Fantasy

The Crow and the Candle
In a land where shadows ruled the sky, and the wind whispered secrets through the trees, lived a crow named Kael. Unlike other crows who flew in flocks and chased shiny things, Kael was a loner. He had glossy black feathers and eyes like midnight, always watching, always wondering. Kael made his home in the tallest tree near the edge of a forgotten village. The village had been cursed with darkness for many years—no stars, no moonlight, and no fire would last through the night. Candles melted too fast. Lanterns flickered and died. Even the bravest villagers feared the endless night. One cold evening, as Kael searched for food near an abandoned cottage, he spotted something strange: a small, flickering light. It was not a fire, nor the usual false glows that haunted the woods. It was a candle. A real one. Kael flew closer. The candle sat in a glass lantern on the cottage windowsill, its flame steady despite the wind. Beneath it, an old woman sat, her eyes closed in deep thought. She looked tired but peaceful. The candle cast a warm glow on her wrinkled face. For reasons he could not explain, Kael stayed. He perched on the windowsill and watched. The old woman opened her eyes and smiled gently. “You came,” she whispered. “I was waiting.” Kael tilted his head, confused. “You are not like the others,” she continued. “You see more than darkness. You feel the silence. And you, like me, remember the light.” Kael didn’t understand everything she said, but her voice was like a soft wind—comforting and kind. The candle burned through the night. The next morning, it was still lit. For the first time in years, the sun peeked through the clouds. Just a little, just enough. Kael felt warmth on his feathers that he had almost forgotten. Every night after that, Kael returned to the cottage. The old woman would light the candle, sit in silence, and wait. Slowly, other animals joined—an old fox, a sleepy owl, even a shy deer. None of them spoke, but all came for the same reason: the light. The villagers began to notice. Some whispered, “The curse is lifting.” Others were too afraid to believe. But one by one, they crept out of their homes and walked to the edge of the forest. There, in the darkest part of the night, they saw it—a warm, glowing candle surrounded by creatures great and small. One child stepped forward. Then another. Then an elder. Together, they sat in silence, eyes wide with wonder. One night, as Kael arrived at the window, he found the candle burning—but the old woman was gone. In her place lay a note, written on soft bark with glowing ink: > “The flame belongs to you now. Keep it burning. Let it guide the lost. Let it warm the forgotten.” Kael stood silently beside the flame. He felt sadness, but not despair. He understood. She had passed on the light—not just the candle, but the duty. Kael took the candle in his claws and flew to the center of the village. He placed it on a stone pedestal in the square. The people gathered around, watching as the flame did not flicker, did not die. From that day forward, the village changed. Each home lit a small candle from the one Kael had carried. Light returned to windows, to hearts, to the paths between homes. Fear faded like mist in the morning sun. Kael still flew alone, but now he watched over a village no longer afraid of the dark. And every night, before resting in his tree, he circled the pedestal where the candle burned on—a symbol of hope, of memory, and of the power one small light can carry through the night. --- Moral of the Story: Even in the darkest times, a single light can guide many. Courage is not always loud—it sometimes flickers quietly and waits to be seen.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Squirrel and the Stone
In the heart of a deep and peaceful forest, where golden sunlight slipped through tall green trees and birds sang soft lullabies, lived a small squirrel named Elwin. He was not like the other squirrels who only cared about nuts, nests, and hiding from the rain. Elwin was a thinker. He often paused and looked at the stars, wondered why leaves changed color, and dreamed of things no squirrel had ever seen. One crisp morning, as Elwin was hopping over a fallen log near the edge of the forest, something caught his eye. It was a stone—perfectly round, smooth like river glass, and glowing ever so slightly with a gentle blue light. It sat quietly under a bed of leaves, as if it had been waiting to be found. Curious, Elwin nudged the stone with his paw. It was warm. Not hot like the sun or cold like the wind—just warm, like a kind touch. He picked it up and held it close. For a moment, the world around him became silent. The wind stopped, the birds paused, and even the leaves seemed to still. Elwin blinked. Had he imagined it? He took the stone back to his tree and placed it beside his favorite branch. Every day after that, he would visit it. Sometimes he talked to it, other times he just sat quietly next to it. The stone seemed to glow brighter when he was near. But not everyone in the forest was pleased. “The forest is changing,” croaked an old toad who lived by the stream. “There’s something unnatural about that thing,” whispered the sparrows. “Stones don’t glow unless they’re cursed,” warned the owl who had seen a hundred seasons. Elwin didn’t listen. He felt safe with the stone. In fact, he began to feel stronger, smarter, and more alive. He could leap farther, remember more, and sense things before they happened. It was as if the stone was giving him something—something no one else could see. Then came the storm. It began with a strange silence. The forest air grew heavy, and the clouds turned black. Wind howled through the trees like wolves, and lightning split the sky. Rain fell in thick sheets, flooding the forest floor. Elwin rushed to protect the stone. But when he arrived at his tree, it was gone. Panic gripped his tiny heart. He searched everywhere—under rocks, inside logs, beneath leaves. The forest looked different now. Angry. Wet. Cold. And empty. The stone, his friend, had vanished. For three days, Elwin searched. He forgot to eat. He forgot to sleep. His paws were sore, and his heart was heavy. On the fourth day, with no strength left, he