Mark says goodbye to his familiar old apartment and neighborhood I woke with a start to the sight of empty, cavernous blue walls that had just yesterday held my bookshelves, now barren. Pale dawn light seeped in through the curtainless windows. The rhythmic scraping of furniture across worn chestnut floors made me flinch. Downstairs, the symphony of packing tape screeching and boxes being sealed had already begun. I slowly rose from the creaky twin bed that had seen me through countless sleepless nights and milestones, a faithful companion for the past ten years of my life. Soon it would be destroyed, tossed onto an overflowing landfill, forgotten. I ran my fingers over the nicks and scratches on the headboard one last time, saying goodbye. Along with it, I was leaving my room, my apartment that harbored memories of my earliest days—tracing crayon masterpieces on the doors as a toddler, taking my first steps across the scuffed hardwood floors. I was leaving my school, my friends, my life all behind. I gazed out the balcony window, watching as the inky canvas of night sky transformed into a vibrant watercolor painting of pinks, oranges and yellows. Wispy clouds drifted lazily overhead, illuminated with fiery brilliance as if edged in molten gold by the awakening sun. Below, Yellowstone Playground sprawled, a treasured place I had visited every day for nearly a decade of my childhood. As dawn’s glow washed over the playground, memories flooded back. The monkey bars, their rungs worn smooth by my sweaty palms during endless summer afternoons spent honing my skills, now sat empty and silent. The sandbox, holding faint shadows of the elaborate castles and fairytale cities I built only to vanish overnight, appeared untouched by human hands. The swing sets creaked ever so slightly, their rusted chains swaying in the morning breeze after years of use. The basketball courts with their faded paint lines lay dormant, devoid of the perpetual dribbling of balls. The rising sun’s rays stretched across Yellowstone, illuminating the landmarks of my childhood adventures like a bittersweet spotlight. The chains on the swing set glimmered as the light struck the rusted metal links. The sandbox seemed to glow like a treasure chest full of memories buried just beneath the surface. Even the cracked asphalt of the basketball court appeared less worn, momentarily renewed by the dawn. As the City That Never Sleeps began to fall silent, I said one final silent goodbye to the playground where skinned knees and first crushes lived alongside hide-and-seek victories and friendships forged. This chapter of my life in this place had come to a close, but the memories would always be a part of me. Even the cracked asphalt of the basketball court appeared less worn, momentarily renewed by the dawn. Just then, the rumbling of a truck engine shattered the quiet reverie of the morning. I gazed down to see an oversized moving truck turn the corner, its worn tires crunching on the broken concrete outside our building. Stamped on the truck’s side I could barely make out the words I knew were hidden beneath the dusty grime of long highways: BELLA’S MOVERS said a faded print on the side. The worn truck pulled to a stop, signaling it was here for its solemn duty— to transport those few precious boxes that contained my childhood within their fragile walls of bubble wrap and styrofoam. As the movers loaded the back of the truck, I felt a swell of memories and a lump form in my throat. My posters, books, toys—my whole world was being taken away in that truck. I realized my years of childhood innocence playing in this playground were well and truly over, about to vanish into the rearview mirror. The truck’s engine revved, ready to drive my memories away to whatever unknowns lay ahead next in my life’s journey. I took one last long look at my beloved playground, knowing that while my memories could leave this place, they would always dwell deep within my heart. *          *.         * The echo of my footsteps reverberated off the bare walls and hardwood floors as I did one final walkthrough of my new apartment. Everything was so clean: sharp edges and blank canvas. Moving turned out to be one of the biggest obstacles I’ve faced in my young life thus far. Leaving the comfort and familiarity of my childhood home felt like being ripped from a warm, soft cocoon and plunged into an odyssey of discovery tinged with loneliness and longing. I would be leaving behind my circle of beloved childhood friends, the faded floral wallpaper in my bedroom that I had memorized over years of lying in bed, the creaky wooden steps leading downstairs that knew my footsteps by heart, the worn but comfortable furnishings that had loyally served me since before I could remember. I would miss our cozy kitchen, scene of so many batches of homemade cookies and late-night snacks, and our living room where we sat together and watched movies. My mother assured me my well-loved toys and stuffed animals would have a new life with my young cousin, and that having a new, bigger home was something to feel proud of. However, as I hesitantly entered our new home for the very first time, the soaring ceilings and cavernous rooms felt cold and sterile. I felt small, insignificant, and out of place amidst the grand, gilded furnishings and lavish new lifestyle I was being introduced to. Though this towering new dwelling was now technically my home, at first I just felt deeply homesick within its unfamiliar walls, longing for the warm familiarity of my childhood abode. Fractals The barren rooms echoed hollowly with each footfall, devoid of any semblance of hominess or personality. This dwelling was but an empty vessel, a blank canvas awaiting my touch. I embarked upon the process of imprinting my essence, commencing with adorning the stark white walls with memories

Siddharth discovers a surprising solution to his family’s rat problem The damp, musty smell filled my nostrils as I carefully switched on the light. Armed with a wooden bat, I warily surveyed the inside of the garage. Cardboard boxes lay scattered everywhere, filled to the brim with a various assortment of items. I put a shaking foot forward, steadying it on the cold, uneven ground. The light flickered, and I swung the batto my right. A loud thud echoed through the spooky garage, and I looked at what my bat had hit. It was a cardboard box from Home Depot, with a large tangle of lights and decorations inside it. The word “Christmas” was scrawled across it in big, messy letters. I quickly grabbed the box and ran back into the house. Last year, my house had a rat problem. Rats had invaded and taken over parts of our house. I remember we had to meow like a cat before entering the garage. The cost of getting rid of the rats and plugging all the holes was much more than $1,000. My mother thought that the cost was too much, so we decided to let nature take its course. At first, we set up some rat traps, but it didn’t catch the creature. Instead, I got stuck in one of them while getting our Christmas tree out of the attic, but that’s a whole other story. Our next attempt was letting me concoct a deadly potion and leaving it out for the rat to drink. I took a few drops of thioacetone and mixed it into a glass of milk. I stirred ferociously, trying to dissolve every molecule of the poison into the milk. Thioacetone is a chemical that smells extremely bad and is deadly. The scent of fresh milk overpowered the smell, so the rat wouldn’t even notice the smell. The next morning, the glass into which I poured milk was completely empty. This made us assume that the rat had died, but we discovered fresh traces of rat poop the next day. That meant that the rat and its family had not died, despite the consumption of a deadly chemical. My next attempt to kill the furry creature was to leave food out on the dining table and then hide underneath it. In theory, when the rat came to nibble away at the food, I would hit it with a twenty-pound weight and squish it. I stayed up the entire night watching TV on my laptop, but no rat came. I went to sleep at around eight a.m., and the entire bowl of food had been devoured by the time I woke up an hour later. I thought rats were nocturnal creatures, but it turned out this one was diurnal. Spacing Out Finally, one night, my mother left some of her khichuri outside. This was completely accidental, because she had gone up to do something and had forgotten about covering the food. Khichuri is supposed to be an Indian comfort food made with rice and lentils. The way my mom made it, though, was by mixing loads of spices with Quaker Oats porridge. My dad and my brother made fun of her food, and I did too occasionally because it smelled bad and looked pale green, which was not the color it was supposed to look. It tasted like an apple; some parts were crunchy, while others were flavorless. The next day, we found the rat lying next to the bowl of khichuri. When my dad (who’s a doctor) pressed his ear against the rat and listened for a heartbeat, he shook his head and said, “He’s dead.” Finally, the rat had died, but only because of my mother’s bad cooking.