Love
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
The Library Between Worlds
M Mehran Most people walked past the alley without noticing it. It was narrow, damp, and always smelled faintly of smoke. But Aria had always been drawn to places that seemed forgotten. That night, when the city was loud with Friday traffic, she slipped into the alley and found a door she’d never seen before. It was tall and arched, made of dark oak carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. A brass plaque read simply: The Library Between Worlds. Aria hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open. The room inside stretched impossibly wide, its ceiling lost in shadow. Shelves upon shelves towered upward, filled with books bound in leather, cloth, and even materials that shimmered like metal. Candles floated in the air, their flames steady though no wax dripped. At the center stood a man in a long coat, his hair silver though his face looked young. “Welcome,” he said, as if he had been expecting her. “Few find this place without searching. Fewer still are invited.” Aria swallowed. “What is this?” “A library,” he said with a smile. “But not the kind you know. Here, every book contains a life—every possibility you might have lived, had you made a different choice.” Her pulse quickened. “You mean… alternate versions of me?” “Exactly.” He led her to a shelf where the spines bore her name. Hundreds of them. Aria reached out with trembling fingers and pulled one down at random. The moment she opened it, the library dissolved. She was standing on a stage, bathed in golden light, a violin tucked under her chin. A crowd cheered wildly as she bowed. Aria gasped. She had quit violin when she was twelve, convinced she’d never be good enough. But here, she was a prodigy. The librarian’s voice echoed in her ear: This is one path. Do you wish to stay? The temptation was sharp, but she closed the book. The stage vanished. She was back in the library. Her heart raced. “That was real?” “As real as the life you are living now.” She pulled another book. This time, she was older, sitting on a porch with a ring on her finger and children laughing in the yard. A man whose face she didn’t recognize handed her a glass of lemonade. She felt warmth spread through her chest—love, family, belonging. But again, she closed the book, shaking. Book after book, life after life. Some glorious, some tragic. In one she was a surgeon. In another, a thief. In one, she died young. In another, she lived to a hundred. The librarian watched silently as her hands trembled. “Every choice you’ve ever made opens one door and closes another. Here, you may step into whichever you desire.” Her eyes burned. “But… if I choose one, do I lose the others?” He nodded. “That is the cost. You cannot carry them all.” Aria sank to the floor, overwhelmed. All her life she had wondered about the what ifs—what if she hadn’t given up music, what if she’d said yes to love, what if she’d dared to be braver. And here they all were, stacked neatly on shelves. But as she stared at the endless books, another thought broke through: she had always been so busy regretting the lives she hadn’t lived, she had never honored the one she was living. “I… I can’t choose,” she whispered. The librarian’s eyes softened. “That, too, is a choice.” He reached out, placing a single blank book in her lap. Its cover was plain, its pages empty. “This one is still being written,” he said. “It is yours, and only you can finish it. Not by stepping into someone else’s story, but by living your own.” Her throat tightened. She clutched the book as the shelves began to fade, the candles snuffing out one by one. When she blinked, she was back in the alley, the blank book still warm in her hands. The brass plaque was gone, and the door with it. The city’s noise returned around her—cars honking, people laughing—but everything felt different. For the first time, Aria wasn’t chasing what ifs. She was carrying a story still unwritten, and she knew she had the power to make it extraordinary.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Data Stream Shepherd
Leo’s world was a river of light and sound, a ceaseless, chattering current known as the Data Stream. His title was Senior Stream Analyst, Third Shift. Most called him a glorified janitor. His office was a dim cubicle on the 214th floor, and his purpose was to watch the flow—endless lines of code, consumer metrics, communication packets, and digital debris—and ensure the weirs and filters were clear. It was a job of profound loneliness, surrounded by the noise of seven billion people.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
