Stories that speak into the night

An imaginative/discursive hybrid composed by Makayla (Year 12 Advanced English)

 The rain had been falling for hours.

It whispered against the old windows of the cottage, trickling down the glass like rivulets of forgotten dreams. Inside, cradled by the fire's weak light, sat Emma, her hands curled around a thick leather-bound book that smelled of dust and ancient ink. She turned the pages carefully, though half the words were worn away by time. Her grandmother had told her once "Stories are stitched into us, like threads. Pull one loose, and the whole garment unravels”. Now, sitting alone, the weight of that truth pressed against her chest. These stories, this book were not just idle fancies. They were the memory of who people had been, and who she herself might yet become. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, Emma read aloud into the night, her voice small but steady, sewing lost tales back into the world.

Stories, both personal and collective, form the architecture of human identity. In the rapid, digitalized age of 2025, it becomes crucial to question what happens when these narratives are forgotten? Why must we fight to preserve memory and storytelling in a world so obsessed with progress it seems to forget what makes us human?

Memory is not just a personal keepsake, it is a societal anchor. The historian Yuval Noah Harari writes that “Homo sapiens conquered the world thanks above all to its unique ability to create and believe in fiction.” Our ability to tell stories has not only shaped myths and religions but has constructed nations, cultures, and individual senses of self. When we lose the stories of the past, we do not simply lose entertainment, we lose vital frameworks for empathy, resilience, and connection.

Storytelling stems from its tangible impacts. Numerous psychological studies highlight the role of personal narratives in mental health. Research published by the American Psychological Association (APA) suggests that individuals who can frame their life experiences as coherent stories, even those containing trauma tend to display stronger mental resilience. Storytelling allows people to process, organise, and ultimately heal from their lived experiences.

Her eyes began to become heavy like her eyes were being forced shut as the whispers of sleep pulled her into its arms, she shut the book allowing the stories to rest and watched as the ink seemingly seeped into the worn pages a testament to its perseveration against the relentless march of time which took with it our stories and pulled at the threads that were intertwined with us built on our connections.

As she fell behind the curtain of sleep Emma was pushed to engage in her personal beliefs, her fears and her desires. The knowledge that tucked itself within the confines of her conscience spilled out swimming around her mind as she slept and felt herself fall to weightlessness, and her consciousness spoke to her, forming a story of its own.

Some may argue that in the modern world, information not stories drives progress. After all, science, mathematics, and technology are often presented as domains of "facts" over "fictions." Yet this is misleading. Even scientific advancements rely heavily on narratives the "story" of discovery, of problem-solving, of human innovation triumphing over chaos. Without framing information within a narrative, facts float, disconnected, and often fail to inspire action or change.

This underlines a vital persuasive point storytelling is not opposed to progress. Rather, it is a mechanism through which progress can be humanised, made accessible, and therefore actionable.

Another layer of the argument is the power of storytelling to challenge oppression. Throughout history, marginalized voices have wielded narrative as a form of resistance. During the American Civil Rights Movement, songs, speeches, and personal testimonies became rallying points for collective action. Literature like The Diary of Anne Frank or I Am Malala continues to give faces, voices, and visceral realities to struggles that statistics alone could never adequately convey.

There is, however, a tension to acknowledge. In the age of social media, storytelling risks commodification. "Authenticity" itself becomes a brand. Personal experiences are flattened into consumable bites Instagram captions, TikTok videos often curated for validation rather than connection. How, then, do we preserve meaningful storytelling amidst an ecosystem that incentivizes brevity and spectacle over depth?

We must resist the temptation to nuance our own stories. In a world where fame is confused with significance, it is easy to feel that an ordinary life is unworthy of preservation. Yet every life, every experience, is a thread in the greater tapestry. The small, quiet stories of love, of failure, of perseverance are just as critical as grand historical events. Thus, to forget our stories is to forget ourselves.

Morning peeled back the night in thin, reluctant layers. Emma blinked against the pale light leaking through the curtains. Her throat was raw from a restless sleep and her head swirled with her thoughts, her heart full to bursting.

She set the book down carefully and stood, shivering slightly in the cold air. Outside, the earth steamed where rain met sun. In the distance, a figure appeared, an old woman, wrapped in a shawl embroidered with a thousand swirling patterns reminding her of the intertwined threads that make up our souls.

Grandmother.

Emma stumbled forward, feet soaking into the wet grass, breath catching in her chest. But the woman only smiled, a sadness in her eyes, and pointed to the horizon where the first gold threads of dawn stitched sky to earth.

"Remember," the wind seemed to say. "We live on, where the stories do."

And Emma understood. The telling was the weaving. The remembering was the resistance.

She turned back toward the cottage, toward the pile of paper and ink, and the endless, sacred task before her.
A new story was already forming in her mind, vivid and defiant.

She would not let the threads break.