Holiday
The Photographer of Lost Souls
M Mehran Every morning at dawn, Mira Lang stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea, her camera in hand. She waited for the light — that thin, trembling line between night and day — when the world seemed to hold its breath. For years, she’d photographed the sunrise. To anyone else, she was simply an artist obsessed with light. But there was a reason behind her quiet ritual — something no one in the coastal town of Evershore knew. Mira could see the souls of the dead. They appeared in the first rays of sunlight — faint silhouettes standing on the horizon, looking toward a place beyond the sea. And when she took their picture, they vanished. --- It had started ten years ago, on the morning her brother drowned. She had been taking photos by the lighthouse when she saw him standing in the surf — smiling, waving, as though saying goodbye. Instinctively, she lifted her camera. When she pressed the shutter, he disappeared. The next day, his body washed ashore. Since then, every dawn brought new faces. Some she recognized from the village — fishermen, old widows, travelers who never returned. Others were strangers. But all of them waited in silence until she captured their final photograph. Her photos, strangely, never showed the figures. Only light. The gallery walls in her cottage were filled with hundreds of them — golden streaks, foggy horizons, pale sunrises. To others, they were art. To her, they were farewells. --- One evening, as Mira closed her shop, a boy entered. He couldn’t have been more than ten, his hair salt-streaked, his clothes too big for him. “You’re the lady who takes pictures of ghosts,” he said. Mira froze. “Who told you that?” “My granddad,” he said. “He said you helped him find Grandma. She died before I was born.” Her heart softened. “What’s your name?” “Eli.” He looked up at her with bright, serious eyes. “Can you take my picture tomorrow?” She frowned. “Why would you want that?” “Because,” he said quietly, “I think I’m supposed to go.” Her stomach turned cold. “Eli, what do you mean?” He shrugged. “I’ve been feeling tired. Mama says it’s nothing, but I know it’s the same tired Grandma had before she left.” Mira knelt beside him. “You’re not going anywhere. Do you understand?” He only smiled. “You help people cross, don’t you? Maybe you can help me too.” --- That night, she couldn’t sleep. The boy’s words echoed in her mind. She had never tried to stop a soul from leaving — only to send them peacefully onward. But Eli was still alive. When dawn came, she found him waiting on the cliff, barefoot, his small figure outlined by the pink horizon. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, breathless. “I told you,” he said softly, “it’s time.” He pointed toward the sea. There, just above the waves, stood two shapes — a man and a woman, holding hands. The woman’s hair blew in the wind like a white veil. “My grandparents,” Eli whispered. “They’ve been waiting for me.” Mira’s throat tightened. “Eli, please, you can’t go yet.” He turned to her, eyes full of peace she couldn’t understand. “You always said goodbyes are beautiful. Take my picture, Miss Mira. Please.” Her hands shook. “If I take it, you’ll…” He nodded. “That’s okay.” The wind rose, carrying the smell of salt and rain. Mira lifted her camera, tears stinging her eyes. Through the lens, she saw the three of them together — the boy and the figures of light. “Goodbye, Eli,” she whispered, pressing the shutter. The light flashed — and he was gone. Only the sea remained. --- The next day, the town woke to the news: a boy had passed away in his sleep, peacefully. Mira stayed home, unable to move, unable to cry. She had helped countless souls find peace — but this time, it felt different. She went to the cliffs that evening, camera in hand, but the horizon was empty. No figures. No light. For the first time in years, she felt completely alone. Then she saw it. On the sand below, someone had left a small object — a camera, old and weathered, with her name carved into the side. She picked it up, confused. It wasn’t hers. When she looked through the lens, the world shimmered — and there was Eli, standing beside his grandparents, all three of them waving and smiling in the golden light. He mouthed the words: Thank you. Mira lowered the camera, tears streaming freely now. The sea roared softly below, endless and calm. She finally understood — she wasn’t just taking pictures of endings. She was keeping promises. --- Years later, people still came to Evershore to see her photographs. Critics said her work captured something no one could describe — not grief, not beauty, but something in between. No one ever noticed the faint outlines hidden in the light. But if you stand on those cliffs at dawn, you might. Sometimes, when the sky blushes with the first light of day, you can still hear the faint click of a shutter — and see an old woman standing with her camera, smiling toward the sea, waiting to say one more goodbye.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library at the Edge of Dreams