"Love Beyond Time"
Chapter One: The Encounter Rain fell gently on the cobblestone streets of Verona. Amelia, a historian visiting from London, clutched her notebook and hurried beneath the glow of the ancient streetlamps. She had come in search of archives, records of lives long past, and perhaps inspiration for her latest research on forgotten love letters of the Renaissance. Inside a small, dusty bookshop, she found herself drawn to a leather-bound journal. Its pages were yellowed, the ink faded, yet one entry stood out: "To the one I have yet to meet, though centuries divide us, my heart beats for you. Find me beneath the old clock tower." The handwriting was dated 1623. Amelia smiled, assuming it was a poetic flourish, yet something in those words sent a shiver through her. --- Chapter Two: The Clock Tower That evening, curiosity pulled Amelia to Verona’s old clock tower. Its hands, frozen at midnight for decades, loomed against the night sky. As she placed her hand on the stone, the air shimmered. A strange warmth filled her chest, and when she opened her eyes, the square looked… different. The neon signs and cars were gone. Lanterns flickered, horses trotted, and the people wore garments from another time. Amelia gasped. Somehow, impossibly, she had stepped into the past. And there he was. A man stood near the base of the tower, dark hair falling across his brow, his clothes that of a nobleman. His eyes widened as he saw her. "You came," he whispered. --- Chapter Three: A Love Across Centuries His name was Leonardo di Rossi, a poet condemned for writing verses considered dangerous by the ruling powers. The journal Amelia had discovered was his, written with hope that one day his words might transcend time. In the days that followed, Amelia and Leonardo walked the streets of 17th-century Verona. He showed her the hidden gardens where he wrote his poems, she told him stories of airplanes, electric lights, and a world he could scarcely imagine. They laughed at their differences, yet their souls seemed to recognize one another. Every glance carried the weight of centuries. Every touch felt like a promise destiny had always meant to keep. But shadows lingered. Leonardo confessed that his writings had earned him enemies, and he feared for Amelia’s safety if she remained in his world too long. --- Chapter Four: The Choice One night, as bells tolled across the city, Leonardo took Amelia’s hand. "The clock tower brought you to me," he said softly, "but it may also take you away. You must decide — return to your time, safe, or stay here and risk everything." Tears welled in Amelia’s eyes. She loved him, but how could she abandon her world, her family, her future? And yet, how could she bear to leave him, knowing they might never meet again? As the tower’s midnight chime echoed, the air shimmered once more. Leonardo pressed a folded parchment into her hand. "If time takes you," he said, his voice breaking, "remember me in your world. And if there is any magic left, perhaps we will find each other again." --- Chapter Five: Beyond Time Amelia opened her eyes to find herself back in the present. The clock tower stood silent, its hands still frozen at midnight. The city was modern again. In her palm, however, she still clutched the parchment. With trembling hands, she unfolded it. "Amelia, love knows no time, no end. If you ever read these words, know that across centuries, I am yours." Her tears fell on the page, smudging the ink. She pressed the letter to her chest, whispering his name into the night. Years later, Amelia published a book titled Love Beyond Time, filled with Leonardo’s verses and their impossible story. Some dismissed it as fiction, others as a myth. But in her heart, Amelia knew the truth: love had carried her across centuries. And sometimes, late at night, when the clock struck midnight, she swore she could feel Leonardo’s hand in hers — a reminder that true love never fades, not even with time.
By Muhammad suliman about a year ago in Fiction
Lisa’s Birthday Wish
Lisa sat on the edge of the narrow twin bed, her children bundled beneath a single quilt. Ciara, five years old and already fiercely protective of her younger siblings, clung to Lisa’s arm even in sleep. Liam lay sprawled on his stomach, one chubby hand gripping the battered toy car he carried everywhere. Marie, the baby of the family, was curled against Lisa’s hip, her tiny fingers still sticky from the crackers they’d shared for dinner.
