New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project.
New fiction: “The world came to a screeching halt, and so did your good feelings about it being a worthy endeavor.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By New fiction: “‘First, I have to ask you: How attached are you to your memories?’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By New fiction: “At the exact moment of the death of time, if I remember correctly, I was lying in the hammock staring out over nothing but empty streets.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. ‘Nothing’s ever your fault.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. ‘Nothing’s ever your fault.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. Between them lay a gentle hatred.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. Between them lay a gentle hatred.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By John Wray New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let | out over nothing but empty streets.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By Esi Edugyan New fiction: “The consular officers keep telling me I should be patient, I will have better luck next time.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. New fiction: “Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By New fiction: “No complications, that was how Chrissy thought of clients like them. By New fiction: “At night, I’d stare at my wife’s back in the dim light of the bedroom, and I’d see a ridge too high to climb.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By Rivka Galchen New fiction: “‘You’re addicted to being awkward,’ his mother said to him that afternoon. By Kamila Shamsie New fiction: “Everyone had left the city — except for
New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project.
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The Decameron Project
Dinaw Mengestu: ‘How We Used to Play,’ a Short Story
ByDinaw MengestuJuly 7, 2020
The Decameron Project
New Fiction
Before the virus hit, my uncle drove his cab 10 to 12 hours a day, six days a week, for nearly two decades. He continued doing so even though every month he had fewer and fewer customers and sometimes spent hours idling outside one of the luxury hotels near the Capitol building waiting for a fare. He was still living in the same apartment he moved into when he first arrived in America, in 1978, and when I called to ask him how he was doing, he told me, more amused than alarmed, that until now, he had failed to consider the possibility that he might someday die in that building. “Why don’t they tell you this when you sign the lease? If you are over 70, it should be right there, at the very top. Be careful. This may be the last place you ever live.”
I assured him there was no chance of him dying, even though we both knew that wasn’t true. He was 72, and every morning before getting into his cab, he walked up and down the 12 stories of his apartment building to warm up his muscles before work.
“You’re the strongest man I know,” I told him. “It would take an alien virus to knock you out.”
Before getting off the phone I told him I was going to drive down from New York to see him. It was March 12, 2020, and the virus was about to lay siege to the city. “We’ll go to the grocery store,” I said. “And stuff your freezer so you can grow old and fat until the virus disappears.” I left New York early the next morning to find the highways between New York and D.C. already crowded with S.U.V.s. On his only visit to New York, my uncle asked me what happened to all the cars buried deep underground in expensive parking lots scattered throughout the city. Before buying his own cab, he had worked for 15 years in a parking garage three blocks from the White House, and he often said that he would never understand why Americans spent so much money to park big cars they never drove. As I passed my first hour in traffic, I thought of calling to tell him I finally had the answer to his question. For all the talk of American optimism, we were obsessed with apocalypse, and those big empty cars that now filled all four lanes of the highway had simply been waiting for the right explosion to hit the road.

When I finallyreached my uncle’s apartment, in a suburb just outside D.C., he was sitting on one of the concrete benches in front of his building, his palms pressed together with both elbows on his knees. He motioned with his hands for me to stay where I was and got into his cab, which was parked a few feet behind me. He sent me a text message: “Park. I am driving.”
We greeted each other awkwardly, a triple tap of shoulders rather than the customary kiss on the cheek. It had been six, maybe seven months since we had seen each other, and at least a decade since I had been in his cab. As we pulled away from his building, he said this trip reminded him of a game we used to play when I was a child and he would drive my mother and me to the grocery.
“Do you remember that?” he asked me. “Do you remember how we used to play?”
We turned right onto a wide four-lane road lined with shopping malls and car dealerships, none of which were there when I was growing up. For some reason, it seemed too much to respond to my uncle’s question with a simple answer like, Of course I remember those games; they were often my favorite part of the week. So instead I nodded and complained about the traffic building ahead of us. My uncle rubbed his hand affectionately across the back of my head and then turned the meter on. That was how the games we had played in his cab always began, with a flip of the meter and him turning toward the back seat to ask me, “Where would you like to go, sir?” Over the few months we played that game, we never repeated the same place twice. We started local — the Washington Monument, the museums along the Mall — but then quickly expanded to increasingly remote destinations: the Pacific Ocean, Disney World and Disneyland, Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone National Park, and then once I learned more about world history and geography, Egypt and the Great Wall of China, followed by Big Ben and the Colosseum in Rome.
“Your mother used to get mad at me for not telling you to choose Ethiopia,” he said. “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’ I tried to tell her you were a child. You were born in America. You didn’t have a country. The only thing you were loyal to was us.”
The light ahead of us turned red and then green three times before we finally moved forward, a pace that would have normally infuriated my uncle, who by his own admission had never been good at staying still. The last time we played that game my uncle argued with my mother about the futility of our fictional adventures. “We can’t afford to take him anywhere,” he said. “So let him see the world from the back seat of a taxi.”
The final trip we took was to Australia, and my mother let us take it on the condition that we never again played the game with her in the car. Once we agreed to her terms, my uncle turned the meter on, and for the next 15 minutes I told him everything I knew about the landscape and wildlife of Australia. I continued talking even after we arrived at the grocery store and my mother told me to get out of the car. I wasn’t prepared to see my trip end in a parking lot, and so my uncle waved my mother away and told me to keep talking. “Tell me everything you know about Australia,” he said, just as a deep tiredness came over me. I took my shoes off and stretched my legs out. I folded my legs underneath me as he placed a thick road map from the glove compartment under my head so my face wouldn’t stick to the vinyl seats.
“Sleep,” he told me. “Australia is very far away. You must be tired from the jet lag.”
I thought of asking my uncle what, if anything, he remembered of our final trip as we neared the grocery store. He was focused on trying to turn right into a parking lot already crowded with cars and what looked to be a half-dozen police cars angled around the entrance. We only had a few hundred feet left, but given the line of cars and the growing crowd waiting outside, carts in hand, it seemed increasingly unlikely that we would make it inside before the shelves were picked bare.
It must have taken us close to 20 minutes to make that final turn into the parking lot, a minor victory that my uncle acknowledged by tapping the meter twice with his index finger so I could take note of the fare.
“Finally,” he said. “After all these years in America, I’m rich.”
We inched our way toward the rear of the lot, where it seemed more likely we would find a place to park. When that failed, my uncle drove over a strip of grass into an adjacent restaurant lot that had customer-only parking signs pinned to the wall. I waited for him to turn off the engine, but he kept both hands on the steering wheel, his body pitched slightly forward as if he were preparing to drive away again but wasn’t sure which direction to turn toward. I thought briefly that I understood what was troubling him.
“You don’t have to go into the store,” I said. “You can wait here and pick me up when I come out.”
He turned to face me then. It was the first time we had looked directly at each other since I entered the cab.
“I don’t want to wait in a parking lot,” he said. “I do that every day.”
“Then what do you want?”
He switched the meter off, and then the engine, but left the key in the ignition.
“I want to go back home,” he said. “I want someone to tell me how to get out of here.”
How WeUsed —To Play
By
Dinaw Mengestu
A short story from The New York Times Magazine’s Decameron Project.
Spot illustrations and lettering bySophy Hollington
—
Dinaw Mengestuis the author of three novels, including most recently ‘‘All Our Names.’’ He is director of the Written Arts Program at Bard College in New York.
Sophy Hollingtonis a British artist and illustrator. She is known for her use of relief prints, created using the process of the linocut and inspired by meteoric folklore as well as alchemical symbolism.
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Additional design and development byShannon LinandJacky Myint.
The Decameron Project ·
“So let him see the world from the back seat of a taxi.” The final trip we took was to Australia, and my mother let us take it on the condition that we never again played the game with her in the car. As we pulled away from his building, he said this trip reminded him of a game we used to play when I was a child and he would drive my mother and me to the grocery. On his only visit to New York, my uncle asked me what happened to all the cars buried deep underground in expensive parking lots scattered throughout the city. I wasn’t prepared to see my trip end in a parking lot, and so my uncle waved my mother away and told me to keep talking. By New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By John Wray New fiction: “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. “It would take an alien virus to knock you out.” Before getting off the phone I told him I was going to drive down from New York to see him. You must be tired from the jet lag.” I thought of asking my uncle what, if anything, he remembered of our final trip as we neared the grocery store. “She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’ I tried to tell her you were a child. “Sleep,” he told me. “Do you remember how we used to play?” We turned right onto a wide four-lane road lined with shopping malls and car dealerships, none of which were there when I was growing up. By Laila Lalami New fiction: “At the exact moment of the death of time, if I remember correctly, I was lying in the hammock staring out over nothing but empty streets.” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By Dina Nayeri New fiction: “He didn’t like to talk about his brother much in those days. That was how the games we had played in his cab always began, with a flip of the meter and him turning toward the back seat to ask me, “Where would you like to go, sir?” Over the few months we played that game, we never repeated the same place twice. He was still living in the same apartment he moved into when he first arrived in America, in 1978, and when I called to ask him how he was doing, he told me, more amused than alarmed, that until now, he had failed to consider the possibility that he might someday die in that building.
## She Used to Tell Me, "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country"

The air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and regret.  Anya sat on the cracked stoop of her apartment building, the peeling paint a mirror to the state of her own heart. The Decameron Project had promised solace, a shared space for stories in the wake of the Great Stoppage, but all Anya felt was a gnawing emptiness.

Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country."  Anya had scoffed then, young and restless, eager to build a life far from the dusty streets of her childhood. Now, with the world frozen in a perpetual twilight, those words felt like a lifeline, a tether to a past she had so carelessly discarded.

She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the scent of her grandmother's kitchen, the taste of her spiced chai, the warmth of her wrinkled hand in Anya's. But the memories were fading, blurred by the relentless march of time that had abruptly ceased.

The Decameron Project had become a strange paradox. While it offered a platform for shared narratives, it also served as a stark reminder of the stories left untold, the lives interrupted. Anya had submitted her own piece, a fragmented account of her journey to this desolate city, a city that now felt more like a tomb than a haven.

She had written about the consular officers, their hollow reassurances about "better luck next time," their inability to comprehend the profound loss that permeated every corner of their existence. She had written about the man with the gentle hatred in his eyes, the one who sat across from her at the communal meals, his silence a testament to a grief too deep for words.

But Anya hadn't written about her grandmother. She hadn't dared to confront the gaping hole her absence had left in her life.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the deserted streets, Anya knew what she had to do. She had to write her grandmother's story, to weave together the threads of memory before they completely unraveled.

She had to imagine her home country, not as a place on a map, but as a living, breathing entity, a tapestry woven from the laughter of children, the scent of spices, the warmth of family.

And maybe, just maybe, in the act of remembering, she could find a way to move forward, to find meaning in this strange, frozen world. 



## She Used to Tell Me, “If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country.”

The air hung thick with the silence of absence.  Empty streets stretched out before me, a concrete canvas devoid of the usual cacophony of life. It was as if the world had been scrubbed clean, leaving behind a chilling emptiness.  

“She used to tell me,” I whispered, the words catching in the stillness, “If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.”

Her voice, a melody from a forgotten dream, echoed in my mind. She, who had seen the world through eyes both weary and wise, understood the power of imagination, its ability to bridge the chasm between reality and longing.

But what was there to imagine now? Time, that relentless river, had ceased its flow. The world, once a vibrant tapestry of moments, had become a frozen tableau. 

Even the memories, those flickering embers of the past, felt distant, shrouded in a fog of uncertainty.  “First, I have to ask you: How attached are you to your memories?” a voice, disembodied and haunting, seemed to ask.

I clung to them fiercely, these fragments of a life lived, afraid to let go. They were all I had left, a fragile shield against the encroaching void.

The consular officers, their faces etched with a weary compassion, kept telling me to be patient. “You will have better luck next time,” they assured me, their words hollow and unconvincing.

But what was “next time” in a world where time had stopped?

The hammock swayed gently, a phantom breeze rustling through the empty streets. I closed my eyes, picturing her face, her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

“Nothing’s ever your fault,” she would say, her voice a balm to my anxieties.

But this time, it felt different. This time, the fault lay in the silence, the stillness, the suffocating absence of everything that made life worth living.

Between the memories and the emptiness, a gentle hatred grew. A hatred not for the world, but for the cruel twist of fate that had stolen its rhythm, its pulse, its very essence.

Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week. A week of mounting tension, of unspoken words, of a growing sense of unease.

Now, in the aftermath, the silence screamed louder than any argument ever could.

And all I could do was imagine, to conjure up images of her, of home, of a world where Time still flowed, where laughter still echoed, where memories were not the only things left to hold onto.

“If he is going to imagine something,” her voice whispered again, “let him imagine his home country.”

So I did. I closed my eyes and let the images wash over me, a bittersweet symphony of longing and loss. A reminder that even in the face of the unimaginable, the human spirit could still find solace in the power of imagination. 



## She Used to Tell Me, “If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country.”

The world stopped. Not with a bang, but with a whimper, a slow, grinding halt that left a silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. It was a silence filled with the ghosts of what used to be: the rumble of traffic, the chatter of crowds, the hum of daily life. Now, there was only stillness.

And in that stillness, memories became my only companions. Vivid, relentless, they replayed on an endless loop in my mind. My grandmother’s voice, thick with an accent I could barely understand, echoing the words she used to say: "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country."

She said it often, her wrinkled face etched with a mixture of wisdom and resignation. It was a mantra, a plea, a shield against the world that had turned its back on us. It was a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable loss, there was still a place, a memory, a haven to retreat to.

The world outside had become a wasteland, a stark reminder of the fragility of our existence. Time itself seemed to have fractured, leaving us stranded in a perpetual present, a never-ending now.

But in my mind, time flowed differently. I could revisit the bustling markets of my childhood, smell the spices, hear the laughter, feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I could walk the dusty streets of my grandmother's village, listen to her stories, feel the weight of her hand in mine.

These memories were my lifeline, a fragile thread connecting me to a past that felt both distant and achingly real. They were a reminder that even though the world had stopped, life, in its own way, went on.

My grandmother's words echoed in my mind, a whisper of hope in the deafening silence. If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country. It was a call to hold onto the past, to find solace in the familiar, to keep the flame of memory burning even in the darkest of times.


And so, I closed my eyes and let myself drift back to that place, to that time, to the warmth of my grandmother's embrace. In the silence of the world, I found my own voice, my own story, echoing the words she had spoken so many years ago. 

## "She Used To Tell Me, 'If He Is Going To Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country.'"

The air hung thick and silent, a stillness heavier than the humid pre-storm kind. The world, as they knew it, had abruptly ceased. Time, that relentless river, had dried to a stagnant pool. In the unsettling quiet, memories flickered like dying embers, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls of their makeshift shelter.

He looked at her, at the familiar furrow in her brow, the set of her jaw, a mirror reflecting his own unease. "She used to tell me," he began, his voice raspy from disuse, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country."

Her eyes, once sparkling with mischief, were now clouded with a distant weariness. "Your mother," she murmured, more a statement than a question.

He nodded. "She always said it was the only way to truly appreciate where you were."

A wry smile touched her lips. "And where are we now?"

"Nowhere," he admitted, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.

The silence returned, broken only by the distant, mournful hum of the wind whistling through the empty streets. They were stranded in a world devoid of clocks, calendars, and the comforting rhythm of days stretching into weeks, weeks into years. Their past, a tapestry woven with love, loss, and dreams, felt like a faded photograph, its edges blurring, its colours leaching away.

Their future, once a vibrant canvas waiting to be painted, was now a blank, unforgiving expanse.

He reached for her hand, his touch tentative.

"Do you think," he asked, his voice barely audible, "do you think she was right?"

She squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance. "Maybe," she said, her voice soft but firm, "maybe imagining is all we have left."

And so, they began to imagine. They conjured up images of bustling marketplaces, vibrant sunsets over their homelands, the laughter of children echoing in sun-drenched squares. They built worlds within their minds, worlds where time flowed freely, where the future held promise, where the past was a bittersweet memory, not a haunting spectre.

In the face of a world frozen in time, they found solace in the boundless realm of imagination. It was a fragile sanctuary, but it was theirs, a testament to the enduring power of hope, memory, and the enduring bond of love. 



## She Used to Tell Me, "If He Is Going To Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country."


The world had stopped. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a disconcerting stillness. The news called it the Great Pause, the Cessation, the End of Time. Whatever the name, the effect was the same: life, as we knew it, was frozen.

Cars stood mid-intersection, drivers frozen in expressions of impatience or surprise. Coffee cups hovered halfway to lips, conversations hung suspended in mid-air. It was as if someone had pressed a cosmic pause button, leaving the world in a tableau of the ordinary, suddenly rendered extraordinary.

And then, there was me, alone in my apartment, staring at the cracked ceiling, remembering her words: "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country."

She had never approved of my partner, a man who existed in a world of hazy ideals and grand, unattainable visions. He loved to talk about the future, about what could be, about how we could change the world. He was a dreamer, a builder of castles in the clouds. I, on the other hand, was grounded, practical, tied to the tangible.

Her words, spoken years ago, echoed in my mind now, taking on a new meaning in this frozen world. In the absence of progress, in the stillness of eternal "now," imagination became the only escape, the only way to navigate this surreal new reality.