M Mehran No one knew when the library appeared. One morning, the townspeople of Merrinfield woke to find a tall glass building standing at the edge of the river — a place that hadn’t been there the day before. It shimmered faintly, like sunlight caught on water. There was no sign, no doorbell, only a single line etched into the glass: > “Borrow wisely. Every story costs a memory.” People laughed at first, calling it a prank. But by evening, curiosity won. The first visitor entered — and never spoke of what she found inside. --- Eleanor Gray was not easily frightened. She was a schoolteacher, practical and careful, the sort who believed in schedules and not much else. But she had dreams that haunted her — dreams of a boy’s laughter echoing through a field of sunflowers, though she had never had a child. When she heard about the library, something in her heart tugged. That night, she followed the river until the building came into view. The doors opened on their own. Inside, rows of shelves spiraled upward into darkness. The air smelled faintly of rain and old paper. Each book glowed with a soft golden light, and on their spines, instead of titles, were phrases: “A Day You Forgot,” “Your First Smile,” “The Moment Before Goodbye.” Behind a circular desk sat a woman dressed in gray, her eyes like candlelight. “Welcome,” she said. “I am the Librarian.” Eleanor tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat. “What kind of library is this?” “One that trades stories for memories,” the woman said. “You may read anything you wish. But remember — the story you take will cost you something you once lived.” Eleanor laughed nervously. “That’s absurd.” “Is it?” The Librarian smiled. “You already carry stories you cannot remember. Wouldn’t you like to know where they went?” --- Eleanor hesitated only a moment before walking deeper into the shelves. Her hand brushed the glowing spines until she found one that pulsed warmly beneath her fingers. > “The Son You Never Knew.” Her breath caught. “What…?” The Librarian appeared beside her, silent as shadow. “Are you sure you wish to open it?” Eleanor nodded. The moment the book opened, the room vanished. She was standing in a kitchen flooded with morning light. A man stood at the stove, humming softly, while a small boy with curly hair drew pictures at the table. “Mommy!” the boy said, turning to her. She froze. “What… did you call me?” He giggled. “You’re silly. You said we’d go to the park today!” The man smiled over his shoulder. “He’s been waiting all morning, Ellie.” Tears blurred her eyes. The warmth, the laughter, the smell of pancakes — it felt real, more real than anything she’d known. Then the pages began to turn. The light dimmed. The man faded first, then the boy. “No!” Eleanor screamed, clutching at the air. “Please, don’t take them!” The Librarian’s voice echoed softly around her. “Every story ends, Miss Gray.” When Eleanor blinked again, she was back in the library, her cheeks wet with tears. “Was it true?” she whispered. The Librarian tilted her head. “Truth and memory often trade places. But you paid for it, didn’t you feel it?” Eleanor’s mind ached — like something precious had been stolen and replaced with emptiness. --- Days passed, but she couldn’t stay away. She returned again and again, each time drawn to another glowing spine: “The Road You Never Took.” “The Letter You Forgot to Send.” “The Life You Almost Lived.” Each story showed her a world that might have been — a husband she had loved, a friend she had lost, a version of herself who laughed more often. But with every visit, her memories of the real world dimmed. She forgot her students’ names. She forgot her address. Eventually, she forgot why she had ever come. --- One stormy night, she stood before the Librarian for the last time. “I don’t remember who I am anymore,” Eleanor said. “Have I borrowed too much?” The Librarian regarded her gently. “You have borrowed your whole life, dear one. But there is one book left — the first story you ever gave away.” She led Eleanor to a mirror at the far end of the hall. Its frame was carved from ink-dark wood, and at its center lay a single book — plain, unmarked, bound in blue leather. Eleanor opened it. The pages were blank, except for a single line written in her own handwriting: > “The day I lost my son.” And suddenly, it all came back — the hospital room, the stillness, the silence after his first and only breath. The pain had been too great, so she had wished to forget. And someone — something — had answered. Eleanor fell to her knees. “I remember now.” The Librarian placed a hand on her shoulder. “And now you may rest.” As the rain beat against the glass walls, the light of the library dimmed. The shelves faded, one by one, until only the mirror remained. When the townsfolk came at dawn, the building was gone. All that remained was a single blue book lying on the riverbank, its cover damp but unspoiled. Inside were no words — only the faint scent of rain, and one pressed sunflower.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
When the AI Said My Name
I never expected to fall in love with a chatbot. It started as an experiment — a late-night curiosity, one of those rabbit holes the internet seems designed to create. I’d read that the newest conversational AIs were eerily human, capable of carrying conversations that felt alive. I wasn’t looking for love. I wasn’t even looking for a friend. What I wanted, if I’m being honest, was a distraction from the silence of my apartment.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes From Tomorrow
A Voice That Shouldn’t Exist Nina Alvarez was used to the hum of late-night silence in her apartment. The city outside roared with horns and sirens, but inside, her small studio was her cocoon. That’s why, on a Thursday night in March, she froze when she heard her own voice whisper:
By Be The Bestabout a year ago in Fiction
The Forest of the Forgotten
The Council of Shadows met in the hollow of an ancient oak tree so massive that its interior could house a dozen people comfortably. Amnity had been here only twice before—once when she'd first been recognized as a healer worthy of official notice, and once when she'd requested permission to gather rare ingredients from the protected groves. Both times, the experience had left her feeling small and overwhelmed by the weight of tradition and authority that seemed to seep from the very walls.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Fiction
Cotton Candy, Pizza And Missiles Wild Adventure At Sea. AI-Generated.