By Rebecca Daughertyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror in Room Six
M Mehran When traveling for work, Daniel never expected much from the hotels he stayed in—sterile lobbies, thin walls, and coffee that tasted like cardboard. But the motel he checked into that rainy Thursday was stranger than most. The clerk barely looked up as Daniel signed in, mumbling, “Only one room left—Room Six.” The hallway was dim, lined with peeling wallpaper. Room Six creaked when he pushed the door open. Inside, everything seemed ordinary enough: a bed, a chair, a lamp that flickered. The only unusual thing was the mirror. It was full-length, framed in dark wood, and leaned against the far wall. It wasn’t dusty or cracked like the rest of the room—it gleamed, flawless, as though it had been polished moments before. Daniel didn’t think much of it until he unpacked. He glanced at the mirror and froze. His reflection was smiling. But Daniel wasn’t. He stepped closer, his stomach lurching. Slowly, cautiously, he raised his hand. His reflection raised its hand too, in perfect sync. But the smile lingered, stretched unnaturally wide. “Long day,” Daniel muttered to himself, trying to laugh it off. “Just tired.” He turned away, but unease prickled his skin. He left the television on for noise, but every time he glanced at the mirror, the reflection’s smile seemed sharper. --- At 2 a.m., a noise jolted him awake. A faint tapping, like fingernails on glass. The room was dark, the TV off though he hadn’t touched it. His gaze slid to the mirror. His reflection was standing closer than he was—right up against the glass. The tapping grew louder. The reflection lifted its hand and knocked, once, twice, three times. Daniel’s breath caught. His body felt heavy, pinned to the bed. Then, in a voice that didn’t echo in the room but bloomed inside his skull, the reflection whispered: “Let me out.” Daniel scrambled off the bed, heart hammering. “This isn’t real,” he hissed. “I’m dreaming.” The reflection tilted its head, the smile never faltering. “You don’t belong out there. You’re tired. Worn down. Let me take your place. Rest. Just rest.” “No,” Daniel whispered. The mirror rattled. Cracks spidered across its surface though it didn’t break. The reflection’s smile widened until it split the face unnaturally. Daniel grabbed his bag, fled the room, and didn’t stop running until he was in his car, the rain soaking him through. He drove through the night, not caring about the headlights or the storm. --- By morning, he had convinced himself it was exhaustion and stress. Lack of sleep. Maybe even a fever dream. But when he stopped at a diner for breakfast, he caught his reflection in the window. It was still smiling.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Fiction
Forever Bound
The first time Evelyn saw him, she felt an ache in her chest, as if the air had been stolen from her lungs. It wasn’t love at first sight—at least, not in the way books describe it. It was recognition. Something ancient stirred in her bones, whispering, You’ve known him before. He was just a stranger at the train station, waiting for the evening departure, his coat dusted with the soft drizzle of spring rain. Yet when their eyes met, she knew. “Do I know you?” he asked, his voice careful, like someone afraid of the answer. “I think so,” she whispered, though she couldn’t explain why. That night Evelyn dreamed in colors she didn’t remember knowing. She was in another century, dressed in a gown heavy with gold, standing in a candlelit ballroom. Across the room stood the same man—only his hair was longer, tied at the nape of his neck, and his eyes carried the same storm she’d just seen at the station. He bowed. She curtsied. And she remembered his name: Alexander. When she woke, her pillow was damp with tears. Days passed, but fate has a way of refusing silence. She saw him again—at the bookstore, of all places, both reaching for the same copy of a collection of poetry. His fingers brushed hers, and the world tilted. “Strange,” he said, his voice lower this time, almost reverent. “Every time I look at you, I feel like I’m supposed to remember something.” Evelyn swallowed hard. “Maybe you are.” They began to meet, as though pulled together by some invisible thread. Coffee shops turned into long walks, and long walks turned into conversations that stretched until dawn. With him, she never had to explain why she cried at old songs or why the smell of lavender made her chest ache. He understood, because he felt it too. One night, he confessed. “I dreamed about you,” he said softly, staring at the stars. “We were by the sea. I think it was… centuries ago. You wore blue, and you were leaving me.” Her heart raced. “I dreamed the same thing.” Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile. Then he whispered, “What if this isn’t the first time we’ve met? What if this is just… another chapter?” Evelyn thought about that for weeks. She thought about it when she brushed her hair, when she passed strangers in the street, when she woke from dreams filled with lives she couldn’t place. Always, he was there—different names, different faces, but always him. In one dream, he was a soldier, and she a nurse tending his wounds. In another, he was a sailor, waving goodbye as her tears blurred the shore. In yet another, they were both farmers, their hands rough, their laughter full. Lifetime after lifetime, their story repeated. Sometimes they found each other, sometimes they lost each other. But always, always, they were forever bound. One evening, he asked her the question she feared most. “What if it ends again? What if, in this life too, we lose each other?” She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling. “Then we’ll find each other again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in fifty years. But we always do.” His eyes softened. “Forever bound.” “Forever bound,” she echoed. Months later, tragedy struck. A car accident on a rain-slicked road. Evelyn stood by his hospital bed, her hands clutching his, her tears falling onto his pale skin. Machines beeped steadily, but his breaths were shallow, fragile. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not yet. Not this time.” He opened his eyes, weak but certain. “I’ll find you.” And then he was gone. Grief hollowed her, but even in her darkest nights, she clung to the promise. She knew she would see him again—not in this life, but in the next. Maybe as a stranger at another train station. Maybe as a child laughing in the park. Maybe as a friend she didn’t yet know she needed. But when the time came, she would recognize him. Because souls that are bound, never truly part. And Evelyn knew—across centuries, across lifetimes, across the endless weaving of fate—he would always come back to her. Forever bound.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction
