family

Ashes of Two Roses
The first time Leila Vardani saw Arman Soltoyev, the sun had just dipped below the mountains, turning the sky into a slow-bleeding crimson—an omen, her grandmother would have said. But Leila didn’t believe in omens. She believed in instinct. And every instinct she had whispered one thing the moment his eyes locked with hers:
By Alisher Jumayev9 months ago in Fiction
Christmas Tales ~ The White House Christmas Thief
‘Tis the season of giving, and within the grand halls of the White House, the spirit of Christmas comes alive. Lavish decorations adorn the public rooms, showcasing mesmerizing Christmas themes. Unfortunately, the less fortunate souls shall never witness the splendor nor partake in the extravagant feasts that grace this festive occasion. However, there exists a White House Christmas Thief who harbors deep compassion for the destitute, and this tale unveils her most generous heist yet!
By Mia Z. Edwards9 months ago in Fiction
Thanksgiving For Lost Memories
Part 1 For the first time in a long time, Thanksgiving was quiet. There were no arguments, accusations, bickering or fighting. The day started calmly, and it looked like things were going to stay that way. With the parents not there, the Thompson siblings knew this was their moment to bring order to a long-neglected place they once called home.
By Dean Traylor9 months ago in Fiction
The Letting Go
Arthur believed in lines. Straight edges, trimmed hedges, and clear, clean spaces. His garden was a testament to control, a green chessboard where every plant knew its place. So, when autumn arrived, he saw it not as a season, but as a prolonged act of vandalism.
By Habibullah9 months ago in Fiction
Where Stardust Becomes Love
Some children inherit lullabies, some inherit bedtime stories—but I inherited silence. A silence filled with questions no one could answer. A silence shaped like a mother I never met.
By Mohammad umar9 months ago in Fiction
Dream-Sculpted Mother
The night I created my mother, the sky was unusually quiet. Stars shimmered like secrets waiting to be heard, and the moon hung low, as if it wanted to watch what I was about to do. I stood alone on the rooftop, palms open, heart trembling with an ache only a child without a mother could understand.
By Mohammad umar9 months ago in Fiction
A Spark to Be Seen
Eli used to count footsteps. It was the only way to know who was home. His father walked heavy and fast, always moving with purpose. His mother walked lightly, but with a clipped pace that meant she had somewhere else to be. His older sister, Leigh, walked with her earbuds in, so the beat of her music thumped the floorboards before she did.
By Logan M. Snyder9 months ago in Fiction
The Notes She Never Meant Me to See
I didn’t sleep well after finding the notebook. Not because it scared me, but because every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s handwriting. I kept hearing her voice saying things I wish she’d said out loud while she was alive.
By Maziku Shabani9 months ago in Fiction
The Door I Didn’t Mean to Open
I had only been back in my mother’s house for two days when the quiet started getting under my skin. Old houses always have sounds: settling beams, groaning pipes, the occasional thud you try to rationalize as “probably nothing.” I grew up with those sounds. I should’ve felt comforted by them. But grief changes the meaning of familiar things. Suddenly, everything feels like it’s trying to tell you something you’re not ready to hear.
By Maziku Shabani9 months ago in Fiction
The Truth Beyond Touch
The village of Noorabad lay nestled between rolling green fields and distant blue hills. It was a small place where the days moved slowly and the nights hummed with stories told under lantern light. Among the villagers lived five blind men, each known for a special quality. Though they could not see the world, the world saw them.
By hamad khan9 months ago in Fiction
Cane-Carved Memories
The neighborhood knew him only as Old Harun, the retired carpenter with the steady hands and the slow shuffle. His cane wasn’t a medical necessity, or at least not entirely; it was a companion carved from an old walnut branch he’d rescued decades ago from a fallen tree near the canal. A branch that, in his words, “still had a little memory left in it.” Every afternoon, just when the shadows began to lengthen toward the bakery, Harun would take his usual seat on the worn stone bench near the corner lamppost. From there he could see nearly every piece of his life’s geography—the windows he once repaired, the fence he’d rebuilt after the spring storm, the doorstep where he’d first proposed to his late wife. Though age had slowed his stride, his hands remained precise as ever, and that was all the magic he needed. He would begin by running his thumb along the handle of the cane, feeling for an imperfection only he could detect. Then, with a whittling knife that looked older than some of the buildings on the block, he’d begin to carve. Soft curls of wood drifted to the ground, weightless as feathers, and that was when the strange thing always happened. The shavings didn’t fall like ordinary scraps. They shimmered. They hummed. And as they touched the ground, they arranged themselves into miniature scenes from the neighborhood’s past—moments that had long since slipped from human memory. One shaving curled into a tiny glowing figure: a young girl with braids balancing on a bicycle too big for her, wobbling past the lamppost while her father called out instructions. Another shaving unfurled to show the old grocer, who had once gifted apples to children after long school days. Yet another revealed a fleeting vision of Harun himself—much younger, hair still dark, trudging home after work with sawdust on his sleeves and love in his eyes. Passersby rarely noticed at first. The scenes were quiet things, soft and shimmering, like rain caught in late sunlight. But children began to gather. Then teenagers. Then the elderly, who stood with hands clasped over their hearts, trying to recognize themselves in the tiny wooden echoes. What fascinated everyone most was that the memories didn’t seem to come from Harun alone. They belonged to the neighborhood—to the sidewalks, the walls, the trees, the very air where laughter once hung like laundry on the line. One day, a boy approached Harun gently. “Does the cane show the future too?” he asked. Harun smiled, but it was a tired smile, like an old hinge swinging on its last nail. “No, lad,” he said softly. “Only what we’ve forgotten. The future’s too young to carve.” But as he continued shaving the cane’s handle that afternoon, something unexpected happened. The curls gathered into a scene he didn’t recognize—a young couple dancing just beneath the lamppost where he sat. The light in the scene flickered with possibility, not memory. Harun frowned. The cane had never shown him something he hadn’t lived or witnessed. The scene expanded: the boy from earlier—now a teenager—laughing with friends on this very bench. Then an elderly woman planting flowers along the sidewalk. Then a brand-new bakery awning, not yet built. The shavings glowed brighter, forming a soft golden loop, and then scattered gently across the cobblestones. Harun sat back, trembling. Perhaps the past and future weren’t so different after all. Perhaps memories weren’t just things to replay, but also things to build. As evening settled in and the lamplight flickered on, Harun brushed the shavings into his palm. The cane felt lighter now, as if some secret burden had been lifted. He walked home without it that night. And the bench—like the walnut wood—remembered.
By Luna Vani9 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter He Never Sent
Mira always believed that some people enter our lives the way dawn enters the sky—quietly and without asking permission. That’s exactly how Adrian came into hers. He slipped into her daily routines, her conversations, her silences, until she couldn’t imagine a world where his voice wasn’t waiting for her every morning.
By Salman Writes9 months ago in Fiction