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On a frozen night in sixty-five,Where Beirut’s lights barely survived,Along Antelias’ battered shore,Two officers walked through rain that poured. Officer Farid Jabar, young and worn,Patrolled till dawn, till hope was torn.A caller claimed the beach held dread—A shape that looked…

At half past twelve on an August night,San Angelo slept beneath pale moonlight.Kyle Lawson stirred as his cellphone rang,A brother’s name—and his nerves went bang. “Help me,” cried Brandon, voice sharp with fear,“Three men chase me—Kyle, they’re getting near.I’m north…

At one in the morning, a cold Sunday night,January twentieth, no moon in sight,A weary man rode through Welsh terrain,Steel wheels humming on a midnight train. His name was Samuel Hughes, fifty-seven and worn,A salt trade merchant, tired to the…

In winter’s grip, in thirty-three,A Polish castle loomed with glee,Where noble Anton Hullberg drank,Till cards were blurred and senses sank. The candles flickered, laughter rolled,Red wine spilled on carpets old,Empty glasses, drunken cheer,No fear was felt by those inside here.…

On a summer night in nineteen-twenty-one,Beneath Ohio stars and a fading moon,A farmer named Carl walked land he owned,A dream fulfilled, a future sown. pasted Lantern in hand and gun at his side,He crossed his fields with swelling pride,Barns and…

On June eighteenth, two thousand sixteen at dawn,Zhang Shanpeng stood where the wild path went on.At MacLehose edge in southern China’s land,A hiker well-trained with a phone in his hand. The Sai Kung trail was cruel yet grand,A hundred long…

One gray November afternoon, twenty-twenty-one,In Decatur, Alabama, a break had just begun.Nicole Pati sat at work, her coffee growing cold,And dialed up her daughter’s number, worried, brave, and old. The phone rang twice, then Hannah spoke, her voice was thin…

On a restless night in eighteen ninety-seven,In Plymouth town where coal dust kissed the heaven,A widow lay awake, eyes wide with dread,Named Mary Titus, alone in her bed. The clock crept past two, then closer to three,When tapping rang out—sharp,…

Around four in the afternoon, August twenty, seventy-five,A granite giant called Moro Rock scraped at the sky.Up its steep spine climbed Michael McQuilin, just eighteen,Young, fit, and fearless, a climber well-seasoned and keen. Behind him trailed Sean, just twelve, and…