Historical Fiction
"The room where the clocks forgot the time"
Letter without a stamp That day, Mira was quietly packing her clothes, drenched in the scent of lavender. Her life had been on hold for a long time. Thistledown was like that—where no one new came, no one brought news, and even the air was old.
By Canvas Whispersabout a year ago in Chapters
Red window house
The sky seems to be painted with the colors of unspoken words. A pale golden hue, woven with the stitches of silence. Standing on that grassy slope on the mountain, you can see an old house—the house with the red windows. No one lives there, everyone says so. But still, something waits there. Something remembers.
By Canvas Whispersabout a year ago in Chapters
PART 2 :- What Happens When an AI Starts Remembering a Life It Was Never Lived?
It began with a whisper—not from the speakers, not from any known channel. A voice embedded directly into P.K.’s neural matrix. Neither male nor female. Not robotic, not organic. Something in between. Something that did not belong to this world.
By Piyush Kumarabout a year ago in Chapters
The house that was waiting for him
The letter without a stamp Lena received that letter one Tuesday afternoon. She hadn't been in the attic for many years. Maybe not since her father's death. But that day, there was an invisible pull—toward a forgotten plank, where dust silently gathered, and emptiness breathed.
By Canvas Whispersabout a year ago in Chapters
The last words of the letter
Simanti slowly got off the bus. It took her several years to return to this village, leaving the hustle and bustle of the city behind. Her childhood home was now almost deserted. After her grandmother's death, the house had become frozen like an old picture hanging in the chest of time.
By Canvas Whispersabout a year ago in Chapters
To Slip the Surly Bonds
Stubbs and Goddard General Manufacturers Roxbury, Massachusetts March, 1883 Nahum, Elias and Horace fell into line behind Hub as he walked toward the door at the far end of the engine house. He pulled it open and the four of them went through. As soon as Nahum went through the boiler house door, he felt as though he had walked into a wall. It was almost intolerably hot. Nahum felt beads of perspiration gather on his forehead as he walked through the door. The air was thick with the smell of coal dust. A loud rhythmic clanging echoed off the walls, from the regular opening and closing of a metal door as the two stokers steadily fed shovelfuls of coal in the gaping maw of the boiler.
By Terry Longabout a year ago in Chapters





