Love
Chemtrails. Top Story - October 2025.
I lay in the grass, blades tickling the back of my ears and the nape of my neck. The sky is streaked with cirrus clouds, wispy and waif-like. Something stands out among them, though—a little airplane. It travels softly through the sky. It is slow and without care. Though it seems to last forever—a tiny snail slugging its way across the open sidewalk—if you missed it passing by you might have never known it was there.
By Raine Neal12 months ago in Fiction
Short Story: 'The Man Who Dreamed About Butterflies'. AI-Generated.
Introduction This story is for anyone who has loved deeply and lost gently. It’s for those who see signs in the quiet, who hear whispers in scripture, and who believe that transformation is real. Inspired by the Psalms and the sacred hush of grief, this is Elijah’s journey—and perhaps yours too.🦋
By Margaret Minnicks12 months ago in Fiction
"The Forgotten Promise
The Forgotten Promise Ayesha, now a renowned architect, stood at the edge of a glittering skyline. Glass towers rose around her like patient sentinels, catching the last gold of the day. They were her work—the proof that a small-town girl could build a life in steel and light. Yet success had not erased an ache. Awards and headlines felt distant when a single memory wanted to be heard. She closed her eyes and let the wind carry her thoughts back to simpler days, when life had been about laughter, dreams, and promises. --- A Vow Beneath the Neem Tree Years earlier, beneath a neem tree in their hometown, she and Sami had sealed a vow. “No matter where life takes us, we’ll stay in touch—letters, phone calls, visits. Nothing will break us apart.” At the time, the promise felt unbreakable. They were inseparable, two dreamers who believed the world couldn’t scatter them. But life did. The calls stopped, the letters ended, and the promise faded. Ayesha often thought, “We were so close once. Why didn’t he ever come after me?” --- Sami’s Silent Struggle Meanwhile, Sami’s world had narrowed to the same dusty roads of his town. His shoulders bent with duty and years of unspoken burdens. He had once dreamed of chasing horizons beyond those streets. But sacrifice has a way of killing dreams. “She moved on,” he told himself. “And I stayed… hoping she’d return.” Every day, he walked past the places that reminded him of their childhood, silently wishing he could go back. --- The Unexpected Reunion Fate brought Ayesha back years later, when her firm won a project in that very town. The lanes felt smaller, the houses quieter, yet her heart pounded with fear and anticipation. When she saw Sami, the reunion wasn’t the joyous picture she had carried for years. He looked older, quieter. His smile trembled with hesitation. “Sami… I thought you’d be in the city by now,” she said. He lowered his gaze. “I stayed. My father needed me.” The spark was still there, flickering. But an invisible wall stood between them. --- The Truth Revealed As the days passed, they spent more time together. She laughed at his stories, but whenever she mentioned the past, his eyes grew heavy. Finally, she asked the question directly. And the truth spilled out. After graduation, Sami had been in a terrible accident. It stole pieces of his memory. He remembered fragments—her laughter, the neem tree, the feeling of a promise. But the years after the accident were a blur. Ashamed, he convinced himself she had moved on. “I remembered you faintly,” he confessed. “But never enough to find you. I thought staying away was better than failing you.” Tears filled Ayesha’s eyes. “I thought you didn’t care. All these years, I wondered why you never came.” He whispered, “I cared too much. I never stopped. I just lost the way back. Every day without you felt like a lifetime.” Her heart broke. He hadn’t abandoned her—he had lost himself. --- Love Reborn One evening, they returned to the neem tree where it all began. Its branches swayed as if whispering old secrets. Ayesha touched the bark softly. “I never stopped waiting. I don’t care about the years we lost. I only care about now.” Sami reached for her hand. “I may not be the same boy you once knew. But I still love you. And if you’ll have me, I want to build a future with you.” Their fingers intertwined. Hand in hand, they walked down the same dusty road that once divided them. This time, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was comforting. It was love—reborn, resilient, and timeless. Ayesha glanced at the skyline once more, thinking of all the years that had passed. But she realized that love, like dreams, can always find its way back—even after the longest absence. --- Message Sometimes love takes years. Sometimes it takes forgetting everything to finally remember what matters most.
By Idrees khan12 months ago in Fiction
💞 Some People Are Rare
💞 Some People Are Rare The old library glowed in the dim evening light. Dust danced like tiny stars in the air, caught between golden streaks from the tall windows. The world outside moved fast — cars honked, people talked, life rushed — but inside, silence reigned like an ancient secret.
By New stAr writer 12 months ago in Fiction
Parental Fear
The Knock She sat restlessly on the couch staring blankly at the TV. Her daughter, at the mall with her friends, was 10 minutes late, and her son, at his friend’s house, was going on 5 minutes late already. She shifted between angry and scared with each second of the clock.