returned home. And there it was. The stone sat quietly on his branch, dry and glowing softly. But something had changed. There was a small leaf resting next to it. On the leaf were strange markings—lines and curves, not like any letters Elwin had seen. Yet somehow, he could read them. > “Kindness is never lost. The forest sees. The forest gives back.” Elwin stared at the message. He didn’t understand everything, but he felt the truth in the words. That night, he curled up next to the stone and slept peacefully. From that day on, Elwin changed. He didn’t keep the stone hidden anymore. He placed it in the middle of the forest where all creatures could come and feel its warmth. The angry owl softened. The toad stopped croaking warnings. Even the nervous sparrows stopped whispering. The forest began to glow—not like the stone, but in spirit. Animals helped one another. They shared food. They protected the young and respected the old. Something about the stone had healed them all. Elwin became a quiet leader. Not through power or fear, but through kindness. He taught others that strength comes not from what you have, but from what you give. And every time someone gave with a true heart, the stone glowed just a little brighter. Years passed. Elwin grew old, but the stone remained the same. Glowing. Watching. Remembering. And some say, even now, if you walk through that forest with kindness in your heart, the stone will find you. It will warm your paws, calm your spirit, and remind you that no act of love is ever forgotten. --- Moral of the Story: True kindness, no matter how small, can transform the world around you. What you give with love comes back in ways you may never expect.
By Moto Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
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By The Hopeabout a year ago in Fiction
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By A Waseem khattakabout a year ago in Fiction
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By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
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By Am@n Khan about a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Collected Goodbyes
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By Wings of Time about a year ago in Fiction
Death is a mystery (Episode 2)
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By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
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The first time I saw her, it was raining—not the wild, stormy kind, but the soft, gentle drizzle that makes everything feel like a dream. I was sitting outside a quiet bookstore in Lahore, under a small awning, sipping hot chai from a paper cup. The smell of wet earth, old books, and street samosas lingered in the air. That’s when she appeared—running, laughing, drenched but not bothered at all. Her dupatta clung to her, her hair wet and tangled, and her smile… it was the kind that didn’t ask for attention but captured it anyway. She looked at me, a stranger, and said, “Do you mind if I stand here for a while? My umbrella broke halfway down the street.” I moved slightly, making space under the already crowded shade. “Of course not.” She stood beside me, brushing water from her sleeves. There was a kind of quiet comfort in the moment—two strangers sharing shelter from the rain. I offered her some chai. She took it with a soft laugh and thanked me. That’s how it began. Her name was Areeba. She was a literature student, studying Urdu classics, and had a soft spot for rainy days and old poetry. That first conversation went from Faiz to Ghalib, from chai stalls to childhood stories. She told me how marigolds reminded her of her grandmother’s garden—how they were simple but lasted longer than roses. I remember thinking, This girl sees beauty in things most people forget to notice. We parted ways that day without exchanging numbers, just a smile and a soft “maybe I’ll see you again.” I didn’t expect to. But the city, in its strange way, kept bringing us back together. We met again a week later at the same bookstore. Then again in a chai shop nearby. After that, it became a pattern. We never made plans—we just kept running into each other like the universe was writing us into the same chapter. We talked about everything. She told me how her dream was to pursue her Master’s in Karachi. I told her how I loved photography but never had the courage to chase it seriously. She encouraged me, saying, “If something brings you peace, it’s worth following.” One day, I brought her a bunch of marigolds, tied in a simple white thread. She looked at them, then at me. “You remembered.” “I remember everything about you,” I replied. We sat on that bookstore bench for hours, not caring about time or the noise around us. She read me poems from her notebook. I took pictures of her holding those marigolds, the sunlight catching her smile. But not every love story ends with forever. Some just leave you with moments that never fade. One evening, as we sat under our favorite tree, Areeba told me she’d gotten her admission in Karachi. She was leaving in two weeks. “I’m happy for you,” I said, though my chest ached. “I don’t want to go,” she whispered. “But you have to,” I replied. “For yourself. And I’ll still be here. Always.” We didn’t make promises we couldn’t keep. We exchanged letters instead of big words. And when she left, I stood at the station with another bunch of marigolds, watching her train disappear into the horizon. We kept in touch for a while—calls, texts, voice notes filled with poetry and silly jokes. But life has its way of testing distances. Slowly, the messages grew shorter. The calls became less frequent. And yet… not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Every time it rains, I look out the window and remember that day—her laugh, the broken umbrella, and the warmth of her hand brushing mine as she took the chai. I still visit that bookstore. I still sit on that same bench. And yes, I still buy marigolds. Because sometimes, a moment is enough. One walk in the rain. One poem. One girl who saw beauty in forgotten things. And honestly, even if love doesn’t last a lifetime, it can still change one. Forever.
By Sherooz khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library Beneath the Lake
It was midsummer when Mira arrived at the village of Eldenmoor, a forgotten dot on the map where mist never left the lake and the moon seemed to rise too early. She came for quiet—a break from city noise, the overthinking, the digital clocks, the endless scrolling. What she found was a place that seemed half-asleep, as if it had fallen into a dream long ago and never woken up.
By Laiba Gulabout a year ago in Fiction
One Hundred Years of Solitude
The Buendía house stood at the edge of the village of Santa Nieve, where the jungle whispered and time curled in on itself like old parchment. It had been there for a hundred years, though no one remembered building it, and no one dared to tear it down. The walls wept in the rainy season, the windows blinked with the wind, and strange lights flickered from the attic even when the house was empty. Except it was never really empty. The villagers swore they saw the same faces looking out from the upper window—faces of the dead. But it was not the dead that haunted the Buendía house. It was memory. --- Every generation of Buendías was born with two things: a peculiar birthmark shaped like an almond and an incurable yearning to escape the fate of their forebears. Yet they always came back—drawn by dreams, omens, or guilt—to the house that never aged, even as they did. Mateo Buendía was the last. At twelve, he wandered into the library on the second floor and found a dusty journal with a cracked leather cover. His fingers tingled when he touched it, as if the book had been waiting for him. Inside were entries dating back a century, written by hands that trembled with love, sorrow, and madness. The first entry: “Time is not a line. It is a circle made of forgetting.” Mateo read late into the night, the past whispering secrets through ink. --- He learned of Esperanza Buendía, who could see spirits but married a man who believed only in science. She danced with ghosts in the hallway and wept when her husband burned all her journals in a fire fueled by logic. Of Rafael, who tried to sail upriver to find the city of mirrors but returned years later with white hair, empty eyes, and a bottle that contained only silence. Of Alma, who once fell in love with a man in her dreams and searched the waking world in vain, never realizing he had been born decades after her death. And of Aureliano, the original—the first to write the journal, the first to speak of solitude not as loneliness, but as inheritance. --- “Why do they all return?” Mateo asked the old gardener one morning. The gardener, who had worked there longer than anyone alive could remember, said, “Because the house remembers what they forget.” That night, Mateo dreamed of Esperanza standing by the fig tree, beckoning him. Her voice echoed: "The curse is not solitude. It is silence. You must finish the story." --- Mateo wrote every night after that, filling page after page in a second journal. Not just with the tales of the Buendías, but with his own. Of feeling invisible at school. Of the boy who smiled at him once and never again. Of the silence that grew between him and his mother, who spoke to birds more than she did to him. The more he wrote, the more the house changed. The cracks in the walls healed. The air grew lighter. The attic door, sealed for generations, creaked open. Inside, Mateo found a mirror. But when he looked into it, he saw not himself—but every Buendía before him. They blinked, breathed, wept. And then, they smiled. --- Years passed. Mateo never left the house. People said he had gone mad like the others, obsessed with the past. But sometimes children saw him in the garden, speaking to butterflies or writing in the dust with his fingers. And at night, light still flickered in the attic. One stormy evening, lightning struck the fig tree. When the villagers came to check the ruins, the house was gone. All that remained were two journals under the roots—one old, one new—and a single almond-shaped birthmark burned into the earth. --- In time, the Buendía name became legend. A whisper. A tale told to children about the house that remembered and the boy who listened. No one dared rebuild on the land. For even in absence, solitude lived there still—eternal, magical, and waiting to be written again.
By Shah Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction