family
Burning the Pages of the Book of Life. Honorable Mention in You Were Never Really Here Challenge. Top Story - July 2025. Content Warning.
Shortly after dark, early November, 2023. Al-Nasr Children's hospital, Northern Gaza. Explosions sound off in the distance. But the family in the delivery room is used to this sound. They are not comfortable with the sound, but sometimes they forget it is there. This sound has already killed five thousand of their people, over the last month. But this sound— this constant sound, this lethal sound— can slip into the peripheries despite its severity.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cartographer
Amelia’s life was a meticulously organized map, every street, every landmark, precisely placed. As a cartographer, she thrived on order, on the certainty of lines and labels. Yet, lately, her own internal map felt increasingly blank, particularly the regions marked "childhood" and "family." A vague, persistent ache resided where memories should have been, a blank space she couldn't fill. Her grandmother, the last living link to her past, had recently passed, leaving behind a house filled with echoes and a single, enigmatic inheritance: a worn leather-bound journal.
By Momin Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Love at First Sight
Amaan was never the kind of boy who believed in love stories. He always thought they were exaggerated tales people told to make life sound more colorful than it really was. But on the first day of college, that belief shattered like fragile glass.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Searching For Ali
Oh Ali, I'm stuck. This morning I feel your hand at play. Uncertainty fuels my intention, my goal. It's been a good lead up. The morning news was not unsettling. Food is appropriate. Only one coffee. A pleasant phone call. The sun is shining. I've done all that is necessary. But here I am again. All I need is to turn that key. To sound off verbally. "The door is locked". To remember that fact, and to walk away. And to walk away. To walk away..
By Scott Catheryabout a year ago in Fiction
A Sad Fourth of July
In a place where there used to be picnics, fireworks and many people now there is nothing but rotting picnic tables and shelters falling down where the people used to watch the fireworks. No one knows what really happened or why it just seemed to just stop. Could it have been that there were just too many rules or was it just too expensive to continue. No one really knows. The Fourth of July a day of excitement and fun is now only a memory of days gone by no longer a day of fun, but one can still remember.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Love Letters for Long Distance Hearts
Love, in its purest form, has always found a way to endure. But when two hearts are separated by miles, time zones, and the constant ache of absence, the journey of love becomes both beautiful and bittersweet. The story of long-distance love is not just about waiting—it's about growing, trusting, and finding meaning in every message, call, and letter sent across the oceans.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secret of the Old Diary.
When Zara agreed to spend a few weeks at her grandfather’s old house in the quiet village, she had imagined peaceful days, maybe a chance to sketch or catch up on reading. What she didn’t expect was to uncover a secret that would change how she saw her family forever. The house was tucked away at the end of a dusty lane, its wooden doors weathered by decades of rain and sun. Inside, everything smelled faintly of sandalwood and old books. Her grandfather spent most of his days sitting on the veranda, sipping tea, lost in thoughts. One afternoon, when the sun was high and birds chirped lazily from the neem trees, Zara decided to explore the attic. She climbed the narrow staircase carefully, brushing aside cobwebs. The attic was dim, with tiny spears of sunlight piercing through cracks in the wooden roof. Pushed into a corner was an old chest, covered in dust so thick that her fingers left deep trails when she touched it. Curiosity overpowered hesitation. She pulled the heavy lid open. Inside were bundles of old letters, sepia photographs of people she did not recognize, and at the very bottom, a leather-bound diary. Its cover was cracked, the gold lettering nearly faded away, but she could still make out: “Memories & Secrets.” Zara sat down on an old trunk, the diary balanced on her lap. As she opened it, a gentle scent rose from the pages — something like dried roses mixed with time itself. The first few entries were simple. Notes about village life, small joys, descriptions of market days and rains that turned roads to rivers. But then, about halfway through, Zara found something that made her heart catch. It was a letter, written in her grandfather’s hand, but never sent. > “My dearest Fariha, I wonder if time will ever be kind enough to let us be together. Each day, I see your smile in every flower that blooms, hear your laughter in the rustle of leaves. But our families would never allow it. I hope one day, when we are old and the world has tired of its stubbornness, we will sit under the mango tree, your hand in mine, with nothing left to fear…” Zara closed her eyes. Her grandfather had always been a figure of calm strength — gentle, wise, but never someone she thought of as a man who had once been desperately in love. The diary unfolded more letters like this, little passages that spoke of secret meetings by the riverbank, stolen glances during village fairs, dreams of a future that never came to be. Then came an entry that was different — dated many years later. > “I saw Fariha today, after all these years. Her hair is silver now, her laughter softer, but she is still the girl who made my heart race under the old neem tree. We spoke of gardens, of grandchildren, pretending the past never happened. But when she left, she pressed a jasmine into my hand. Some things, it seems, never truly fade.” Tears filled Zara’s eyes. She thought of her grandfather sitting on the veranda downstairs, looking out over fields where perhaps he once dreamed of walking hand in hand with the love of his life. All these years, he had carried this quiet ache, and no one had known. Gently, Zara closed the diary, holding it to her chest as if she could feel the heartbeat of the young man her grandfather had once been. She went back downstairs, the afternoon light now mellow and golden. Her grandfather looked up and smiled. “Find anything interesting in the attic, beti?” Zara walked over and sat by his side. For a moment she simply looked at him, seeing not just the gentle old man she’d always known, but also the boy who once wrote love letters under starlight. “Yes, Nana,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his wrinkled one. “I found memories. Beautiful ones.” He chuckled, a sound both wistful and warm. Then he squeezed her hand. “That’s all life is, my dear — a box of memories. We’re lucky if we get to share them before they turn to dust.” They sat there together as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and lilac. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of jasmine. Zara closed her eyes, imagining a younger version of her grandfather, standing under the neem tree with Fariha, love shining bright and fearless in their eyes. Some secrets, she realized, weren’t meant to stay hidden forever. Sometimes they waited quietly, tucked away in old diaries, hoping to bloom again in someone else’s heart.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
How a garden brought two hearts closer.
