r/AmazingStories

The antique mirror had a heavy, tarnished silver frame, carved with vines that looked suspiciously like reaching fingers. Arthur bought it at a flea market for next to nothing. The shopkeeper hadn’t even charged him full price; he just wanted it gone.
Arthur hung it at the end of his hallway. It looked elegant, if a bit grim.
The first anomaly occurred on a Tuesday. Walking past it to grab a glass of water, Arthur caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye. It was lagging. Just for a fraction of a second, his reflection remained standing still while he had already walked past. Arthur blinked, rubbed his tired eyes, and blamed it on late-night work stress.
By Thursday, the reflection wasn’t just lagging; it was changing.
When Arthur smiled, the man in the glass smiled back a second later, but the grin was too wide. The teeth looked sharper, crowding a mouth that stretched just a bit too far toward the ears. Arthur stopped looking at the mirror. He tried to take it down, but the heavy iron nail seemed fused to the wall. No matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn't budge.
On Saturday night, a sudden power outage plunged the house into pitch blackness.
Arthur lit a candle, the flame throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls. He needed to get to the fuse box in the basement, which meant walking down the long hallway.
As he approached the mirror, the candlelight flickered wildly. He tried to look straight ahead, but a sound stopped him dead in his tracks.
*Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.*
It was the sound of fingernails dragging against glass.
Slowly, against every instinct of survival, Arthur turned his head. The candle illuminated the mirror. The reflection was there, but it wasn't mimicking him at all. It was standing right against the surface of the glass, its face pressed flat against it, leaving a greasy fog.
The reflection’s eyes were entirely black, devoid of pupils. It held a candle too, but its flame was burning a sickly, bruised purple.
Then, the reflection spoke. The voice didn't come from the hallway; it echoed directly inside Arthur's mind, cold and scraping.
> "You have such a beautiful world out there. So much room to move."
>
Arthur backed away, but his heel caught the edge of the hallway rug. He tumbled backward, dropping the candle. It snuffed out instantly, plunging him into darkness.
He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached out blindly, feeling the drywall, guiding himself back toward the living room. Finally, his hand found a light switch. He flipped it frantically. The power was back on.
Relief washed over him. The bright, warm light filled the room. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his shaking hands.
He walked into the living room to sit down, but stopped. The layout of the room was exactly the same, yet entirely wrong. The clock on the wall was ticking backward. The text on his bookshelf was flipped, a jumble of mirrored, unreadable symbols.
Panicking, Arthur spun around and ran back to the hallway mirror.
He pressed his hands against the glass. On the other side, a brightly lit hallway stretched out. And there, standing a few feet away, was a man. The man had a completely normal smile, normal eyes, and was looking around the house with a sense of relief.
Arthur opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to beat his fists against the glass. But no sound came out. All he could do was scratch at the cold, impenetrable barrier, watching his own body walk away without him.

Okay so , I was 18 at that time and she was 17 , we were batchmates , and we both first met on Tuesday morning on the start of our session , I looked in her eyes and saw that it was of blue color , I saw it in some curiosity and suddenly I saw that she was smiling, holy shit man🫩 , I still can't forget that. The same day after the last lecture was called off , everyone went out for the home , I used to drive a scooty to my coaching center. I went to a nearby vendor and asked for some little item to eat and then started walking towards my scooty and then I suddenly saw that she was still waiting for maybe a cab or something and guess what next , she suddenly came up to me and asked directly that if I am going to her way🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️, and i mean i wasn't going there tbh , but I said yes and then she sat behind me and we started discussing about the lecures, weather and other stuffs like that, and in between of talks she mentioned that she haven't ate anything from the morning , so I just said that we can eat something before arriving home , and she agreed. We both stopped at one restaurant, not very flashy , it was looking cheap from outside only , we entered there and she asked me that don't you think this could be great venue for a date 👽, since there weren't many people around so privacy was high. And in reply , I told her yes it could be and if I will ever go on a date I would bring the girl at this spot only to which she replied , that's why you brought me here😭😭 and that was soooo damm amazing😭😭🥹🥹, I blushed soo soo hard and then directly said , your blue eyes are like blue ocean where I just wanna dive right now😭😭 , holy shit guys ik it might sound a bit cringe right now but guess what she also blushed so so hard that time 😭😭🥴

Fast forward to now , she is my girlfriend from last 4 years, and we officially call that our first date now🙂‍↕️😮‍💨

Two hundred years.

For two hundred years, the village of Kalos prayed every single night to keep the creature beneath their mountain asleep.

Every night. Without fail. Every priest, every generation, every child old enough to form the words — they prayed. They taught the prayer to their sons. Their sons taught it to their sons. No one questioned it. No one skipped a night. No one dared.

And for two hundred years, the mountain was silent.

They believed the prayer was working.

On the night young Damon finally translated the oldest scroll — the original prayer, carved before the copies were made — he found one word had been changed. A single syllable, swapped in the very first generation, copied wrong, then copied wrong again, passed down through every priest who ever lived in Kalos, for two hundred years.

He read the original word.

Then he read what they had been saying instead.

He set the scroll down very carefully on the altar stone.

Then he put his hand flat on the floor.

And felt something enormous breathing directly beneath him.

The village of Kalos had no festivals after dark. No fires burned past dusk. No laughter carried into the night. And every evening without exception, when the last light left the sky, the people walked in silence to the stone temple built against the mountain's base and prayed.

They had done this longer than memory reached. The elders said the prayer predated the village itself — that the first settlers had arrived to find the temple already standing, ancient and perfectly formed, with instructions carved into the altar in a script so old that no man could fully read it. They had done their best. They had transcribed what they could, taught the words to their children, and trusted that they had gotten it right.

For two hundred years, the mountain had been quiet.

So they believed they had.

Damon was twenty-three when the High Priest Alexios died, leaving him the only priest in Kalos — and the only man in the village who had ever seriously studied ancient scripts. He had never been permitted near the original altar stone while Alexios lived. The old priest had kept him away from it with a quiet, immovable insistence that Damon had always found strange. Alexios never raised his voice about it. He simply placed himself between Damon and the altar whenever curiosity brought the young man too close, and changed the subject, and never explained.

The night after Alexios was buried, Damon finally understood why.

He stood alone in the torchlit temple, the original altar stone before him, and read the fourth line — the line the village said three times in succession every single night.

The original word was hypnos.

Sleep.

The word in every transcription — the word hanging on the temple wall, the word Damon's father had taught him, the word Damon had spoken every night of his life — was erchou.

Come.

He stood absolutely still for a long moment.

Then he became aware of something he had never noticed before. Something beneath the noise of his own breathing, beneath the flutter of the torch, beneath the deep silence of the temple at night.

A sound.

Slow. Rhythmic. Vast.

He lowered himself to one knee and pressed his palm flat against the stone floor. The exhale, when it came, lasted nearly thirty seconds. The torch flame bent sideways. The dust on the altar stone drifted. And beneath his hand, so deep it was more sensation than sound, the floor pulsed — slow and rolling and immense, like a heartbeat the size of the mountain itself.

It had been doing this every night.

Every night for two hundred years, while they knelt above it and called to it, it had been breathing. Moving. Answering.

Damon pulled his hand from the floor as if the stone had burned him. He stood. He looked at the altar. He looked at the word carved there — hypnos — and then at the transcription on the wall — erchou — and the full weight of what two hundred years of the wrong prayer had done settled over him like cold water filling a room.

He ran.

He woke every elder in the village, hammering on doors until his knuckles bled. They gathered in the square wrapped in cloaks, torchless at his insistence, squinting at him in the darkness while he held the scroll up and told them what he had found. His voice did not crack. He kept it flat and even because he understood that if he let the panic in his chest reach his voice, the village would collapse before anything beneath the mountain had to do a thing.

When he finished, no one spoke.

Then old Mira — the oldest woman in Kalos, who had outlived four High Priests and buried two of her own children — sat down slowly in the dirt. Not from weakness. From the particular exhaustion of a person who has been carrying a secret and has just watched someone else uncover it.

"Alexios knew," she said.

The square went very still.

"He found the error thirty years ago. He came to me that same night — shaking, barely able to speak. He had gone to the altar alone and read what you read." She paused. "And then he did what you are thinking of doing. He said the correct word."

Damon's breath caught. "It worked?"

"It began to work." Her voice was hollow. Precise. Like someone reciting something they had memorized so they would never have to feel it again. "The walls responded. The stone around the altar shifted inward — sealing, the way a door seals when the bolt slides home. And from beneath the floor, the breathing stopped."

"Then we have to —"

"Then it screamed," Mira said.

Nobody moved.

"For six hours it screamed from beneath the mountain. The kind of sound that does not come from a throat. It came through the stone, through the floor, through the walls of every house in Kalos. Children woke weeping without knowing why. Three men went deaf before dawn." She looked at her hands in her lap. "And when it finally fell silent, Alexios went back to measure the crack in the mountain's face — the crack that has been there since before anyone now living was born."

She looked up at Damon.

"It was deeper," she said. "After one correct word — after six hours of its screaming — it was closer than thirty years of the wrong prayer had brought it. Alexios understood then. The correct prayer does not simply close the door. It provokes the thing into forcing the door. And a thing that size, forcing a door from the inside —" She did not finish the sentence. She did not need to.

Damon stared at her. "So we can't say the right word."

"You cannot say it from outside the temple," Mira said carefully.

A silence stretched between them, cold and specific.

"The stone responds," Damon said slowly. He was working it out as he spoke, feeling his way toward something terrible. "When the correct word is spoken, the walls move inward. The door seals." He looked toward the dark shape of the temple at the mountain's base. "Alexios ran before it finished closing."

"Yes."

"And if someone stayed —"

"The seal would complete." Mira's voice was just above a whisper. "Alexios believed so. He spent thirty years believing so, and thirty years unable to do it himself. So he kept saying the wrong word. Kept the thing moving slowly rather than furiously." Her eyes found his. "A patient thing that is still far away is survivable. A provoked thing that is nearly here is not."

The ground moved.

No violence in it — no chaos or crumbling. Just a single, vast shift of weight from somewhere deep below, like a sleeper adjusting in the dark. Three houses at the mountain's edge groaned. A crack split the temple steps from top to bottom. And then, drifting up through the stone and the soil and the two hundred years of wrong prayers piled on top of it like a debt finally called in, came the exhale — longer than before, and warmer, and closer.

Much closer.

Damon looked at the scroll in his hands. At the word hypnos. He thought about Alexios, who had known for thirty years and could not make himself do it. He thought about every priest before Alexios, copying the wrong word faithfully, never knowing. He thought about the settlers who had first arrived and found the temple standing and had tried their best with a language they didn't fully understand — who had made a single small error and then sealed it into every generation that came after them.

He thought about the child he had been, kneeling in this square every night, saying a word that meant come and believing it meant sleep.

He set the scroll down in the dirt beside Mira's feet.

"Don't let anyone follow me," he said.

She said nothing. She had already known, he realized. She had known since the moment he knocked on her door. She had told him everything with the precision of a woman passing a torch to the only person left who could carry it.

He walked toward the temple. Behind him he heard nothing — no voices, no weeping, no one calling his name. The village of Kalos understood what it was watching. They had the dignity to let him go in silence.

He stepped through the temple doors.

He walked to the altar stone.

He placed both hands flat on its cold surface and felt the thing beneath — the vast slow pulse of it, the patience of two centuries of crawling toward this exact moment, the immensity of something that had been called and called and called and was now, finally, almost home.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

And in a voice that did not shake, the last priest of Kalos spoke the correct word.

The walls moved immediately. The stone responded the way the bolt of a great lock responds — not with violence, but with the terrible certainty of a mechanism fulfilling its purpose. The floor pressed upward. The ceiling pressed down. From beneath came the sound Mira had described — the scream that was not a scream, the fury of something that had nearly reached the door and felt it closing — and the mountain shook, and the village square cracked from end to end, and every person standing there fell to their knees and covered their ears and prayed the new prayer Mira would write for them before morning.

It screamed for three hours this time.

Then it stopped.

The mountain has been still ever since.

The villagers sealed the temple doors with stone and pitch. They built a wall around it, twice the height of a man. They carved a warning above the gate in plain script, in the language everyone could read, so that no settler arriving in the future could claim they did not know.

And in the prayer Mira wrote that same night — the prayer the village said every evening from that day forward — there was one line that no one questioned and no one changed, passed down through every generation that came after, all the way to the last record ever found in the ruins of Kalos centuries later:

Do not disturb the priest.

He is still holding the door.

"The darkness doesn't end here. Find us at Nightmare Hub — the link is in the profile. New horrors arrive every week. Stay afraid."

They found Robert Voss forty feet up a white oak tree in the Ochala National Forest. No rope. No climbing gear. No broken branches below him. The coroner said he'd been up there for three days before anyone spotted him. But here's what the official report never mentioned — what the sheriff sealed and what took a Freedom of Information request to drag into the light. Robert's boots were on the ground at the base of the tree. Placed side by side. Laces still tied. And Robert himself was sitting with his back straight against the trunk, hands folded neatly in his lap, like a man who had simply decided to rest. Like someone had carried him up there, arranged him carefully, and taken their time doing it.

Whatever put him there wasn't finished after Robert.

It came back.

Robert Voss went missing on a Thursday night in October, sometime between ten-thirty and dawn.

His wife Sandra fell asleep beside him at ten-thirty. She remembered it clearly — the television still murmuring in the background, Robert's breathing slow and even next to her, the particular weight of him on the mattress that she had slept beside for nineteen years. When she woke at six-fifteen his side of the bed was cold. Not cooling. Cold. Like he had been gone for hours.

His truck was in the driveway. His wallet was on the dresser. His phone was on the kitchen counter, screen dark, seventeen unread messages from Sandra stacked up like a slow record of her panic building hour by hour through the night. His keys were on the hook by the door.

Only his boots were missing.

The Ochala County Sheriff's Department told her these things resolved themselves. They were right. Seventy-two hours later, a deer hunter named Cal Pruett was working a trail two miles into the forest preserve off Route 9 when something made him stop walking. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a feeling — the specific, wordless dread that lives in the back of the human brain and has been keeping people alive since before we had language for it.

He looked up.

Robert Voss was forty feet up in the canopy of a white oak, back straight against the trunk, hands folded in his lap, chin slightly bowed. Perfectly still. Perfectly arranged. Cal stood beneath him for a long time before he understood what he was looking at. Then he sat down in the leaves, called 911, and did not move again until he heard sirens.

The first deputies on the scene assumed suicide. It was the easiest explanation and in Ochala County, easiest usually won. But the details kept refusing to cooperate.

Robert's boots were at the base of the tree. Placed side by side, parallel, laces neatly tied — as though he had removed them before stepping inside a house. There was no climbing equipment anywhere in the forest within a half-mile radius. The white oak's lowest branch was twenty-two feet from the ground and its bark showed nothing — no stripped patches, no scuff marks, no gouges consistent with a rope or a body ascending it. The tree had not been climbed. Not by any method anyone could account for.

The medical examiner ruled the cause of death as cardiac arrest. Massive, instantaneous — the kind that kills a man before he can raise his hands to stop himself from falling. Which meant Robert Voss had been dead before he ever left the ground. Something had carried a dead man two miles into the forest, climbed forty feet up a tree in the dark, and seated him against the trunk with his hands folded in his lap.

That detail — seated, hands folded — appeared in the internal report and was quietly removed from every public-facing document before release. Sandra only learned about it because a deputy who couldn't sleep sent her an anonymous email eight months later.

He didn't sign it. He didn't need to.

Sandra hired Dean Purcell six weeks after the funeral. Former state police, methodical, not a man who reached for dramatic conclusions. He spent the first two weeks in Ochala reviewing every file, every photograph, every scrap of official paperwork. He drove Route 9 four times. He walked the trail to the white oak and stood beneath it for nearly an hour, just looking up at the branch where Robert had been found, trying to make the geometry of it work in his head.

It wouldn't work. Nothing about it would work.

In his third week he found the camera.

A hunting club had mounted a motion-triggered trail camera on a pine tree approximately two hundred yards from the white oak. It had been angled to capture a deer trail running east through the hardwood. On the night Robert disappeared — at 2:14 AM, four hours after Sandra fell asleep beside him — the camera triggered.

Dean watched the footage eleven times before he called Sandra.

What the camera captured crossed the frame in eleven seconds. It was tall — six and a half feet, perhaps more, difficult to judge in the dark — and it moved with a slowness that was not the slowness of something cautious or tired. It was the slowness of something that had no reason to hurry. No reason to hide. It moved between the trees with a kind of absolute, unhurried ownership, the way a person walks through their own home in the dark. Under its arm, hanging limp and pale, was the shape of a man.

It did not look at the camera.

It didn't need to. It already knew.

Dean drove to the white oak the morning after he found the footage. He brought a tape measure and a flashlight and he circled the base of the tree slowly, crouching, running the light along the bark at ground level. He found it after twenty minutes — low on the trunk, half-covered by a skirt of moss that had grown over it in the months since October.

Handprints. Both of them. Pressed into the bark with such force that the wood had fractured inward, the grain of it splintered like something had leaned its full weight against the tree from below. The shape was unmistakable. Not the grip of someone climbing — these were flat palms, fingers spread, pressed into the bark as if something had planted one hand against the tree to brace itself while the other arm held something heavy alongside its body.

Dean measured the span of the right handprint three times because he didn't trust the first two measurements.

Fourteen inches across. Palm to outer finger.

He photographed everything. He drove back to his motel on Route 9, uploaded the photographs and the trail camera footage to a cloud drive, and called Sandra. He told her what he had found. He told her he was going to the sheriff the following morning with all of it.

He checked out of the motel at seven AM.

His car was found two hours later on the shoulder of Route 9, engine running, driver's door standing open. His phone was on the passenger seat. His camera and his files and his notebook were undisturbed on the back seat.

The cloud drive was empty. Every file deleted. The account access log showed a login from an unregistered device at 6:58 AM — thirteen minutes before he checked out.

Dean Purcell has not been found.

Sandra still lives in the same house. She has not slept in a bed since October. She sleeps in the living room recliner with every light on and the television running, not because the noise comforts her but because she cannot bear what she hears in the silence. She told this to the one journalist who would listen, and then she told him something else.

She told him about the night Robert disappeared.

She had woken once, she said. Briefly — that shallow, half-conscious moment where you're aware of the room without being fully in it. She didn't know what woke her. She lay still with her eyes barely open and looked toward the window, the way you do when something has pulled you up out of sleep without telling you why.

There was something standing at the tree line.

At the far edge of their yard where the lawn met the woods, perfectly still, facing the house. Too tall. Too still. Not moving at all — not swaying, not shifting its weight — just standing in the darkness between the trees with the particular stillness of something that has been there for a long time and intends to be there for longer.

She thought she was dreaming.

She closed her eyes.

By morning Robert was gone, and she has spent every night since then wondering whether it saw her looking. Whether it registered the pale shape of her face behind the glass. Whether that moment — those three seconds of her watching it and it standing there in the dark at the edge of her yard — whether that was the moment it chose her husband and not her.

Whether it is keeping that decision in mind.

The white oak is still standing. The handprints at its base have weathered now, the bark slowly reclaiming the fractured wood, soft and pale like a scar closing over something the tree would rather forget.

No one goes into that section of the preserve anymore. Not since the following spring, when a trail maintenance crew working a path eighty yards east of the white oak found something on a pine tree and called the sheriff without fully understanding why their hands were shaking when they did it.

Handprints. Same fractured bark. Same impossible span. But these ones were thirty feet up the trunk.

And they were facing outward.

Facing the road.

Facing the house at the end of the tree line where Sandra Voss sleeps with all the lights on and the television running and the curtains pulled tight against the window that looks out toward the yard.

The yard where the grass at the far edge — right where the lawn meets the woods — has stopped growing.

In the shape of two feet.

Side by side.

Like something has been standing there so long the ground beneath it has given up.

One time myself and some of my friends got chased through the forest at night by a lady with a knife screaming she would kill us, also I was on acid which made the entire ordeal so much worse the entire story is insane and I’m not sure if I should type it all out, but if anyone is curious I just might (no one was harmed by knife lady)

So, a few years ago, I was down in Michoacán, Mexico, meeting up with some friends and family.

This area I was visiting was well-known, but for the wrong reasons. Mainly because the Los Viagras are known to frequent the city.

So things were very casual at first. My two friends and my cousin were just hanging out at this rental. Talking about plans, when we suddenly heard people screaming outside.

I went up to the window to check what the hell was going on. And lo and behold, people were running around the streets with rifles and body armor, but I knew they weren't police or military.

So, I went back to my friends, and we started playing video games. After some time, the window suddenly exploded because of a stray bullet.

Crazy experience!

For your kids and society

Flair

i’m still kind of shaking while typing this because i can’t believe it actually worked. a few weeks ago i was hiking along a pretty remote stretch of coast in oregon. i was just looking for cool rocks and driftwood when i saw a glass bottle wedged deep between some rocks. i almost ignored it because i thought it was just trash, but i noticed a rolled-up piece of yellow paper inside.

it took me forever to get the cork out without breaking the glass, but inside was a note dated july 12th, 1994. it was written by a 10-year-old girl named sarah. it was super simple—just said she was on vacation with her family, listed her favorite hobbies (nintendo and soccer), and asked whoever found it to write back to an address in a town about 400 miles away.

i knew the odds were slim after 30+ years, but i did some digging on social media. i found a woman with the same last name in that town and sent her a message asking if she had a daughter named sarah.

you guys... she replied. her daughter sarah is now 42 and lives in a completely different state. she sent sarah the screenshot of my message, and about an hour later, i got a call from a random number. it was her. she was literally crying on the phone because she vividly remembered throwing that bottle into the ocean with her dad, who passed away a few years ago. she said it felt like a message from him.

i’m mailing the bottle and the note back to her tomorrow so she can keep it. i just can’t stop thinking about how that tiny piece of paper survived three decades of salt water and storms just to find its way back to her right when she needed it. the world is so small sometimes.

“Well, maybe you are the chosen one.”

That’s what he said to me once.

And I remember thinking…
chosen for what?
To love someone so deeply that it destroys me from the inside out?
To get hurt while still holding onto them with every part of my soul?

Look what you’ve done to me.

The things I used to fear no longer scare me anymore.
You made me stronger somehow.
Bolder.
Colder.

And yet I still feel numb.

No matter how much time passes, there are nights where I still sink so low thinking about you.

We never met.
I never got the chance to touch your face, your hands, or hold you close.
But somehow…
you touched my soul from miles away.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

You healed the inner child inside me before you left.
You made me feel seen in ways nobody ever did.

Sometimes it feels insane that distance could create something this intense.
Because even without meeting you, I still remember the feeling of your presence as if you were beside me all along.

I don’t know where you are now.
But every time I think about you, I still get scared a little.

Not because I hate you.
But because you changed me forever.

You lied so smoothly that I didn’t even notice myself falling apart until it was too late.
You made me sick with love, with longing, with obsession.

And the worst part is…
even when I try to move on, even when I talk to someone new, it never feels the same.

I still crave you in the quietest parts of the night.

And maybe that’s pathetic.
Maybe it’s dangerous.
But if I’m being honest with myself…

a part of me is still waiting for you to come back.— a late-night passage from the book i’m writing.