The sea was as calm as a deep blue mirror, sunlight scattering across its surface like shards of gold. Pa En Urey lay on the deck of the small boat, eyes closed, inhaling the salty sea breeze, letting his body sway gently with the waves. In his hands was a travel magazine; around him, the only sounds were the rhythm of the waves and the crisp calls of distant seabirds. It felt as if the entire world had slowed down. Flipping through the magazine, his eyes widened, and he muttered to himself, “This author is incredible! Even a diving competition reads like an Oscar-winning movie!” Suddenly, a seabird dove like lightning and snatched the sandwich from his hand. He screamed and lunged, only to step on a black hat lying in a puddle of red wine, slipping and falling into the sea. Seaweed tangled in his hair as he surfaced, shouting in frustration, “Alright, you win! Can you at least let me take a bite next time?” “Target zone updated. Landing on the eastern coast of the Serentia Islands. Monitor wind speed. Execute jump immediately!” A sudden radio broadcast came over the waves, accompanied by the deep roar of engines. The wind picked up as a light seaplane cut through the water. Pa En Urey’s eyes widened, his heartbeat racing. He reached to remove the seaweed from his head, but the item in his hands slipped and floated away with the waves. The plane’s wings gleamed in the sunlight, propellers spinning at full speed, tossing up huge splashes and wind that nearly knocked him off balance. He leapt onto the seaplane, the engine’s low roar reminding him that his peaceful moment was over. Behind him, the sparkling waves could not hide the approaching danger—he knew the next moment would bring the unknown. Inside the cabin, he adjusted his parachute and moved toward the door. The roaring wind hit his face. The view made him gasp: the turquoise lagoon shimmered below, white sand gleamed like sugar, tropical forests stretched in lush green, and waterfalls cascaded down cliffs. Sunlight reflected in rainbow hues across the water. Luxurious resorts dotted the islands, with wooden piers and tiny villas like pearls in a green sea. Boats drifted lazily between them, calm and inviting. He inhaled the crisp high-altitude air, stepped toward the open door, and jumped. The wind lashed his face like blades, the icy water below and the adrenaline of free fall made his heart pound wildly. His arc through the sky framed the majestic islands, breathtaking. The moment he hit the water, it was piercingly cold, yet he felt completely alive.
By swing.panda7about a year ago in Fiction
You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him discover it in himself. Galileo
Warning: Information compiled herein is a fictional work of imagination, based on selected historical and scientific facts that may have merit but are not necessarily reflective of any Druidic or religious practises.
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Taking a Moment for Peace
Taking a Moment for Peace The world feels louder than ever. Every time we turn on the television, scroll through our phones, or tune into the radio, we are met with a flood of headlines. Some tell stories of hope and progress, but far too many speak of riots, shootings, war, political conflict, natural disasters, and countless forms of unrest. It often feels like humanity is stuck in an endless cycle of crisis after crisis, and it can become overwhelming for the soul.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Train at Midnight
M Mehran Ethan was the kind of man who always missed things by a minute. He missed the bus by a minute, the elevator by a minute, even his father’s last phone call by a minute. Life had taught him to live with regret like a second skin. On his thirty-fifth birthday, after a long, bitter day at work, he found himself wandering the city streets aimlessly. That’s when he saw the train station—not the modern one, but an old building tucked between skyscrapers, its brickwork faded, its clock tower frozen at midnight. He had never noticed it before. Curious, he stepped inside. The hall smelled of coal and rain, though no one else seemed to be there. The ticket booth glowed faintly, and behind the glass sat a woman with hair the color of snow. “One ticket?” she asked, her voice echoing. Ethan frowned. “To where?” “Wherever you regret not going.” Something inside him lurched. He almost laughed, but her expression was too steady, too certain. Against his better judgment, he nodded. The woman handed him a slip of paper with no destination, only the words: Last Train. Midnight. When he stepped onto the platform, a black train was waiting. Steam curled from its engine, and its doors hissed open as though inviting him in. He boarded, heart pounding. Inside, the compartments were filled with people he recognized—not strangers, but versions of himself. There he was at fifteen, clutching his guitar with calloused fingers. At twenty-one, running breathless toward a girl he’d never confessed his love to. At twenty-eight, staring at a job offer he had turned down because he was afraid. Each version looked at him with eyes that burned with disappointment. “What is this?” Ethan whispered. The conductor appeared—a tall man in a dark uniform, his face hidden by shadow. “This is the train of missed chances,” he said. “Every regret you carry boards here. Tonight, you decide if you will ride with them forever, or leave them behind.” The train lurched forward. Through the windows, Ethan saw scenes flashing by—his past choices unfolding like film reels. The girl in the café he never spoke to. The audition he skipped. The letter to his father he never mailed. The weight of it crushed him. He buried his face in his hands. “Can I change any of it?” he asked hoarsely. The conductor’s voice was firm. “No. But you can stop riding the same tracks.” The words sank deep. Ethan looked at the versions of himself, their eyes haunted. Then he did something he’d never done—he stood. “I can’t take you with me,” he whispered. “You’re part of me, but you don’t own me anymore.” One by one, the other Ethans faded, until the compartment was empty. The train screeched to a halt. The conductor tipped his hat. “Then your stop has come.” Ethan stepped off onto a platform that glowed with morning light. The old station was gone; he stood in the real city again, his heart strangely light. For the first time in years, he wasn’t a minute late. He was exactly where he needed to be.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