Arsalan never imagined he would fall in love among rows of roses. In fact, love was the last thing on his mind when he returned to his village after finishing school in the city. His uncle had grown old and needed help tending to his modest nursery on the outskirts of town. Every morning, Arsalan rose before dawn, tying a faded scarf around his neck and walking through the sleepy streets to reach the garden before the sun lit up the fields. The nursery was simple but beautiful. Rows upon rows of rose bushes stretched out under the soft early light, heavy with dew. The scent was intoxicating, a sweet promise of mornings yet to come. Arsalan found comfort in this routine, pruning branches, watering thirsty roots, and gently whispering to the plants as if they were old friends. Then came Hina. She was visiting her aunt who lived next door. A girl from the city, with delicate manners and bright eyes that seemed to notice every small wonder. The first time Arsalan saw her, she was standing shyly at the garden gate, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked out of place yet perfectly at home, as if the garden had been waiting just for her. Day by day, Hina began to wander into the nursery, always at the same quiet hour when the sun was soft and the world felt unhurried. Sometimes she would pick up fallen petals and cradle them in her palm, other times she would close her eyes and breathe in the rich fragrance as if trying to fill herself with it. Arsalan watched her from a distance, unsure what to say, how to act. His heart beat unsteadily whenever she was near. One morning, after weeks of silent glances and awkward nods, Hina approached him while he was carefully tying up a stubborn rose stem. She carried in her hands a small bouquet of half-open roses. “They’re beautiful,” she said softly, her voice like wind chimes. “But I think it’s you who makes this place truly come alive.” Arsalan nearly dropped his shears. No girl had ever spoken to him like that. His throat felt tight. He managed a nervous smile and wiped his hands on his kurta. Before he could reply, Hina stepped closer and tucked a stray leaf behind his ear, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The world seemed to slow, the air heavy with the scent of roses and something even sweeter — the first spark of love. From then on, the garden transformed. It was no longer just a place of flowers. It became a secret world where laughter bloomed along with the petals, where shy confessions floated on the breeze, and where two hearts slowly found each other in the hush of early mornings. They would walk between the rows hand in hand, sometimes silent, sometimes telling stories of their childhoods. Hina loved how Arsalan’s eyes shone when he spoke about the old mango tree he used to climb, how he once fell and broke his wrist but still laughed through the pain. Arsalan, in turn, was fascinated by Hina’s tales of bustling city streets, bright shop lights, and noisy weddings with hundreds of guests. One particular morning, when the sun was just beginning to warm the dew, Arsalan took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. His hand came out holding a tiny folded paper — a love letter he had scribbled under the dim glow of a lantern the night before. “My words aren’t fancy,” he said, his voice trembling, “but they’re true. I wanted you to have this.” Hina took the letter as if it were the most precious jewel. Her eyes filled with tears, a smile spreading across her face like the first bloom of spring. She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, the touch so soft it left his skin tingling long after. The days that followed were painted with quiet joys — stolen glances, playful teasing, hands brushing over blooms heavy with perfume. The villagers began to notice, whispering among themselves, but neither Arsalan nor Hina cared. In their little world of roses, time stood still. One evening, under a sky awash with gold and lavender, Arsalan and Hina sat together on a low stone wall at the edge of the nursery. She rested her head against his shoulder, the scent of flowers all around them, as if the earth itself celebrated their love. Arsalan looked down at her, memorizing the way her eyelashes fanned across her cheeks, the way her lips curved even in stillness. “I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you by the gate,” he whispered. “And I think,” Hina murmured back, eyes half-closed, “I came to this village just so I could find you here.” As twilight wrapped them in its tender embrace, the garden held their secret — a promise that in the heart of every flower bloomed the story of two souls who had finally found their way home to each other.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
From Friendship to Love.
