light aimed straight for his chest.

But the older boy was quick, too quick. He twisted, dodging the blow, and with a roar, unleashed a torrent of fire that swallowed the alley whole.

When the flames subsided, the younger boy was nowhere to be seen. The alley was scorched black, smoke curling into the night sky. The older boy stood alone, panting, his hands still crackling with residual magic. His grin returned, sharper than ever, as he turned and walked away.

Behind him, in the shadows, a single green light flickered faintly before vanishing into the darkness.

“I think I just met the happiest person in the world!” Harper exclaimed as she burst through the café door, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She set her bag down with a dramatic flourish, nearly knocking over the small vase of flowers on the table.

Oliver looked up from his laptop, adjusting his glasses. “Bold claim,” he said, smirking. “What makes you say that?”

Harper plopped into the chair across from him, her scarf unraveling as she leaned forward. “Okay, so I was at the park, right? And there’s this old guy—maybe seventy, maybe a hundred, I don’t know. He’s feeding pigeons. Classic old-man thing, sure, but it’s how he was doing it! He’s laughing, like, this deep belly laugh, throwing crumbs into the air like confetti. The pigeons are going crazy, and this guy? He’s just beaming.”

Oliver tilted his head, intrigued but skeptical. “Maybe he’s just really into birds.”

“No, no, it wasn’t just that,” Harper insisted. “I stopped to talk to him. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s practically glowing! Turns out, his name’s Gus, and he says he’s celebrating. I asked, ‘Celebrating what?’ And he says, ‘Being alive, of course!’ Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “That’s… kind of amazing.”

“Right?!” Harper grinned, leaning back in her chair. “He told me this story about how he was sick a few years ago—some kind of heart condition. Doctors didn’t think he’d make it. But he did, and now he just wakes up every day choosing to be happy. He said, ‘Life’s too short to waste on being grumpy, so I don’t.’ Like, how do you argue with that?”

Oliver closed his laptop and leaned forward. “So, what did you do?”

“What do you mean?” Harper asked, confused.

“I mean, did you throw breadcrumbs with him? Share in the joy?”

Harper hesitated, then laughed. “I… may have bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor and joined in. Just for a bit.”

Oliver grinned. “Now I wish I’d been there.”

Harper leaned on her elbows, her expression softening. “You know, it made me realize how rare that kind of joy is. It’s like… he wasn’t just happy for himself. He wanted everyone around him to feel it, too. It was contagious.”

“Sounds like Gus knows something the rest of us don’t,” Oliver said, his tone thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Harper replied, her voice quieter now. “He said the trick is to find something—anything—that makes you smile every day. Even if it’s just feeding pigeons in the park.”

Oliver smiled. “Well, you’ve convinced me. Next free afternoon, we’re finding some breadcrumbs and heading to the park.”

Harper laughed. “Deal. But fair warning—you’re competing with Gus. And I’m pretty sure he’s unbeatable.”