14/01/2026
๐๐ฌ ๐๐โ๐ฏ๐ ๐๐ซ๐ข๐ญ๐ญ๐๐ง | ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
Storybooks are a peculiar thing.
They wait quietly on shelves, unassuming, until curiosity pulls you closer. You open one without knowing what it will ask of you only to find yourself slowly, then suddenly, unable to stop. Page after page, scene after scene, you lean forward, eager for what comes next. What begins as a simple glance becomes a magical journey.
And before you realize it, you are holding the final page. You hesitate. Because to turn it is to know how it ends. And for it to end at all.
But that is the gentle truth of stories: they never truly leave. A book may close, but it remainsโready to be opened again, waiting patiently to be rediscovered. What you felt while reading it, what it changed in you, what it taught youโthose things stay. They become part of who you are.
๐ฆ๐จ๐๐ข๐ก๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ ๐ผ๐๐ฟ ๐๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐๐ฏ๐ผ๐ผ๐ธ.
And it was written not by one hand, but by many. By every audience member who listened and asked, by every speaker who shared their wisdom, by every partner who believed in the vision, and by every person of the working committee who stayed behind the scenes to make each page possible. You were the ink. You were the margins. And you were the reason the story ever came to life.
Together, we moved through its chaptersโof data and dialogue, of questions and convictions, of people who believed that research could be kinder, and policy could be braver. What we wrote now lives beyond the halls and into the places where real change begins.
And so, as we gently turn this last page and close the cover, we do so with a smile. Because we read it. Because we lived it. And because we wrote itโtogether. And now, with the ink slowly drying out and the pages at rest, this is SULONG, quietly placing a bookmark where it all endedโsigning off, but never truly gone.
๐ฐ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐
, ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐
๐โ
๐๐๐ ๐บ๐ผ๐ณ๐ถ๐ต๐ฎ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐โ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
๐ญ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
, ๐บ๐ผ๐ณ๐ถ๐ต๐ฎโ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
