Photo by Rai Vidanes on Unsplash
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the tiny kitchen, mixing with the sound of my grandmother’s laughter. Her hands, worn from years of hard work, moved effortlessly as she kneaded the dough. At seven years old, I didn’t understand the weight of her stories—of war, survival, and starting anew in a foreign land—but I felt their importance. Each loaf she baked seemed to carry a piece of her history, a taste of resilience she was passing down to me."
About the Creator
llaurren's reads
Dear Reader,
Welcome to my collection of journals, articles, diaries, short stories, and more. This is a treasure trove from an author—or rather, a humble writer—whose penmanship was previously tucked away and is now ready to emerge.


Comments (1)
Aww beautiful 👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