​

There was once a boy who was growing up in a very wealthy family. One day, his father decided to take him on a trip to show him how others lived who were less fortunate. His father’s goal was to help his son appreciate everything that he has been given in life.

The boy and his father pulled up to a farm where a very poor family lived. They spent several days on the farm, helping the family work for their food and take care of their land.

When they left the farm, his dad asked his son if he enjoyed their trip and if he had learned anything during the time they spent with this other family.

The boy quickly replied, “It was fantastic, that family is so lucky!”

Confused, his father asked what he meant by that.

The boy said, “Well, we only have one dog, but that family has four–and they have chickens! We have four people in our home, but they have 12! They have so many people to play with! We have a pool in our yard, but they have a river running through their property that is endless. We have lanterns outside so we can see at night, but they have the wide open sky and the beautiful stars to give them wonder and light. We have a patio, but they have the entire horizon to enjoy–they have endless fields to run around in and play. We have to go to the grocery store, but they are able to grow their own food. Our high fence protects our property and our family, but they don‘t need such a limiting structure, because their friends protect them.”

The father was speechless.

Finally, the boy added, “Thank you for showing me how rich people live, they’re so lucky.”

Moral Of The Story:

True wealth and happiness aren’t measured by material belongings. Being around the people you love, enjoying the beautiful, natural environment, and having freedom are much more valuable.

A rich life can mean different things to different people. What are your values and priorities? If you have whatever is important to you, you can consider yourself to be wealthy.

Your eyes hold thunders that somehow calm my soul, Like the hilltop sky at midnight that make a broken heart feel whole.
Your tiny fingers soft as whispered poetry to touch,
And that sleepy little face I think about far too much.

Your long hair falls like rain through summer nights,
And every strand of it pulls me closer with dim lights.
Even your soft feet so beautiful and small somehow,
Feel like places my tired heart would kneel and kiss before now.

I miss you in silence more than words can ever say,
In busy hours, sleepless nights, in every part of day.
And though fate keeps us apart for just a little while more, My heart already waits for you behind every door.

Not just for the passion, not just for your touch so deep, But for the way your voice makes all my noise fall asleep.
There’s something about you that feels warm and true, Like my soul had been yearning only for you.

And even your texts can set my restless heart on fire, One little message from you awakens every hidden desire.
Late at night when the world fades and silence feels so tight, Your voice in my ears alone can keep my body burning through the night.

I think of you in darkness when emotions start to rise, The naughtyness in your tone, the magic hidden in your eyes.
Somehow you make longing feel beautiful, wild and new….And every heated heartbeat suddenly finds its way back to you.

Basically i have abt 13k songs over 10 years, and i recently deleted some old gmails not realizing it had my spotify, i go on the app a hour ago just to see its gone. No emails anything, music is everything for me so im actually suffering with frustration and somehow just by describing my phone and the last liked song they found the account and i got it back. Lesson learned do not just deleted google accounts 😭

The summer of 2000, I had just turned 8 years old. I was visiting my grandparents in the small town they lived in, Apollo Pennsylvania. My Grandad & Grandjoy took me to a 50's/60's style concert in a park. There were many families, and lots of people dancing while the old school band played on stage. I needed to use the bathroom, I asked my Grandjoy to take me. The bathroom was a typical park style brick structure with women to one side and men to the other. My Grandjoy stood outside & waited for me. As I walked in, I was greeted by a very tall woman (between 6 & 7 ft) leaving the very last stall. She was a thin build, extraordinarily beautiful, Long blonde hair, and a very friendly and memorable smile. Her eyes are what stood out to me. They were the size of avocados, and piercing blue. As she smiled at me, it felt like time stood still. She pulled down the dark glasses over here eyes that were sitting on the top of her head and she walked out of the bathroom. It has been 26 years since I experienced this woman & I still think of her all of the time. I never mentioned this to anyone as a child because I didn't understand what I was seeing, I just knew it was not normal. Has anyone else experienced something like this? Especially in the Apollo, Pennsylvania area.