What would he imagine? Would he yearn for a future forever out of reach, or would he retreat into the comforting familiarity of his past, his home country, a place that, ironically, was as inaccessible as the future now.

His dreams, once dismissed by Her as idle fantasies, now seemed like the only currency we had, the only way to make sense of the nonsensical. Perhaps, in this timeless world, his escapist fantasies, his impossible dreams, were the only things that could ultimately save us.

The silence was deafening. The world, suspended in its tableau, held its breath. Only the soft whisper of her words remained, a beacon in the darkness, a challenge to imagine, to dream, to keep hope alive in a world that had forgotten how to move forward.

"If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country." 

New Fiction: "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'"

In the latest installment of The Decameron Project from a prominent magazine, we bring you a thought-provoking piece of fiction that explores the complexities of memory, identity, and longing. The story, titled "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country,'" is a poignant reminder of the power of imagination and the human spirit.

Set in a world that has come to a screeching halt, the story follows the narrator as they reflect on the memories that have shaped their life. The narrator recalls a conversation with a loved one, in which they were asked about their attachment to their memories. This question serves as a catalyst for the narrator to delve deeper into their past and consider the role that memories play in shaping their identity.

As the narrator lies in a hammock, staring out at empty streets, they are struck by the stillness of the world around them. This stillness serves as a backdrop for the narrator's reflections on the past, as they consider the memories that have been lost to time and the ones that continue to shape their present.

The story also explores the theme of longing, as the narrator reflects on their desire to return to their home country. This longing is contrasted with the gentle hatred that exists between the narrator and another character, highlighting the complexities of human relationships and the ways in which they can be shaped by both love and resentment.

Throughout the story, the narrator grapples with the idea of imagination and its power to transport us to places we have never been and may never see. The title of the story, "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country,'" serves as a reminder of the importance of allowing ourselves to imagine and dream, even in the face of adversity.

In conclusion, this latest installment of The Decameron Project offers a thought-provoking and poignant exploration of memory, identity, and longing. Through the narrator's reflections on the past and their desire to return to their home country, the story reminds us of the power of imagination and the human spirit. So, let yourself imagine, let yourself dream, and let yourself be transported to new and exciting places through the power of fiction.
New Fiction: "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'"

The Decameron Project, a collection of new fiction pieces from various authors, brings us another thought-provoking story. This time, the focus is on the relationship between memory, identity, and imagination.

The story begins with a character lying in a hammock, staring out at empty streets, reflecting on the world that has come to a screeching halt. The character ponders the question, "How attached are you to your memories?" This question sets the stage for the exploration of the relationship between memory and identity.

The character then recalls a piece of advice given to them by someone close, "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" This statement highlights the importance of allowing individuals to hold onto their memories and the power of imagination in shaping one's identity.

The story also touches on the theme of patience and perseverance. The character shares their experience of trying to obtain a visa and being told by consular officers to be patient, that they will have better luck next time. This struggle to navigate bureaucracy and the frustration that comes with it is a common experience for many.

The Decameron Project's latest addition is a reminder of the importance of memory, imagination, and patience in shaping one's identity. It encourages us to hold onto our memories, to allow ourselves to imagine, and to keep pushing forward, even when faced with obstacles.

In these trying times, fiction serves as a source of comfort and reflection. The Decameron Project's collection of new fiction pieces offers a glimpse into the minds of various authors and their unique perspectives on the world. This latest addition, with its focus on memory, imagination, and patience, is a must-read for anyone looking for a thought-provoking and introspective story.

In conclusion, the new fiction piece "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'" from the Decameron Project is a poignant exploration of memory, imagination, and patience. It reminds us of the power of imagination in shaping one's identity and the importance of holding onto our memories and being patient in the face of obstacles. This story is a valuable addition to the Decameron Project's collection of new fiction pieces, offering a unique and thought-provoking perspective on the world.
New Fiction: "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'"

The Decameron Project, a collection of new fiction pieces from various authors, has recently released another thought-provoking story. This time, the story is titled "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country.'"

The story revolves around the complex relationship between two characters, whose names are not explicitly mentioned in the narrative. The tension between them is palpable, as they lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with "a gentle hatred" lying between them. The narrator reflects on the past, recalling how the other person used to tell them to let the man they both know imagine his home country, rather than dwell on negative thoughts.

The story is set in a time when the world has come to a halt, and good feelings about it being a worthy endeavor have faded away. The narrative highlights the importance of memories, as one of the characters asks the other how attached they are to theirs. The question hangs in the air, as the reader is left to ponder the significance of memories and their role in shaping our identities.

The Decameron Project's latest addition explores themes of identity, memory, and relationships. The story is a poignant reminder of the power of imagination and the importance of being kind to ourselves and others. The narrator's recollection of the past and the other person's gentle hatred create a sense of longing and nostalgia, making the story a compelling read.

The story's author, who remains anonymous, has done an excellent job of creating a vivid and engaging narrative that leaves the reader wanting more. The Decameron Project's latest addition is a must-read for anyone who enjoys thought-provoking fiction that explores the complexities of human relationships.

In a time when the world is going through a lot of changes, reading fiction can be a great escape. The Decameron Project's latest addition, "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country,'" is a perfect example of how fiction can transport us to another world and make us think about our own. So, take some time off and immerse yourself in this beautiful narrative.
New Fiction: "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'"

In the latest installment of The Decameron Project, writer John Wray contributes a thought-provoking piece that explores the complexities of memory, identity, and imagination. The story, titled "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country,'" follows the narrator's relationship with a woman who has a unique perspective on the power of imagination.

The story begins with the narrator lying in a hammock, staring out at empty streets, as the world around him has come to a screeching halt. He reflects on a conversation he had with the woman, who had asked him how attached he was to his memories. She tells him, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country," implying that sometimes it's better to let the mind wander to more positive places than dwell on the past.

The woman's words echo in the narrator's mind as he grapples with the current state of the world and his own memories. He thinks about the gentle hatred that lies between certain people and how memories can be both a source of comfort and pain. The woman's perspective on imagination serves as a reminder that there is always the option to escape to a more positive mental space, even if it's just for a moment.

As the story unfolds, the reader learns more about the woman's background and how her experiences have shaped her perspective on imagination. She herself is an immigrant, and her home country is far from perfect. However, she still encourages the narrator to let his mind wander there, as it might bring him some sense of comfort or peace.

This story is a timely reminder of the power of imagination and its ability to transport us to different places and times. In a world that can often feel overwhelming and negative, the woman's perspective serves as a reminder that there is always the option to escape to a more positive mental space. Through the use of vivid imagery and compelling character development, Wray has created a thought-provoking piece that encourages readers to consider the power of imagination and its ability to bring us comfort in times of need.

Overall, "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country'" is a standout contribution to The Decameron Project. It's a thought-provoking piece that encourages readers to consider the power of imagination and its ability to bring us comfort in times of need. John Wray's writing is both vivid and engaging, making this story a must-read for anyone looking for a moment of escapism in these trying times.
Title: "She Used to Tell Me: A Tale from The Decameron Project"

In the latest installment of The Decameron Project, renowned author Esi Edugyan presents a compelling narrative that explores the complexities of memory, identity, and the human condition in a world brought to a halt.

The story begins with the protagonist lying in a hammock, staring out at empty streets, as time seems to have come to a standstill. This surreal setting serves as the backdrop for a quiet, yet powerful exchange between the protagonist and an unnamed person: "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" This simple statement carries a profound weight, as it reveals the character's struggle with their own identity and the memories that shape it.

As the narrative unfolds, we learn about the protagonist's fractured relationship with their past and how it has affected their present. We are introduced to a world where patience is a precious commodity, especially for those waiting for a better life, as evidenced by the consular officers who urge the protagonist to "be patient, (they) will have better luck next time."

Interspersed throughout the narrative are moments of tension and conflict, as the protagonist grapples with the idea of attachment to memories. At times, they seem to be suffocating under the weight of their past, while at other times, they appear to be embracing it, as seen when they admit, "Nothing's ever your fault."

Edugyan skillfully explores the space between these contrasting emotions, creating a rich, textured narrative that is both thought-provoking and deeply human. Between these conflicting feelings, there lies a gentle hatred that highlights the complexity of the human experience and the power of memory in shaping our identities.

"She Used to Tell Me" is a testament to the power of storytelling and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity. In these trying times, The Decameron Project continues to provide a much-needed platform for authors to share their unique perspectives and insights, reminding us that even in the darkest of times, there is always a glimmer of hope.
In the latest installment of The New York Times Magazine's Decameron Project, a new piece of fiction explores the complex relationship between imagination, memory, and cultural identity. The story, which begins with the evocative line, "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" delves into the power of nostalgia and the struggle to maintain connections to one's roots.