By Timothy A Rowland12 months ago in Fiction
Too Much, Too Late
There is a sharp knock at the door, but I’m not expecting anyone. Damn — I’m standing in my kitchen, dressed in my comfortable but tatty sarong, in no way presentable for visitors. I mean seriously, who rocks up unannounced in this day and age anyway?
By Colleen Millsteed 12 months 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 Mehran12 months ago in Fiction
A Night in the Devil’s Arms
A Night in the Devil’s Arms The manor’s silence pressed around Eleanor like a living thing, heavy and expectant. Each footfall on the polished stone seemed amplified, as though the walls themselves were listening, judging, savoring. The man who had met her at the door, whose presence radiated a wickedness so precise it might have been carved from the night itself, he watched her with quiet amusement.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 12 months ago in Fiction
“The Woman at the Window”
Every morning at 7:03 a.m., just as the sunlight hit the third brick on the east wall of the old Hartwell building, she appeared. She didn’t wave. She didn’t smile. She simply watched. From behind dusty, lace curtains on the third floor, her pale face peered through the cracked windowpane, eyes unmoving, expression unreadable. People in town whispered about her—“The Woman at the Window,” they called her. I’d just moved to Bellmere two weeks ago, renting a small apartment across from the Hartwell building. On my first morning there, sipping burnt coffee from a chipped mug, I’d looked out—and saw her. Still as a portrait. Framed by shadow. By the third day, I found myself waiting for her. Something about her presence anchored the day. Like a strange ritual. I didn’t even know why I cared. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe curiosity. Maybe both. By the sixth morning, I waved. She didn’t respond. She saw me, though. I was sure of it. The faintest flicker of recognition passed through her eyes. A blink. A slight tilt of the head. That was all. That night, I asked the barista at the corner café about the building. “Oh, Hartwell?” she frowned. “No one’s lived there for years. It’s condemned. Unsafe.” I blinked. “Are you sure? I’ve seen someone in the third-floor window. A woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t joke about that.” “I’m not joking.” She leaned in, voice hushed. “A woman named Evelyn lived there once. Kept to herself. Died during the blackout five years ago. Gas leak. They didn’t find her for days.” My skin prickled. “Then who am I seeing?” The barista didn’t answer. I couldn’t sleep that night. My window directly faced hers. At 2 a.m., I woke up and looked across the street. She was there. Not standing. Sitting. Head bowed like she was crying. Her fingers trembled as they touched the glass. My heart pounded. I stepped closer to my window, drawn by something I didn’t understand. She lifted her head. And looked directly at me. Her lips moved. I couldn’t hear, but I could read them. Help me. The lights in my apartment flickered. My coffee mug shattered in the sink behind me. I stumbled backward, heart hammering in my chest. When I looked back—she was gone. I didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe me? The next morning, I walked to the Hartwell building. The front door was chained shut. Windows boarded. A “No Trespassing” sign flapped in the wind. I walked around the side, found a loose panel on the basement entrance, and slipped inside. It smelled like rot and mildew. The air felt heavier with every step. On the third floor, the hallway was dark, walls peeled like shedding skin. I followed the corridor to the window. The same lace curtain. The same cracked pane. The room was empty. Except for a single, dust-covered chair facing the window—and a small photo frame on the floor. I picked it up and wiped it clean. A woman, smiling. Holding a baby. On the back, in faded ink: Evelyn and Anna. March 2017. Something inside me sank. I glanced around and saw a notebook on the broken desk. The pages were yellowed, but the writing was clear. They told me she didn’t make it. The gas leak took her while I was at work. But I see her. Every night. Outside the window. Watching. Waiting. Am I losing my mind? Or is she calling me to follow? My hands trembled as I set it down. This wasn’t Evelyn I’d been seeing. It was Anna. That night, I left a note on my window, large black letters on white paper. "Anna. I see you." At 7:03 a.m., she appeared again. This time, she smiled. A soft, sad smile. One that said thank you. One that said goodbye. Then she faded, like smoke in the morning light. And the window was empty. I never saw her again after that day. The Hartwell building was demolished a month later. The town didn’t talk about it. The window, the woman, the strange feeling in the air—it was all gone. But sometimes, when the morning sun hits just right, I glance across the street, half-expecting her to be there. Watching. Waiting. But maybe she doesn’t need to anymore. Maybe she’s finally home.
By Israr khan12 months ago in Fiction
Love Through Wrong Number
Love Through Wrong Number When a random text finds the right heart Sara hated evenings the most. Mornings were rushed, afternoons were noisy and distracted, but evenings were quiet in a way that made her feel too aware of being alone. She’d sit on her couch, scrolling aimlessly through her phone, pretending she wasn’t waiting for something she couldn’t name.
By Muhammad Haris khan afridi12 months ago in Fiction
