family
Behind the Silent Smile
It was always her smile that caught people’s attention. Soft, serene, almost haunting—like a sunset that knows night is coming. Areeba was the kind of woman who carried storms in her eyes but never let a drop fall. Her colleagues at the school adored her, the children adored her more. Yet no one ever knew who she was beyond the walls of that classroom.
By Zulfiqar Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Importance of Wildflowers
The Importance of Wildflowers D. A. Ratliff As I awakened, consciousness slowly returned, yet I lingered in a dream as it drifted away. I had no trouble remembering the dream, which had been the same since childhood. I stood on a narrow wooden bridge, flat land covered with scrub brush extending as far as I could see, and wildflowers scattered everywhere.
By D. A. Ratliffabout a year ago in Fiction
Time Owes No Favours
"Remember, you will have only 24 hours, so make whatever you do count." That message rang in my ears as I went to sleep. If things went according to plan, I'd wake up several years—okay, decades—back in time to May 17th, 1985. I had a very restless night. Fortunately, my associates had supplied me with a strong version of benzodiazepine. As soon as I popped a couple of pills and downed them with the last of my Irn Bru, I passed out and was in dreamland.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
"A Mother's Embrace". AI-Generated.
The first time Aarav remembered his mother’s embrace, he was four years old, trembling from a nightmare. The house was silent except for the ticking clock and his muffled sobs. He had dreamt of monsters, of falling, of being left behind. She came, gently wrapping her arms around him, humming a tune he would later recognize as a lullaby from her childhood. He didn’t understand the words, but the warmth and calm they carried never left him. His mother, Meera, wasn’t a woman of many words. She had never given grand speeches about life or success. Her wisdom came in simpler forms—like the packed lunch that never missed a day, the way she rubbed mustard oil into his scalp every Sunday, or how she stood silently behind him at every school event, clapping softly. They lived in a modest house on the edge of town. Aarav's father had died in a factory accident when Aarav was just two. Meera, barely in her twenties then, chose not to remarry, though many suggested she should. Instead, she worked—first as a domestic helper, later as a tailor. Her fingers became calloused from hours of stitching, but they remained gentle when they tucked the blanket around Aarav every night. Aarav didn’t realize the weight of her sacrifices until much later. As a teenager, he often felt embarrassed by their small home, by his mother’s plain sarees, by the lunchboxes filled with the same potato curry and roti. He’d see classmates arrive in cars, carrying branded backpacks, and feel a pang of resentment. Meera never asked him why he grew quiet during those years. She simply stayed close, hovering like a steady flame in a dark room. One winter, when Aarav was fifteen, he fell terribly ill. Pneumonia. For days, he lay feverish and restless. Meera didn’t sleep—she sat beside him, wiping his forehead, feeding him spoonfuls of warm broth, whispering stories of gods and warriors. When he finally awoke clearly, weak but alert, she was there, her head resting on the edge of his bed, eyes swollen from exhaustion but smiling. It was in college that things began to change. Aarav earned a scholarship, moved to the city, and slowly built a world far from the narrow lanes of his hometown. He called Meera once a week, sometimes less, always promising to visit but never quite finding the time. She never complained. Years passed. Aarav got a job, then promotions, then a car, a house, a life filled with dinner meetings and deadlines. Through it all, Meera remained the same. Every festival, she sent him a box filled with homemade sweets and a handwritten letter. Her handwriting had started to shake, but her words were steady: Eat well. Sleep more. I’m proud of you. One day, in the middle of a meeting, he got a call from a neighbor. Meera had fallen. A minor stroke, the doctors said. She was stable, but weak. The guilt hit him like a wave. He flew home the next morning, walking into a house that seemed smaller than he remembered. The walls had faded, the stitching machine was covered in dust. And in the middle of it all, lay Meera—frail, smiling, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “You came,” she whispered, reaching out. He knelt beside her, overwhelmed by memories—the oil massages, the warm rotis, the lullabies, the embrace in the dark. Everything he was, everything he had become, was woven from her strength. “I’m sorry I stayed away,” he said, voice cracking. She touched his cheek. “You did well, beta. That’s all I ever wanted.” He stayed by her side for two weeks, relearning rhythms he had forgotten—the sound of birds in the morning, the hum of the sewing machine when she used to work, the peace of shared silence. He promised to return more often. This time, he kept that promise. Meera never asked for much. When she passed away three years later, the only thing she left behind was a diary—pages filled with thoughts never spoken. In it, Aarav found entries written across decades. “Aarav’s first day at school. He didn’t cry. I did.” “Got a raise. Bought him a new book. He finished it in one night.” “He didn’t look back when he boarded the bus. He’s growing.” “I miss him.” The last entry read: “I hope he knows. Even in silence, I’ve always been with him.” Aarav closed the diary with trembling hands. Today, years later, Aarav is a father himself. Sometimes, when his own daughter wakes up from a nightmare, he hums the same lullaby his mother once did. He doesn’t know all the words, but the warmth remains. In the quiet of night, when the world fades, he often feels it again—her presence, her strength. A mother’s embrace never really ends.
By "TaleAlchemy"about a year ago in Fiction
"The Clock That Whispered Wishes"
The Story Begins... In a quiet village where nothing unusual ever happened, there stood an old clock shop at the end of Moon shadow Lane. No one remembered when it opened, or who owned it, but everyone knew one rule: Never ask the clock for a wish unless your heart truly means it.
By Ayesha Maryamabout a year ago in Fiction
She Wanted a Home; I Gave Her a Hallway
She slammed the door behind her, leaving the apartment in a silence that felt like a vacuum. The door didn't close completely; it remained slightly ajar. A draft from the hallway stirred a sticky note off the table, sending it fluttering to the floor.
By Adam Collinsabout a year ago in Fiction
