Fan Fiction

The Letter I Received from My Future Self Changed Everything
The Letter I Received from My Future Self It arrived on a Thursday. A plain white envelope, tucked among the usual clutter of bills and advertisements, but with one curious difference: my name and address were written in my own handwriting.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Gilded Cage and the Uncharted Sky
In a world cradled by the seemingly endless metropolis of Unoria, where towering chrome structures kissed the perpetually overcast sky, and interconnected sky-bridges hummed with the ceaseless transit of automated vehicles, the very notion of exploration had become a ghost of a forgotten age. For generations, the Great Consolidation had reigned supreme, a global government that promised and delivered absolute order, predictability, and, above all, safety within the city's vast, meticulously mapped confines. Beyond Unoria’s shimmering perimeter lay the ‘Uncharted Territories,’ a nebulous expanse whispered about in hushed tones, a place of unknown perils and chaotic disorder, strictly off-limits, its borders patrolled by vigilant Sentinels.
By Karl Jacksonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Balcony Across
The Balcony Across – Part 1 I first noticed him the week I moved into my apartment in Trastevere, Rome. It was supposed to be a short escape — three months of wine, cobblestone streets, and quiet evenings to work on my travel photography portfolio. My balcony overlooked a narrow, picturesque street lined with pastel façades, potted geraniums, and wrought-iron railings.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
City of Dreams
In a city where millions pass each other without a second glance, two strangers unknowingly share something intimate: the same dreams.
By Solene Hartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Skyflame
In the quiet mountain village of Velmere, the sun had not risen in seven years. Thick clouds hung like a curse over the land, choking the sky with endless gray. Crops withered. Lakes froze. Children were born without laughter, and elders died without warmth. The villagers whispered of a time when the sun once painted the mountains gold—but those were only stories now.
By Muhammad Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Letter Under His Pillow”. AI-Generated.
He never said goodbye. Not when the machines started to slow. Not when the doctors used quiet voices. Not even when they told her he might not wake up again. But still, he left something behind. --- Clara had always known her grandfather was the strongest man she’d ever meet. He was the kind of man who fixed broken clocks and never complained about pain, even when it knotted his fingers and hollowed his cheeks. He raised her after her mother—his only daughter—left one summer and never came back. He never spoke badly of her. Just folded the pain into the corners of his eyes and taught Clara how to ride a bike, how to balance a checkbook, and how to say sorry before it was too late. --- The hospital room had smelled like bleach and apples, and Clara hated both. She sat with him every day after work, reading aloud his favorite poetry—Yeats, sometimes Neruda. He never opened his eyes after the third stroke. But she read anyway, just in case some part of him was still listening. The night he died, she wasn’t there. And that haunted her. --- A week later, she went to clean out the house—the small white one with peeling green shutters and a roof he patched every spring himself. Everything was exactly how he’d left it. Slippers by the fireplace. His reading glasses on the kitchen table. A half-finished crossword puzzle in his neat, careful handwriting. Clara stood in his bedroom, heart aching, surrounded by ghosts. The sheets still smelled like his aftershave—pine and old paper. As she turned to fold them, she noticed something: a corner of an envelope tucked beneath his pillow. With trembling fingers, she pulled it out. Her name was on it. --- > “Clara,” it read. “If you’re reading this, I didn’t get to say goodbye the way I wanted. But that’s okay. We said everything important a long time ago—on late walks, over pancakes, in silence on the porch.” She sat down on the bed, the letter crinkling in her hands. > “I know you blame yourself. Please don’t. I didn’t need you to be there at the end. I needed you to live. And you did that for me, every day. You gave an old man purpose.” Tears blurred her vision. > “I’ve made mistakes. I didn’t stop your mother from running. I tried, but maybe I didn’t listen the right way. Maybe that’s why I was so desperate to listen to you.” > “I don’t know where she is. But I hope you find her someday—not for answers, but for peace.” > “If you can forgive me for being imperfect, I hope you’ll forgive her, too.” > “The thing about love is—it outlives everything. Even us.” At the bottom, just one more line. > “Keep reading the poems. I’ll still be listening.” --- That night, Clara sat by the fire, just like they used to, and opened an old leather-bound poetry book. She read aloud until her voice cracked. Then she read some more. And when the wind passed through the trees outside, she could almost swear it paused, just briefly, to listen. --- *Some people never leave us. They stay in ink and photographs, in stitched sweaters and mismatched mugs. They stay in poems and quiet letters under pillows.* And sometimes, they say goodbye long before we ever open the envelope.
By Muhammad umairabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fox Who Filed Complaints
The Fox Who Filed Complaints In the sleepy village of Willowbrook, life moved as slowly as the stream that hummed its gentle lullabies through the pines. The cobblestone streets were soft with moss, the bakery smelled perpetually of cinnamon and warm bread, and the loudest drama anyone could expect was the occasional chicken escaping from Old Man Carter’s yard.
By Malik BILALabout a year ago in Fiction
Dreams Are Expensive Here
Not a metaphorical one—the kind you chase with late nights, rent overdue, and an aching heart. No, I came for the real thing. The kind they grow in labs under soft purple lights. The kind they sell in velvet boxes behind frosted glass, where price tags are whispered rather than written.
By HAROON YOUNASabout a year ago in Fiction
Men on the Moon
Nobody at NASA gave a goddamn about the weather in Jersey. This fact, as true and as simple as it was, had not stopped my Aunt Rosie from pacing around the parlor all morning and pressing her face to the front window in search of thunderstorms. My mother had yelled at her for smearing rouge on the glass, and she, of course, had yelled right back. And soon, everybody was yelling.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day Everyone Got the Same Dream
Sarah Martinez thought she was losing her mind when she woke up at 3:47 AM on Tuesday, October 15th, drenched in sweat and haunted by the most vivid dream of her life. A massive digital countdown floating in an endless white void: 72:00:00. Seventy-two hours. And behind the numbers, a door—ancient, wooden, with intricate carvings that seemed to move when she wasn't looking directly at them.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Fiction
“The Letters in the Wall”
M Mehran When I bought the old farmhouse on Millers Ridge, I wasn’t looking for magic. I wanted peace. Something simple. I was thirty-three, freshly divorced, and ready to forget that the city had ever swallowed me whole. The house had been empty for years. The floors creaked like they were sighing, and the wallpaper peeled like it was tired of pretending. But I loved it immediately—its quietness, its secrets. It was on the second week of fixing up the place that I found the letters. They were behind a loose wooden plank in the hallway wall. Just above eye level, where you’d never think to look. Tied in a pale blue ribbon, yellowed with time, and smelling faintly of lavender and dust. There were thirteen letters. All addressed to “My Starling.” The handwriting was neat. Careful. The kind of script people don’t write in anymore. I told myself I wouldn’t read them. I read the first one that night. --- June 17, 1961 My Starling, Today I saw you on the porch in that yellow dress. I nearly forgot to breathe. I’ve been trying to gather the courage to say what I must—but words feel foolish when I think of your laugh. I will leave this letter here, where only someone looking with love could find it. If you ever find it, know this: I loved you long before I had the right to say so. Ever Yours, E. --- I read all thirteen that night. They weren’t love letters in the usual sense—not poetic declarations or dramatic pleas. They were soft. Intimate. Full of tiny details. How “E” liked the way Starling hummed while sweeping the porch. How her absence made the walls feel empty. How he was building a small music box for her, in secret, just in case. The final letter, dated November 1962, was different. --- My Starling, You’re gone. They say time will pass, but no one tells you what to do with the hours that don’t. I sit by the fire and pretend you’ll come through the door again. I’ve sealed the others away, where only a soul who’s searching might find them. If you’re reading this, maybe in another life, leave me a sign. I’ll wait. E. --- It felt wrong, having read them. Like trespassing. But also… like something sacred had passed into my hands. I asked around town about the house. Most people didn’t remember much. Some whispered about a woman named Lydia Harrow, a schoolteacher who’d lived there in the early ’60s. No one knew what had happened to her. The next week, I found the music box. It was tucked inside a broken drawer in the basement. Carved with tiny stars. And inside—taped to the lid—was a photo. A man with dark eyes and a crooked smile. Holding a woman in a yellow dress. Her laugh was frozen in the frame. Written on the back: E & L. Ridgeview County Fair, August 1961. I took the photo and pressed it against the wall where I found the letters. It felt right. Like putting something back in place. That night, the music box played for the first time. I hadn’t wound it. The sound was faint. Like a lullaby from another room. --- I live in the house still. I never told anyone about the letters. Not really. Some things feel too alive to share. But every now and then, I light a candle in the hallway. I place the music box by the wall. And I whisper: "He waited."
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction
“The Mirror Room”
M Mehran In the dusty attic of my grandmother’s house, tucked behind a tattered curtain, stood a door I’d never noticed before. The house was quiet that summer—too quiet, with Grandma gone and the air thick with the scent of old books and lemon polish. I had come to sort her things, but I ended up discovering something else entirely. The door creaked open with the weight of years. Inside was a small room, lit by a single stained-glass window. But it wasn’t the window that caught my attention—it was the mirror. It was massive, mounted to the far wall, framed in dark oak carved with twisting vines and strange runes. I stepped closer. The mirror shimmered—not like glass, but like water holding its breath. I saw my reflection. But something was... wrong. It wasn’t me. Not quite. My hair in the reflection was longer. My eyes carried a weight of pain I didn’t recognize. The reflection blinked a second too late. And then it smiled—a little too knowingly. I backed away. --- That night I couldn’t sleep. The mirror haunted me. I told myself it was just a trick of the light. A grieving mind, playing games. But I returned the next morning, unable to resist. Again, the mirror showed a slightly altered version of me. This time, she looked stronger. Confident. Wearing the red leather jacket I’d buried in the back of my closet years ago. The one I stopped wearing after he said it made me look like I was trying too hard. Was that me? The “me” I used to be? --- Day after day, I returned. Each time, the mirror revealed another version of myself. Some looked broken—crying, makeup smeared, gripping the edges of the frame as if begging to be let out. Others looked powerful—standing tall, dressed in clothes I never dared wear, smiling without apology. I began to wonder if the mirror wasn’t broken—but maybe I was. --- On the tenth day, I brought an old photo of myself—age 19, bright-eyed and loud and fearless. I pressed it to the mirror. My reflection mimicked me... then stepped back and waved. That night, I dreamed of mirrors. Thousands of them. In each, a different me. Some better. Some worse. All possible. When I woke up, something shifted. --- I went into town wearing the red leather jacket. I ordered my coffee the way I actually like it. I smiled at strangers. I said no when someone asked for a favor I didn’t want to do. And it felt... good. Like I was finally letting out all the versions of myself that had been locked away. --- I visited the mirror one last time before leaving. This time, my reflection matched me perfectly. No delay. No trick. But she winked before turning away and disappearing entirely, leaving behind just glass—and my own reflection. --- Years later, I still think about that mirror. About how grief cracks us open and lets in strange light. About how maybe, sometimes, the parts of us we lose are waiting—quietly, in rooms we’ve forgotten—to be found again. The mirror never followed me. But the lesson did: You are not only who you are. You are who you could be. And sometimes, all it takes is one moment of reflection to change everything.
By M Mehran about a year ago in Fiction