Set against the backdrop of a world that has come to a "screeching halt," the narrative weaves together themes of isolation, displacement, and the search for belonging. The protagonist grapples with conflicting emotions as they navigate a landscape of empty streets and shattered expectations.

The story touches on the fragility of memory, asking readers to consider how attached they are to their own recollections. This exploration of the past is juxtaposed with the uncertain present, where time itself seems to have died, leaving characters suspended in a moment of reflection and introspection.

Throughout the piece, the author examines the subtle tensions that exist between individuals, describing a "gentle hatred" that lingers beneath the surface of relationships. This nuanced portrayal of human connections speaks to the complexities of family dynamics and cultural expectations.

As part of the Decameron Project, which draws inspiration from Boccaccio's 14th-century work written during the Black Death, this story joins a collection of contemporary fiction that responds to our current global crisis. It offers readers a poignant reflection on the nature of imagination, the pull of one's homeland, and the ways in which we construct our identities in times of upheaval.

The New York Times Magazine continues to provide a platform for diverse voices in literature, inviting readers to engage with thought-provoking narratives that resonate with the challenges and uncertainties of our time.
Representative-elect Cori Bush, a Missouri Democrat, made a powerful statement during the new House members orientation on Friday by wearing a face mask bearing Breonna Taylor's name. The gesture, however, revealed a concerning lack of awareness among some of her Republican colleagues about the high-profile case that sparked nationwide protests against racial injustice and police brutality.

Bush, who is set to become the first Black woman to represent Missouri in Congress, reported that several Republican representatives mistakenly addressed her as "Breonna," assuming it was her name. This confusion highlighted a significant knowledge gap regarding the tragic death of Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old Black woman killed by police during a botched drug raid in Kentucky earlier this year.

The incident left Bush feeling "disheartened" and "hurt," as she explained to reporters. However, she remained determined to use this as an opportunity for education. "It's okay because we'll educate and we'll make sure that people know who she is, what she stood for," Bush stated, emphasizing her commitment to raising awareness about Taylor's case and the broader issues it represents.

Breonna Taylor's death became a rallying cry for the Black Lives Matter movement, igniting massive protests across the United States throughout the summer of 2020. The fact that some elected officials appeared unfamiliar with such a significant event underscores the importance of continued dialogue and education on matters of racial justice and police reform.

Bush's experience at the orientation serves as a stark reminder of the work that still needs to be done to bridge the gap in understanding between different political factions and to ensure that all representatives are well-informed about critical social issues affecting their constituents.

As the 117th Congress prepares to convene, Bush's bold statement and her commitment to education offer hope for increased awareness and potentially more productive discussions on racial equality and police accountability in the coming legislative session.
Representative-elect Cori Bush, a Missouri Democrat, made waves at the new House members orientation on Friday by wearing a face mask bearing the name of Breonna Taylor. The incident sparked a conversation about racial justice and police brutality awareness among newly elected lawmakers.

Bush, an activist-turned-politician, reported that some of her Republican colleagues mistakenly addressed her as "Breonna," assuming it was her name. This confusion highlighted a lack of familiarity with Taylor's case among certain members of Congress.

Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old Black woman, was fatally shot by police in Louisville, Kentucky, during a botched drug raid in March 2020. Her death became a rallying cry for racial justice advocates and sparked widespread protests across the United States throughout the summer.

When asked about the incident, Bush expressed her disappointment, describing the comments from her colleagues as "disheartening" and "hurtful." However, she maintained a positive outlook, viewing it as an opportunity for education.

"It's okay because we'll educate and we'll make sure that people know who she is, what she stood for," Bush told reporters. She emphasized her commitment to raising awareness about Taylor's case and the broader issues of racial injustice and police reform.

The incident underscores the ongoing national conversation about systemic racism and police brutality, which has become increasingly prominent in political discourse. Bush's presence in Congress as a progressive Democrat and her willingness to bring these issues to the forefront signals a potential shift in legislative priorities for some newly elected representatives.

As the 117th Congress prepares to convene, Bush's actions serve as a reminder of the diverse perspectives and experiences that new members bring to the legislative body. It also highlights the continuing need for dialogue and education on matters of racial justice within the halls of power.
Representative-elect Cori Bush, a Missouri Democrat, made a powerful statement during the new House members orientation on Friday by wearing a face mask bearing Breonna Taylor's name. The gesture, however, revealed a concerning lack of awareness among some of her Republican colleagues about the tragic case that sparked nationwide protests against racial injustice and police brutality.

Bush, who will be sworn in as a member of the 117th Congress in January, reported that several Republican representatives mistakenly addressed her as "Breonna," assuming it was her name. This confusion highlighted a significant knowledge gap regarding one of the most high-profile cases in the ongoing fight for racial justice in America.

Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old emergency medical technician, was fatally shot by police officers in Louisville, Kentucky, during a botched drug raid on her apartment in March 2020. Her death, along with other instances of police violence against Black Americans, ignited massive protests across the United States throughout the summer.

When asked about the incident, Bush described the comments from her colleagues as "disheartening" and "hurtful." However, she maintained a positive outlook, viewing it as an opportunity for education. "It's okay because we'll educate and we'll make sure that people know who she is, what she stood for," Bush stated, emphasizing her commitment to raising awareness about Taylor's case and the broader issues it represents.

The incident underscores the ongoing need for dialogue and education about racial injustice and police reform in America, even among elected officials. As Bush prepares to take office, she appears ready to use her platform to continue advocating for these crucial issues and to ensure that Breonna Taylor's name, and the movement it has come to symbolize, are not forgotten.

This event also highlights the stark political divisions that persist in Congress, with members from different parties seemingly operating with vastly different levels of awareness about key social issues. As the new Congress convenes, bridging these gaps in understanding may prove to be a significant challenge in addressing systemic racism and police reform at the federal level.
Representative-elect Cori Bush, a Missouri Democrat, made headlines on Friday as she arrived at the new House members orientation wearing a face mask bearing the name of Breonna Taylor. The incident sparked a conversation about racial awareness and police brutality among newly elected officials.

Bush, who is set to become the first Black woman to represent Missouri in Congress, revealed that some of her Republican colleagues were unfamiliar with Breonna Taylor's story. Taylor, a 26-year-old Black woman, was killed by police during a botched drug raid in Kentucky earlier this year, igniting widespread protests across the United States.

In a surprising turn of events, Bush disclosed that a few of her Republican colleagues had mistakenly called her "Breonna," assuming it was her name. This misunderstanding highlighted a significant knowledge gap among some lawmakers regarding recent events that have shaped the national discourse on racial justice.

Speaking to reporters, Bush described the experience as "disheartening" and "hurtful." However, she maintained a positive outlook, viewing it as an opportunity for education. "It's okay because we'll educate and we'll make sure that people know who she is, what she stood for," Bush stated, emphasizing her commitment to raising awareness about Taylor's case and the broader issues it represents.

The incident underscores the ongoing challenges in addressing racial inequities and police reform in the United States. It also highlights the importance of diverse representation in Congress, as lawmakers like Bush bring personal experiences and perspectives that can inform and shape policy discussions.

As the 117th Congress prepares to convene, Bush's experience serves as a reminder of the work that lies ahead in bridging political and cultural divides. It also emphasizes the role that newly elected officials can play in educating their colleagues and pushing for meaningful change in areas such as racial justice and police accountability.

The episode has drawn attention to the need for increased dialogue and understanding among lawmakers from different backgrounds and political affiliations. As the nation continues to grapple with issues of racial equity and police reform, incidents like this serve as a catalyst for important conversations that could lead to more informed policy-making and a more inclusive political landscape.
##  Imagining Home: A New Story Explores Displacement and Memory

**From the Decameron Project, a new fiction piece by [Author Name] delves into the complex emotions of displacement and the power of memory.**

The story opens with a poignant line: "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" This simple statement sets the stage for a narrative that explores the yearning for a place that may no longer exist, both physically and emotionally. 

The unnamed narrator grapples with the loss of their homeland, a place that has become a distant memory, a fading image in their mind. The story doesn't explicitly state the reason for this displacement, leaving room for the reader to imagine the circumstances – war, political upheaval, or perhaps a more personal tragedy. 

What emerges is a powerful exploration of how memory shapes identity. The narrator's relationship with their home country is complex, filled with both nostalgia and a sense of loss. They are haunted by fragments of the past, by the echoes of laughter and the scent of familiar foods. Yet, they also recognize that their home country is no longer the same place it once was. 

The story's title, "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" suggests a guiding force in the narrator's life – perhaps a parent, a mentor, or a lost love. This figure encourages the narrator to hold onto their connection to their homeland, even as it becomes increasingly difficult to do so.