They had known each other for as long as their memories reached back. Areeba and Danish grew up in the same narrow village lanes, their homes just a stone’s throw apart. Childhood was a swirl of shared secrets, silly quarrels, and afternoons spent chasing each other through fields that stretched golden under the sun.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Love Letter.
It was a cold, quiet winter afternoon in the small village where time seemed to move at its own gentle pace, unhurried and soft, like the drifting of clouds over the pale blue sky. Maheen had been meaning to clean her old wooden cupboard for months, but the task always felt too daunting. Today, however, she decided it was time. The cupboard had been standing in the corner of her room for years, silently holding the weight of memories, stories, and moments that had shaped her life. As Maheen opened the creaky cupboard doors, a familiar scent of sandalwood mixed with dust filled the air. Inside, there were faded clothes wrapped carefully in old cloth, glass bangles neatly placed in small boxes, and tiny perfume bottles whose fragrances had long since evaporated. She smiled softly, remembering the laughter and tears that these objects had witnessed. As she gently pushed aside layers of fabric, her fingers brushed against something unexpected—a small, fragile bundle of letters tied together with a delicate golden ribbon. The paper edges were yellowed and curled, clearly aged by time. Her heart fluttered with curiosity and nostalgia as she sat cross-legged on the floor and untied the ribbon. The very first letter was written in beautiful, flowing Urdu script, the handwriting neat and expressive, as if the words themselves carried the writer’s emotions. Maheen’s eyes began to scan the words, and instantly, memories flooded her mind. The letter was from Arif—her childhood friend, the boy she had grown up with. Arif had been the boy who ran races with her across endless mustard fields, climbed mango trees to pluck the sweetest fruits for her, and stood firmly by her side when village boys teased her. His presence had been a comforting constant during her childhood, and his letters now brought that old warmth rushing back. In the letter, Arif spoke of the vast city he had moved to, describing its dazzling lights and endless crowds. Yet, despite all the excitement, the city felt empty without Maheen. He wrote about how he missed her laughter echoing through the fields, the softness of her voice, and how every night, before falling asleep, he whispered her name as a prayer. He dreamed of the day when he could return and finally stand before her, confessing the love he had kept hidden for so long. Tears welled up in Maheen’s eyes as she read each heartfelt line. Fifteen years had passed since Arif left their village. Their letters had arrived frequently at first, then slowly less often, and eventually stopped altogether. The village folks had whispered that he had moved on, perhaps married someone else. Maheen had buried her hopes deep within her heart, but never let them die. As she finished reading, she clutched the letter tightly to her chest. It was as if time had folded in on itself, bridging the gap between past and present. The love that had once bloomed in the innocence of youth had never truly faded. Suddenly, Maheen’s phone buzzed loudly on the wooden table beside her. She wiped her tears hastily and glanced at the screen. It was a message from an unknown number. With trembling fingers, she opened it and read: “Maheen… is this still your number? I’m coming back to the village tomorrow. I’ve carried something in my heart for too long. I can’t let another year pass without seeing you and telling you face to face.” Her breath caught in her throat. It was Arif. Her Arif. The cold winter room seemed to fill with warmth. The thin rays of sunlight streaming through the window suddenly felt softer and brighter. Maheen stood up, holding the bundle of letters close. For the first time in many years, she felt hope rekindle within her. That night, sleep eluded her. Every creak in the house, every whisper of the wind outside made her heart race. She thought back to the carefree days of their childhood—the stolen mangoes, the quiet afternoons spent chasing butterflies, and the secret promises whispered beneath the old neem tree. Morning broke softly with a pale pink sky. Maheen stood outside her house, the letters once again tied with their golden ribbon, pressed close to her heart. Down the dusty village path, a tall figure appeared, moving slowly with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Their eyes met, and in that moment, the years melted away. Arif smiled shyly, setting down his small bag. Neither of them spoke at first—their embrace said everything that words could not. The village around them seemed to pause, holding its breath as two hearts reunited after years of waiting. Maheen felt tears of joy streaming down her face as Arif whispered softly, “I never stopped loving you.” And there, under the golden winter sun, amidst the scent of marigolds and the gentle hum of village life, their timeless love story began again—stronger, deeper, and more beautiful than ever before.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
