OneShot Weightloss

My little Lise, two years old, was fading before my eyes. It wasn't an illness; it was something else. Before, she was the light of the house, a crystalline laugh constantly ringing. But for about a month, joy had retreated from her, replaced by a shadow.
She didn't cry like other children. She trembled, curled up, and never let me out of her sight, as if I were the last barrier against the apocalypse. At night, it was hell. She would wake up screaming, not from a bad dream, but as if the terror were still present, right beside her, in the dark. She refused to play alone, and if I had to leave her, even for a minute to get a glass of water, I would find her little fingers clawing at the door, her breath ragged.
My husband, Marc, told me I was too anxious. "She's throwing tantrums, Chloé. You need to be firm, it's the age." Marc, the calm, patient man, my rock. I needed to believe him.
Yet, the terror in Lise's eyes was too real. I took her to see Doctor Vial, a pediatrician known for his humanity and keen eye.
The doctor examined her, then performed a simple but unusual test. He had Lise go out with his assistant, then sat across from me, hands clasped on his desk. The silence settled, heavy, deafening.
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The day of Master Elian’s funeral was not like any other day. The sky itself seemed to be holding its breath, heavy with a silent sadness. Elian was no ordinary man; he was the sculptor of souls, the one who gave life to wood, and his only companion was a bird of prey, a majestic golden eagle named Kael.

Kael was gone. Since the night Elian had breathed his last, the eagle had vanished from its perch. The family, overwhelmed by grief, had searched for it in vain in the surrounding forest. People whispered that such a proud bird could not bear the cage of loss.

Yet, the relationship between the man and the eagle was beyond understanding. Elian had saved Kael from certain death when its wing was broken. For fifteen years, the eagle had never strayed, recognizing the hand that fed it and the soul that understood it. Elian didn't train him; he spoke to him. The eagle knew the rhythm of his heart, the scent of his workshop, and, it was said, the melody of his silences.

At the cemetery, the fateful moment arrived. As the pallbearers prepared to lower the heavy funeral urn – for Elian, the man of flame, had chosen cremation – a sound tore through the silence. It was not a cry, but a low, guttural hiss, like the wind passing through rocks.

Out of nowhere, a massive shadow descended upon the crowd. It was Kael. His ebony plumage was ruffled, his talons were lacerated, and his golden eyes burned with a terrible intensity, not of rage, but of pure, primitive pain.

The eagle landed nearby, its wings closing with the power of a muffled clap of thunder. No one dared to move.

The bird did not look at the crowd; its entire being was fixed on the urn resting on its bier. Slowly, with a gait of almost human dignity, it approached. Its massive head lowered, and then it did the unthinkable, the gesture that froze the blood in the spectators' veins.

It did not touch the urn. It removed from its beak something it had held tightly during its desperate flight: a tiny white feather, plucked from its own throat, a symbol of its most precious essence. With a delicacy that contradicted its wild nature, it placed the feather right on the upper edge of the urn, fixing it there like a seal.

Then, it raised its head to the sky and let out the longest, most heart-wrenching, and majestic cry anyone had ever heard. It was a howl of loss, a lament for a broken vow.

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“The Glass Mask”
The city awoke in gold that morning, but inside the penthouse of the Orion Tower, Elias Moreau felt only the dull echo of emptiness.

At thirty-four, he had everything the world worships — power, charm, and a fortune vast enough to make any dream bend to his will. Yet, as he stared out at the skyline, he felt hollow, like a god trapped in a marble shell.
To the world, Elias was untouchable. To himself, he was invisible.
For almost a year, he had been with Isabella Dane, a woman whose beauty was so precise it felt designed. Every movement, every smile, every laugh seemed rehearsed — perfect, but cold. She was adored in the magazines, envied at the galas, whispered about in circles that traded secrets like currency.
But Elias had begun to wonder: Did she love him — or just the life attached to his name?
The thought festered until it consumed him. So one night, in a reckless act of truth-seeking, he staged a tragedy.

A staged car crash. A whispered diagnosis.
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Our tenth wedding anniversary dawned on a crisp October afternoon, the kind where the sunlight seems to be spun from gold, draping itself over the sprawling gardens of Blackwood Manor. Ten years. A decade of my life dedicated to Marcus Thorne, the man I believed was my architect, my partner, my everything. From the outside, our life was a masterpiece of design: the brilliant, charismatic husband whose architectural firm was reshaping the city skyline; the devoted wife who curated a small, respected art gallery as a "passion project"; and the historic manor itself, a testament to our success, a place I had poured my heart into restoring.

But even the most perfect facade can hide rot beneath the surface.

I had planned this anniversary for months. Not a lavish, impersonal gala, but an intimate affair. I had hinted to Marcus about a trip to the Amalfi Coast, a return to the reckless romance of our early days, back when we were just two ambitious students with more dreams than money. Marcus had simply smiled, a smile that had grown increasingly distant lately, and said, "Don't you worry, Elara. I have a surprise for you. Something truly unforgettable."

His words planted a seed of hope in the arid soil of my recent anxieties. Perhaps he did remember the woman I was, not just the wife he presented. Perhaps the endless meetings and social obligations hadn't consumed him entirely.

That evening, the guests arrived, a curated collection of our life: close friends, Marcus’s business partners, and of course, his mother, Beatrice. She arrived first, a formidable figure in sapphire silk, clutching the new flagship phone Marcus had gifted her last week. Her eyes, sharp and critical, swept across the house, lingering for a moment on the dining table I had spent the entire day perfecting.

"It's adequate," she pronounced, her voice dripping with condescension. "But really, dear, you should hire a professional event planner. A woman's job is to enjoy the party, not to slave away in preparation for it."

I smiled, a polite, practiced expression I had perfected over ten years. "I enjoy doing things for my husband, Beatrice."

The party hummed along to the smooth sounds of a live jazz trio and the clinking of crystal glasses. Marcus was in his element, the charming host, weaving through the crowd with an easy laugh. He would occasionally catch my eye from across the room and give me a conspiratorial wink. My heart would flutter in response. Unforgettable. He had promised me unforgettable. Surely, it was a velvet box containing tickets and a hotel confirmation.

Finally, the moment came.

"And now," Marcus announced, his voice booming with theatrical flair, "for the highlight of the evening. A tenth-anniversary gift for my incredible wife, Elara."

An assistant brought forward a large, exquisitely wrapped box bearing the logo of Patek Philippe. The room let out a collective, appreciative sigh. A watch from one of the most prestigious makers in the world. It wasn’t the trip I’d dreamed of, but it was an undeniably grand gesture.

Beatrice raised her phone, the camera lens aimed directly at my face. "Must capture this historic moment," she chirped
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I have a HEAD but NO BRAIN. What Am I ?