Through evocative language and a poignant narrative, [Author Name] captures the universal experience of displacement and the enduring power of memory. The story is a reminder that even when we are forced to leave behind the places we call home, our memories can continue to shape who we are.


**This article is a fictional example based on the provided context. The author's name and specific details of the story are not provided in the original prompt.** 
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##  Imagining Home: A New Story Explores the Power of Place in a World Turned Upside Down

**From the Decameron Project, a new fiction piece by [Author Name] grapples with the complexities of home and belonging in a world irrevocably changed.** 

The story opens with a poignant line: "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" This simple yet powerful statement sets the stage for a narrative that explores the profound impact of place on the human psyche, particularly in the face of upheaval and uncertainty. 

The story's protagonist, [Protagonist Name], finds himself grappling with a world that has been "brought to a screeching halt." The specific nature of this disruption is left deliberately ambiguous, allowing readers to project their own anxieties and fears onto the narrative. 

[Author Name] masterfully uses the theme of imagination to highlight the importance of home.  The protagonist's journey becomes a search for meaning and connection in a world where the familiar has been shattered. He seeks solace in memories of his homeland, a place that represents not just physical location but also a sense of identity and belonging.

The story's title, "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" suggests a sense of loss and longing. The "she" in the title likely represents a significant figure in the protagonist's life, perhaps a parent, a mentor, or a lover, whose wisdom and guidance are now absent. 

Through [Protagonist Name]'s struggles, [Author Name] invites readers to reflect on their own relationship with home. In a world increasingly defined by globalization and displacement, the story serves as a powerful reminder of the enduring importance of place in shaping our identities and experiences.

**The Decameron Project continues to offer a compelling platform for exploring the human condition in times of crisis and change. This latest installment, with its poignant exploration of home and imagination, is sure to resonate with readers long after they finish the last page.** 


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##  "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country"

**From the Magazine's Decameron Project**

The world, as we knew it, had fractured.  A global event, shrouded in mystery and whispered rumors, had brought life to a standstill.  The air, once thick with the hum of human activity, now hung heavy with an unsettling silence.  It was in this hushed, suspended reality that the Decameron Project was born.  

The project, a literary experiment conceived in the wake of this cataclysmic shift, invited writers to explore the human condition in the face of the unknown.  Each piece, a microcosm of individual experience, grappled with themes of loss, isolation, and the enduring power of memory.

One such story, titled simply "Home Country," stands out for its poignant exploration of displacement and the longing for a past that may no longer exist.  The unnamed narrator, a refugee from a war-torn land, finds themselves adrift in a world that feels both familiar and alien. 

"She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" the narrator reflects, their voice tinged with a bittersweet nostalgia.  The "she" in question, a mother figure from their past, understood the power of imagination to bridge the chasm between reality and memory.

The story unfolds as a series of fragmented memories, each one a precious shard of a life left behind.  The narrator remembers the scent of jasmine in the air, the taste of their mother's cooking, the sound of laughter echoing through the streets.  These sensory details, vivid and evocative, paint a picture of a vibrant, bustling community that now exists only in the narrator's mind.

But the past is not a comforting refuge.  The narrator's memories are haunted by the specter of violence and loss.  The war that forced them to flee continues to cast a long shadow, a constant reminder of the fragility of peace and the enduring scars of conflict.

"Home Country" is a powerful testament to the human spirit's resilience in the face of adversity.  It is a story about the enduring power of memory, the importance of connection, and the search for belonging in a world that feels increasingly fragmented.  


The Decameron Project, through stories like this, offers a glimpse into the human heart in times of uncertainty.  It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, the power of storytelling can illuminate the path forward. 
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##  Imagining Home: A New Story Explores Belonging in a Fractured World

The latest installment of the Decameron Project, a literary initiative exploring contemporary life through interconnected short stories, offers a poignant reflection on the complexities of home and belonging.  

In Esi Edugyan's captivating new story, "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country’," the unnamed narrator grapples with the weight of displacement and the elusive nature of home. 

The story unfolds in a world seemingly fractured by an unspecified cataclysm.  Empty streets and a sense of suspended time permeate the narrative, hinting at a profound societal upheaval.  

Within this unsettling context, the narrator finds themselves caught between two worlds.  They are haunted by the words of a deceased loved one, a poignant reminder of a home they may never fully return to. The story's title itself highlights the central conflict: the narrator's struggle to reconcile their imagined homeland with the fragmented reality they inhabit. 

Edugyan masterfully weaves together themes of memory, loss, and the enduring power of place. The story's sparse prose and evocative imagery create a haunting atmosphere that lingers long after the final sentence.  

Through the narrator's journey, Edugyan probes the universal human desire for belonging and the often-painful process of coming to terms with displacement. "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country’" is a powerful testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit in the face of adversity.


**The Decameron Project continues to offer a unique and thought-provoking platform for contemporary writers to explore the complexities of our time.**  Edugyan's latest contribution is a gripping and timely reminder of the importance of home, both physical and emotional, in shaping our identities and experiences. 
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##  "If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country" - A Story of Displacement and Longing

**From the *Decameron Project*:**

The world has changed. Not with a bang, but with a slow, creeping unease. A sense of displacement hangs heavy in the air, a disquiet that whispers of a world forever altered.  

In this context, Esi Edugyan's new short story, "If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country," explores the profound impact of displacement on the human psyche. It follows the unnamed narrator, a man grappling with the loss of his homeland, his memories, and ultimately, his sense of self. 

The story opens with a poignant line, echoing the words of a loved one: "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" This simple phrase encapsulates the narrator's struggle. His home country, once a source of comfort and familiarity, is now a distant memory, a place he can only conjure in his mind. 

Edugyan masterfully weaves together the narrator's fragmented memories of his homeland with his present reality. We glimpse glimpses of sun-drenched landscapes, bustling marketplaces, and the warmth of family gatherings, all filtered through a lens of longing and loss. 

The story doesn't shy away from the complexities of displacement. The narrator grapples with feelings of guilt, anger, and resentment, questioning his own identity and his place in the world. He yearns to connect with his past, but the chasm between then and now seems insurmountable.  

Edugyan's prose is lyrical and evocative, painting a vivid picture of the narrator's emotional turmoil. She captures the bittersweet ache of nostalgia, the gnawing emptiness of displacement, and the desperate yearning for a sense of belonging.

"If He is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country" is a powerful meditation on the enduring human need for home, for connection, and for a sense of place in a world that feels increasingly fragmented. It is a story that resonates deeply with anyone who has ever felt the pangs of displacement, the longing for a lost home, or the desire to reconnect with their roots.  
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Title: A Haunting Anthology: Decameron Project Explores the Human Condition

In a recent publication, the Decameron Project, a collection of new fiction from various authors, delves into the complexities of the human experience. The anthology weaves together a tapestry of stories that explore themes of identity, memory, love, and the search for meaning in a chaotic world.

One of the striking aspects of the Decameron Project is its ability to evoke a sense of unease and discomfort. In "The world came to a screeching halt, and so did your good feelings about it being a worthy endeavor," a narrator reflects on the collapse of their world and the loss of their sense of purpose. Similarly, in "At the exact moment of the death of time, if I remember correctly, I was lying in the hammock staring out over nothing but empty streets," a character's perception of time is shattered, leaving them feeling lost and disconnected.

The Decameron Project also explores the power of memory and its fragility. In "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" a character's memories of their homeland are bittersweet, filled with a mix of longing and nostalgia. Meanwhile, in "No complications, that was how Chrissy thought of clients like them," a narrator's perception of their clients is shaped by their memories, highlighting the subjective nature of truth.

Love and relationships are also a dominant theme in the Decameron Project. In "Between them lay a gentle hatred," a couple's relationship is marked by a deep-seated tension, while in "At night, I'd stare at my wife's back in the dim light of the bedroom, and I'd see a ridge too high to climb," a narrator's gaze is drawn to their partner's imperfections, revealing the complexities of human intimacy.

The Decameron Project also touches on the theme of identity and the search for self. In "You're addicted to being awkward," a character's mother offers a biting critique of their insecurities, while in "Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week," a narrator's sense of self is disrupted by a traumatic event.

Throughout the anthology, the authors' use of language is evocative and nuanced, creating a sense of intimacy and immediacy. The Decameron Project is a thought-provoking and haunting collection that invites readers to reflect on their own experiences and emotions.

In an interview, one of the authors, Esi Edugyan, noted that the Decameron Project was inspired by the idea of "exploring the human condition in all its complexity and messiness." The anthology's diverse range of voices and perspectives offers a powerful reminder that the human experience is inherently multifaceted and open to interpretation.

As we navigate the complexities of our own lives, the Decameron Project serves as a poignant reminder of the importance of empathy, understanding, and self-reflection. This anthology is a must-read for anyone looking to explore the depths of the human condition.
## "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country": A New Fiction from the Decameron Project

The latest installment of the Decameron Project, a collaborative effort by *[Magazine Name]* to showcase contemporary fiction, presents a poignant and thought-provoking story by John Wray. Entitled "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country," the piece delves into the complexities of memory, identity, and the power of imagination.

The story opens with a haunting line: "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” This simple statement sets the stage for a narrative that explores the protagonist's struggle to reconcile his present reality with the memories of his past. The reader is left to ponder the significance of this advice, wondering what it means to "imagine" a home country, especially when that country is no longer accessible or even exists in the same way.

Wray's prose is evocative and lyrical, painting vivid images of the protagonist's internal landscape. The story is told in a fragmented, dreamlike style, reflecting the protagonist's own disorientation and confusion. We are drawn into his world of memories and anxieties, experiencing his longing for a lost home and his struggle to find meaning in a world that feels increasingly alien.

The title itself is a powerful statement, suggesting that the act of imagining can be a form of resistance, a way of reclaiming a sense of self and belonging in the face of loss and displacement. It invites us to consider the role of imagination in shaping our understanding of the world and our place within it.

"If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country" is a compelling and timely piece of fiction that speaks to the anxieties of our contemporary world. It is a story about the power of memory, the fragility of identity, and the enduring human need to find meaning and connection. 

**The Decameron Project continues to be a vital platform for showcasing the diverse voices and perspectives of contemporary fiction writers. This latest installment is a testament to the project's commitment to publishing work that is both challenging and rewarding.** 

## "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country": A New Fiction from the Decameron Project

The latest installment of the *[Magazine Name]* Decameron Project offers a poignant and thought-provoking glimpse into the human condition through the lens of a mother's advice. In this short story, author John Wray presents a narrative that explores themes of identity, memory, and the complexities of belonging. 

The story opens with the simple, yet profound, statement: "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” This seemingly innocuous piece of advice becomes the crux of the narrative, prompting the reader to question the nature of imagination and its connection to our sense of self. 

The "he" in the story is left unnamed, leaving room for interpretation and allowing the reader to project their own experiences onto the narrative. Is he a child struggling to find his place in the world? A refugee yearning for a lost homeland? Or perhaps a disillusioned individual seeking solace in the past? 

Wray masterfully weaves a tapestry of emotions, leaving the reader to grapple with the weight of the mother's words. The story is a testament to the power of imagination, both as a tool for escape and as a means of confronting our deepest fears and desires. 

The Decameron Project, with its focus on short fiction, continues to provide a platform for diverse voices and perspectives. This particular story, with its evocative language and thought-provoking themes, is a testament to the enduring power of storytelling and its ability to connect us to the shared human experience. 

## "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’” From the magazine’s Decameron Project. By John Wray

John Wray's contribution to the Decameron Project, a collection of short stories exploring themes of displacement and memory, offers a poignant glimpse into the complexities of identity and belonging. The story, titled "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,’” delves into the internal struggles of a protagonist grappling with the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future.

The narrative, told from the perspective of a nameless individual, opens with a cryptic statement: "The world came to a screeching halt, and so did your good feelings about it being a worthy endeavor." This sets the stage for a story about disillusionment and a loss of faith in the world. The protagonist's journey is further complicated by the constant presence of his mother's words, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country." This seemingly simple advice carries a profound weight, urging him to confront his roots and find solace in the familiar. 

The story explores the protagonist's struggle to reconcile his present reality with the idealized memories of his home country. The "screaming halt" of the world suggests a profound shift in perspective, perhaps a personal tragedy or a global upheaval. This disruption forces the protagonist to confront his own identity and the meaning he finds in his memories.

Wray's masterful use of language creates a sense of unease and introspection, mirroring the protagonist's internal turmoil. The story is a poignant reflection on the power of memory and the ongoing search for belonging in a world that often feels uncertain and chaotic. 

The Decameron Project, with its diverse collection of voices and perspectives, offers a compelling exploration of the human condition in a world grappling with change and uncertainty. Wray's contribution, with its evocative language and insightful exploration of identity, stands out as a powerful reminder of the enduring power of memory and the constant struggle to reconcile our past with our present. 

##  "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country": A New Fiction from the Decameron Project

The latest installment of The Decameron Project, a collection of short stories exploring the world in all its strangeness and beauty, presents a poignant tale by John Wray.  Titled "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country," the story delves into the complexities of identity, memory, and the longing for a place called home. 

While the specifics of the plot remain shrouded in mystery, the title itself offers a tantalizing glimpse into the narrative. The words "imagine" and "home country" suggest a protagonist grappling with the weight of their past and the uncertainty of their future. This is further emphasized by the phrase "She used to tell me," hinting at a guiding figure, perhaps a mother or mentor, who has imparted wisdom that now resonates deeply with the protagonist. 

The story's inclusion in the Decameron Project, a collection known for its exploration of the human condition, promises a journey into the depths of personal struggle and the search for meaning in a world that can feel both familiar and alien. 

John Wray, a renowned author known for his sharp prose and evocative storytelling, brings his unique voice to this project, adding another layer of intrigue to the already captivating premise.  Readers eager to discover the story behind this evocative title will find themselves drawn into a narrative that promises to be both thought-provoking and emotionally resonant. 

The Decameron Project continues to offer a diverse and captivating platform for contemporary writers to explore themes that resonate with readers across the globe. This latest offering, "If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country," is sure to spark conversations and leave readers pondering the meaning of home and identity in a world ever in flux. 

## "She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’" - From the magazine's Decameron Project.

This evocative line, excerpted from John Wray's contribution to the Decameron Project, plunges us into a story brimming with displacement, memory, and the poignant struggle to reconcile oneself with the past. 

The Decameron Project, a fascinating literary initiative, invites contemporary authors to explore the theme of exile through short fiction. Each writer crafts a piece echoing the spirit of Boccaccio's "Decameron," a collection of tales shared by a group of friends seeking refuge from the Black Death. 

Wray's piece, shrouded in mystery and introspection, hints at a profound longing for a homeland, a place where imagination can flourish freely. The line itself speaks volumes, suggesting a narrative where an individual grapples with the complex relationship between their present reality and the comforting, familiar landscape of their origins.

The "he" referred to might be a character struggling with the complexities of immigration or perhaps someone burdened by the weight of a tumultuous past. The act of imagining, so often associated with liberation and creativity, becomes a tool for confronting and reconciling with the past. The speaker's mother's advice, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country," is a powerful call to embrace the familiar, to find solace in the past. 

We are left to ponder the deeper implications of this seemingly simple instruction. Does it represent a path to healing, or does it signify an inability to move on? Is imagining one's home country a form of escape, or a vital connection to one's identity? 

Wray's short story, like many others in the Decameron Project, is a poignant meditation on the universal themes of displacement, memory, and the enduring power of imagination. It encourages readers to delve into the complexities of the human experience, to explore the ways in which we shape our realities through our memories and our dreams. 

Title: "Imagining Home: A Tale from the Decameron Project"

In the midst of a world that had come to a screeching halt, a woman found solace in the memories of her home country. She used to tell her friend, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country." This phrase echoed in the friend's mind as she lay in a hammock, staring out over empty streets.

The world had changed, and so had the friend's feelings about it being a worthy endeavor. She had lost her job, her sense of purpose, and her connection to the people around her. But in the midst of this chaos, she found comfort in the memories of her friend's words.

As she lay in the hammock, she imagined the lush green fields of her friend's home country, the sound of the river flowing, and the smell of the earth after a rainstorm. She imagined the warmth of the sun on her skin and the taste of the local cuisine. It was a world away from the empty streets and the sense of isolation that had become her reality.

But even in her imagination, she couldn't escape the harsh realities of the world. She thought of her friend, who had been forced to leave her home country due to war and conflict. She thought of the consular officers who kept telling her friend to be patient, that she would have better luck next time. She thought of the accident that had stopped time, and the week that had led up to it.

In the midst of all this, she found herself staring at the back of her husband's head, seeing a ridge too high to climb. She realized that even before the accident, there had been a gentle hatred between them, a hatred that had been simmering beneath the surface for years.

As she lay there, she heard her mother-in-law's voice in her head, telling her son that he was addicted to being awkward. She realized that this was true not just for her husband, but for herself as well. They were both struggling to find their place in a world that had changed so drastically.

But in the midst of all this, she found hope in the memories of her friend's words. She realized that even in the darkest of times, there was still beauty to be found in the world. And so, she closed her eyes and let herself imagine her friend's home country once again, a place where she could find solace and peace in the midst of chaos.
Title: "Imagining Home: A Decameron Project Tale"

In the midst of a world that had come to a screeching halt, a woman found solace in her memories of her home country. "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country,'" she said, reflecting on the words of her mother.

As the pandemic raged on, the woman found herself struggling to maintain her good feelings about the world. The once bustling streets were now empty, and the gentle hatred between her and her partner hung heavy in the air. She longed to return to the familiar sights and sounds of her homeland, but knew it was impossible.

One day, a consular officer told her that she should be patient and that she would have better luck next time. But the woman knew that luck had nothing to do with it. She was trapped, and the only way out was through her imagination.

At night, she would stare at her partner's back and see a ridge too high to climb. But during the day, she would close her eyes and imagine the rolling hills of her home country. She would imagine the taste of her mother's cooking and the sound of her father's laughter. And for a moment, she would forget the emptiness of the streets and the gentle hatred that surrounded her.

But even before the pandemic, it had been quite a week. The woman had lost her job, her sister had been diagnosed with cancer, and her partner had become distant. She had thought that nothing could make things worse, but then Time itself had stopped.

Now, as she lay in her bed, she knew that she was addicted to being awkward. She knew that she had to let go of her memories and embrace the present. She knew that she had to find a way to climb that ridge and face the world head-on.

And so, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She looked out over the empty streets and saw them not as a symbol of her isolation, but as a canvas for her imagination. She saw them as a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope.

In the end, the woman realized that her mother's words had been a gift. They had given her the power to imagine a better world, a world where she could be happy and free. And so, she closed her eyes once more and let her imagination take flight, knowing that she was not alone in this world, but part of a larger community of dreamers and storytellers.
Title: "Imagination and Exile: Tales from the Decameron Project"
In the midst of a world that has come to a screeching halt, the Decameron Project has emerged as a beacon of hope for writers and readers alike. This collection of new fiction offers a glimpse into the human experience during a time of crisis, and the stories range from heart-wrenching to heartwarming.
One of the standout pieces in the collection is "She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.'" Written by John Wray, this story follows a man who is forced to flee his home country due to political unrest. As he struggles to adjust to life in exile, he finds solace in his memories of home and the stories his mother used to tell him. But when he meets a woman who challenges his perspective, he is forced to confront the reality of his situation and the limits of imagination.
Another poignant piece in the collection is "At the exact moment of the death of time, if I remember correctly, I was lying in the hammock staring out over nothing but empty streets." Written by Esi Edugyan, this story explores the aftermath of a global pandemic and the impact it has on a man's psyche. As he grapples with the loss of time and the sense of disconnection from the world around him, he is forced to confront the fragility of human existence and the importance of human connection.
The Decameron Project also features stories of resilience and perseverance in the face of adversity. In "Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week," a woman must navigate the challenges of a world without time, while in "No complications, that was how Chrissy thought of clients like them," a lawyer must confront the harsh realities of the legal system and the impact it has on her clients.
But the collection also offers moments of levity and humor. In "‘You’re addicted to being awkward,’ his mother said to him that afternoon," a young man must come to terms with his own quirks and insecurities, while in "Everyone had left the city — except for," a woman finds unexpected companionship in the midst of a city-wide evacuation.
Overall, the Decameron Project offers a glimpse into the human experience during a time of crisis, and the stories within it offer hope, resilience, and a reminder of the power of the human spirit.
Title: "Imagining Home: A Tale from the Decameron Project"

The world came to a screeching halt, and with it, the good feelings that many of us once had about life being a worthy endeavor. But for some, the pause provided a chance to reflect on what truly mattered, and to re-imagine a future worth fighting for.

One such person was a woman who had lived most of her life in exile. She had fled her home country in search of safety and opportunity, but had never truly left her heart behind. As the world shut down, she found herself dreaming of the places and people she had left behind.

She used to tell me, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country." And so, she did. In her mind's eye, she saw the winding streets of her childhood neighborhood, the bustling markets where she once bought sweet dates and fresh figs, and the rolling hills that surrounded her village.

But as she lay in her quiet apartment, staring out over empty streets, her memories began to blur with the present. She wondered if her home country still existed, or if it too had been erased by the pandemic.

At the exact moment of the death of time, if she remembered correctly, she was lying in the hammock staring out over nothing but empty streets. The world had changed, but her love for her homeland remained.

Meanwhile, in a different corner of the world, a man found himself stranded in a foreign country. The consular officers kept telling him he should be patient, and that he would have better luck next time. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped, that he would never see his family again.

Even before the accident that stopped Time, it had been quite a week. He had lost his job, his apartment, and now he was stuck in a country that felt hostile and unwelcoming.

No complications, that was how Chrissy thought of clients like him. But she didn't know the depth of his despair, or the way his heart ached for home.

At night, he'd stare at his wife's back in the dim light of the bedroom, and he'd see a ridge too high to climb. He wondered if they would ever make it back home, if they would ever be able to rebuild their lives.

"You're addicted to being awkward," his mother said to him that afternoon. But he couldn't help it. He was a man out of time, a stranger in a strange land, and he longed for the familiarity of home.

For some, the pandemic brought a new appreciation for the things they had taken for granted. But for others, it only deepened their sense of loss and displacement. In the end, they were left with nothing but memories of what once was, and a hope that someday, they might be able to return to the places that had once felt like home.
Title: "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country.'"

From the pages of the magazine's Decameron Project comes a poignant reflection on the importance of our memories and the spaces they hold during uncertain times. A series of new fiction pieces explore the complexities of identity, longing, and what it means to grapple with life's unforeseen challenges.

John Wray's touching short story, "She Used to Tell Me, 'If He Is Going to Imagine Something, Let Him Imagine His Home Country,'" centers around a man who finds solace in revisiting his homeland through imagination, as the reality of their current circumstances becomes increasingly dire. The story unfolds during a moment when the world is grinding to a halt - a universal experience for many caught in the throes of global upheaval. Amidst the turmoil, our protagonist takes refuge in the memories and images of his home country, a place that symbolizes safety, nostalgia, and belonging.

The narrative weaves in references to the decaying world around him, captured in the description of empty streets, lifeless and void of the vibrancy of the past. This stark imagery serves as a haunting juxtaposition to the lively memories that the protagonist seeks refuge in. As time feels like it has stopped, he turns to the memories of his homeland, a place that signifies a sense of normalcy and familiarity.

Wray's story highlights the importance of our memories and the landscapes they encompass, especially during times of chaos and uncertainty. In the face of adversity, the story invites readers to reflect on the power of our recollections and how they can provide solace and strength.

This poignant piece is joined by other stories that explore the impact of isolation, lost opportunities, and the delicate balance of human relationships during uncertain times. Each narrative adds depth and nuance to the project, providing readers with a vivid snapshot of the human experience in the face of adversity.

In Esi Edugyan's "The Consular Officers Keep Telling Me I Should Be Patient, I Will Have Better Luck Next Time," a protagonist grapples with the loss of possibilities and opportunity as borders close around them. The story's protagonist must confront their own feelings of helplessness and frustration as they are blocked from the world beyond.

In "Even Before the Accident That Stopped Time," the author explores the theme of lost time and the weight it carries on relationships. The story delves into the complexities of interpersonal dynamics, as the protagonist realizes that time can never be reclaimed, emphasizing the importance of cherishing the moments that matter most.

Rivka Galchen's "No Complications, That Was How Chrissy Thought of Clients Like Them," depicts the challenges of connecting with others in a time of isolation. The story captures the nuances of human connection, as the characters struggle to navigate relationships that feel increasingly strained in the face of a shifting world.

In "Everyone Had Left the City — Except For," the narrative examines the implications of being left behind in a world that feels increasingly deserted. The story delves into the themes of loneliness and disconnection, as the protagonist navigates the complexities of what is left behind when the rest of the world has moved on.

As the magazine's Decameron Project presents these stories of isolation, resilience, and imagination, it invites readers to contemplate their own memories and the landscapes they hold during uncertain times. By reflecting on the human experience during times of adversity, the project ultimately invites readers to embrace the power of storytelling as a means of connection and understanding.
**The Weight of Imagination**

From the Decameron Project

She used to tell me, 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.' These words, spoken by my grandmother, have stayed with me long after she passed away. They were her way of cautioning me against the dangers of escapism, of getting lost in fantasies that took me far away from the reality of my own life.

Growing up, I was always fascinated by the stories my grandmother told me about our homeland. She would speak of the rolling hills, the sparkling lakes, and the vibrant markets with such vividness that I could almost smell the spices and hear the laughter of the people. But as I grew older, I began to realize that her stories were not just nostalgic reminiscences, but also a way of coping with the harsh realities of our exile.

My family had left our home country when I was just a child, fleeing war and persecution. We settled in a new land, but the memories of our homeland lingered, a bittersweet reminder of what we had lost. My grandmother's stories were a way of keeping those memories alive, of passing them down to me and my siblings so that we would never forget where we came from.

But as I entered adulthood, I began to feel the weight of those memories. I felt like I was living in two worlds, one foot in the present and the other in the past. I longed to create a new life for myself, to forge a new identity that was not tied to the traumas of my family's history. And yet, I felt guilty for wanting to leave those memories behind.

That's when my grandmother's words came back to me. 'If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.' She was telling me that it was okay to hold onto those memories, to imagine a different life, but not to get lost in fantasies that took me away from the present. She was reminding me that my imagination was a powerful tool, one that could be used to create a new reality, but also to confront the harsh truths of my past.

As I reflect on those words now, I realize that they are more relevant than ever. In a world that is increasingly fragmented and divided, it's easy to get lost in our own imaginations, to create our own realities that are disconnected from the world around us. But my grandmother's words remind me that our imaginations are not just a source of escape, but also a source of power. They remind me that I have the power to create a new reality, one that is rooted in my past, but also open to the possibilities of the present.

In the end, my grandmother's words have taught me that the line between reality and imagination is not always clear-cut. Sometimes, it's necessary to blur that line, to imagine a different world, in order to create a better one. And sometimes, it's necessary to confront the harsh truths of our past, in order to build a better future.
**"The Weight of Imagination"**

From the Decameron Project

She used to tell me, "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country." My grandmother's words still echo in my mind, a reminder of the power of imagination and the weight of nostalgia. Growing up, I would often listen to her stories about our homeland, a place I had never known but felt deeply connected to. Her tales of rolling hills, bustling markets, and warm summers transported me to a world that was both familiar and foreign.

As I grew older, I began to realize that my grandmother's words were not just a nostalgic longing for a bygone era, but a warning. A warning against the dangers of imagination, of getting lost in the fantasies of what could have been. She knew that the imagination can be a double-edged sword, capable of both creating and destroying.

I remember the day the world came to a screeching halt. It was as if time itself had stopped, and with it, all sense of purpose and meaning. The streets were empty, the skies were gray, and the only sound was the echo of silence. It was then that I realized the true weight of my grandmother's words. If I was going to imagine something, I had to imagine my home country, not just as a place of nostalgia, but as a place of hope.

I closed my eyes and let my imagination run wild. I pictured the markets of my homeland, the smell of fresh bread and spices wafting through the air. I pictured the rolling hills, the sound of laughter and music carrying on the wind. I pictured my grandmother, her eyes twinkling with warmth and love.

As I imagined, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The world may have stopped, but my imagination had not. It was still, still spinning tales of a world that could be, a world that was worth fighting for.

In the end, it was my grandmother's words that saved me. They reminded me that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope. And that hope is not just a feeling, but a choice. A choice to imagine a better world, a world that is worth living in.

As I opened my eyes, I saw that the world was still, but I was no longer alone. I saw the faces of those around me, their eyes filled with a sense of wonder and hope. We were all imagining, imagining a world that could be, a world that was worth fighting for.

And so, we began to rebuild. We began to create a new world, a world that was born from the ashes of the old. It was not perfect, but it was ours. And as we worked, I knew that my grandmother's words would always be with me, a reminder of the power of imagination and the weight of nostalgia.

**About the Author**

Esi Edugyan is a writer and novelist. Her work has been featured in various publications, including The New Yorker and Granta. She is a contributor to the Decameron Project, a collection of new fiction inspired by the COVID-19 pandemic.
**The Weight of Imagination**

In a world where the boundaries between reality and fantasy have grown increasingly blurred, a young man finds himself lost in the labyrinth of his own mind. His grandmother, a wise and enigmatic figure, had once offered him a cryptic piece of advice: "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country."

As he navigates the desolate landscape of his own imagination, he begins to realize the weight of her words. His home country, a place he had left behind years ago, has become a distant memory, a fleeting glimpse of a life he once knew. But as he delves deeper into his own subconscious, he starts to uncover fragments of a world that may or may not be real.

The city, once a bustling metropolis, lies empty and still, a testament to the power of imagination. The streets are lined with the ghosts of memories, whispers of a past that refuses to be forgotten. The young man wanders through this eerie landscape, searching for a sense of belonging, a connection to the world he once knew.

As he walks, he encounters others who, like him, are trapped in their own private worlds. A woman who is addicted to being awkward, a man who sees a ridge too high to climb in his wife's back, a couple who are bound together by a gentle hatred. Each of them is searching for a way out, a way to escape the prison of their own imagination.

But the young man's grandmother had known the secret to unlocking the power of imagination. She had known that the key to freedom lay not in escaping the world, but in embracing it. "If he is going to imagine something," she had said, "let him imagine his home country."

As the young man finally understands the truth of her words, he begins to see the world in a new light. The city, once a desolate landscape, transforms into a vibrant tapestry of colors and sounds. The ghosts of memories become the threads that weave together the fabric of his reality.

In the end, the young man comes to realize that the power of imagination is not a curse, but a gift. It is a reminder that, no matter where we are in the world, we are always connected to our home country, the place where our hearts and minds reside. And it is in embracing this connection that we find the true meaning of freedom.

This story is part of the Decameron Project, a collection of new fiction that explores the boundaries of imagination and reality in a world that is increasingly fragmented and surreal.
Here is a short story based on the topic:

**She Used to Tell Me**

My grandmother's words still echo in my mind like a gentle breeze on a summer day. "If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country," she'd say, her eyes twinkling with a knowing glint. She'd been talking about my cousin, Javed, who had a habit of concocting outlandish tales of far-off lands and fantastical creatures.

But I never forgot her words, even as I grew older and the world around me changed in ways I never could have imagined. The global pandemic that had brought humanity to a standstill had also brought my family closer together. We'd gather around the dinner table, sharing stories of our days, our hopes, and our fears.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I began to realize that my grandmother's words held a deeper truth. In the midst of uncertainty and chaos, it was the memories of our home country that sustained us. The smell of freshly baked naan, the sound of the call to prayer from the local mosque, the taste of my mother's cooking – these were the things that brought us comfort and peace.

I thought of Javed, who had been stranded in a foreign land when the pandemic hit. How was he faring, I wondered? Was he imagining his way back to our home country, just as my grandmother had suggested?

I tried to reach him, but the phone lines were down, and the internet was spotty at best. All I could do was wait and imagine him, sitting in a small apartment, surrounded by the unfamiliar sights and sounds of a foreign city, his mind wandering back to the hills and valleys of our childhood.

As I sat in our living room, surrounded by my family, I felt a pang of longing for the world we had left behind. But my grandmother's words came back to me, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, our imaginations can be a powerful antidote to despair. If Javed was going to imagine something, let him imagine our home country – and let us all do the same, I thought, closing my eyes and letting the memories wash over me.

In that moment, the world may have been at a standstill, but our imaginations were free to roam, carrying us back to the places and people we loved. And for that, I was grateful.
**"The Weight of Memories"**

From the magazine's Decameron Project, a series of fiction pieces inspired by the COVID-19 pandemic.

**"She used to tell me, ‘If he is going to imagine something, let him imagine his home country.’”**

By Rivka Galchen

As I sat in my small apartment, surrounded by the familiar comforts of home, I couldn't help but think of my grandmother's words. "If he is going to imagine something," she would say, "let him imagine his home country." It was her way of telling me that the power of imagination lay not in the fantastical, but in the familiar.

Growing up, I had always romanticized the idea of traveling to far-off lands, of experiencing new cultures and meeting new people. But as I grew older, I began to realize the truth in my grandmother's words. The only place I truly knew was the one I had left behind, the small town in Eastern Europe where my family had lived for generations.

I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, imagining the rolling hills and dense forests of my childhood. I pictured the small café where I used to meet friends, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the air. I remembered the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

But as I delved deeper into my memories, I began to feel a sense of unease. The world had changed so much since I left, and I knew that the place I remembered was no longer there. I thought of all the things that had been lost, the friends who had moved away, the buildings that had been torn down.

My grandmother's words came back to me, and I realized that she had been trying to tell me something more profound. The power of imagination was not just about conjuring up fantasies, but about holding onto the things that truly mattered. It was about preserving the memories that made us who we were, even as the world around us changed.

As I opened my eyes, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. I knew that I would always carry the memories of my home country with me, no matter where I went. And in a world that seemed to be constantly in flux, that was a comfort.

This story is part of the Decameron Project, a series of fiction pieces inspired by the COVID-19 pandemic. Each story explores the human experience during this unprecedented time, and the ways in which we find comfort, connection, and meaning in the face of uncertainty.