Love
The Last Leaf
By; Abdur-Rahman The city had been weeping for a week, a constant, grey drizzle that matched the chill in my bones. From my window, the world was a watercolor painting left in the rain, all blurred edges and muted tones. The doctor’s words were the final brushstroke: *Pneumonia. A matter of time.* My will to fight was leaching away, drop by drop, with the rain on the glass.
By Path To Progressabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Wrote Letters Back
When Lydia first stepped into the weathered seaside house, it smelled faintly of salt and old wood. The realtor had called it charming with potential, but to Lydia, it felt like something else entirely—like the house had been waiting. She had come here after her divorce, tired of the city, tired of voices that promised comfort but carried nothing but noise. The ocean was meant to be her quiet, her restart. But the very first morning, she discovered something that turned her solitude into a mystery: a folded letter on the kitchen table in her own looping handwriting.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
I Married the Boy Who Hated Me. AI-Generated.
I Married the Boy Who Hated Me He was the boy who made high school unbearable for me. The one with the sharp jawline, messy hair, and that arrogant grin teachers adored. Every girl in school whispered his name as if it were a prayer, while I sat in the back row with my second-hand notebooks and oversized sweaters, praying he wouldn’t notice me.
By NOOR UDDINabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Rain
The first raindrops of the monsoon tapped gently against the windowpane of the small café. Ayan stirred his coffee absentmindedly, pretending to read a book while his eyes kept flickering toward the door. He wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular, yet deep inside, he hoped destiny had something planned for him that day.
By Hakeem Khan about a year ago in Fiction
The Crimson Hour
🌿 A short story born from this art… The rain fell like accusations against the windshield, each drop carrying the weight of unspoken truths. Maya had been driving for sixteen hours straight, her knuckles bone-white against the steering wheel, following a ghost across state lines that blurred together like watercolors in the storm.
By Prompted Beautyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wedding Photographer
The Routine Assignment Rohail was passionate about photography. Covering weddings was his everyday job. Bright lights, decorated halls, and smiling faces were always a part of his camera reel. For him, every wedding felt the same bride, groom, happiness, and the noise of celebration.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Missed Call That Changed Everything
The Unexpected Ring Sometimes, the most beautiful stories in life begin with the smallest mistakes. That’s exactly what happened with Anaya, when one evening, she received a missed call from an unknown number. At first, she ignored it, but when the number kept flashing again and again, curiosity pushed her to pick it up.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Bench by Willow Lake"
I still remember the exact spot where she used to sit. Every morning at seven, she’d arrive at the bench by Willow Lake—always with her coffee in a chipped white mug, the one with a tiny bluebird painted on the side. I never asked her name. We were just two strangers bound by routine and silence, yet in those quiet mornings, we became something more—two souls stitched loosely by time and presence. Now the bench is empty. At first, I thought she might be late. It happens. But when the clock ticked past 7:30, I began to feel the first strange tug of absence. That was six weeks ago. Her name, as I later learned from the librarian, was Marianne. She was 68, lived alone in the brick cottage near the post office, and used to be a music teacher. The librarian said it like she was reading a grocery list—no emotion, just facts. I remember nodding like it made sense, but truthfully, it didn’t. How could someone so present just vanish like mist? I keep going to the lake every morning. I bring my coffee in a travel mug—nothing fancy—and I sit where she used to sit. The ducks still glide across the surface, and the sun still breaks through the same patch of pine trees at precisely 7:12. Nature doesn’t notice when someone is missing. People do. It’s funny how we don’t realize someone’s importance until they’re gone. Marianne never said much. Sometimes, she’d hum softly—snippets of old songs I didn’t recognize but always found comforting. Once, I asked her if she was a singer, and she smiled—not with her lips, but with her eyes—and said, “Not anymore, but the music never leaves you.” I wish I had asked more. Asked anything, really. The police said there was no sign of foul play. Just a woman who never came home one day. Her back door was unlocked. Her coat still hung by the hook. A slice of bread left in the toaster. People don’t just disappear—but somehow, she did. Some say she moved away. Others say she walked into the woods and never came out. I don’t believe either. I think she simply left. Not in a morbid way—just... moved on, like the tide does when no one’s watching. Maybe she got tired of waiting for someone to ask her name. The town didn’t hold a memorial. No candles, no vigil, no photographs taped to lampposts. Just a hushed ripple of gossip that faded as quickly as it came. I hate that. I hate that the world doesn’t pause for people like Marianne. But I do. I pause every morning, coffee in hand, and I remember. Last Tuesday, I found something tucked beneath the bench. A folded piece of sheet music, yellowed at the edges. No name on it, but the handwriting was delicate and careful—each note drawn with love. I took it to the librarian, who confirmed it was Marianne’s. “She used to compose little melodies,” she said. “Gave them away like bookmarks.” I’m not sure why, but I framed that music and hung it by my kitchen window. I don’t even read music, but sometimes when the wind moves through the house just right, I swear I can hear it—the faintest tune, like humming. Sometimes I wonder if she’s watching. Not in a ghostly way, but in the way someone hopes they’re remembered. I wonder if she knows someone noticed her absence. That someone misses her. Because I do. I miss her quiet presence. Her coffee. Her music. I miss the feeling of knowing someone would always be there, even if we never exchanged more than a few words. It’s strange to miss someone you barely knew. But then again, maybe that’s the purest kind of missing—uncomplicated by expectation, memory untainted by disappointment. Just a presence, gone. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the bench. I’ll bring two coffees—one in my mug, and one in a chipped white one I found at a thrift store. I’ll set it beside me and hum a melody I don't quite remember. Maybe she’ll hear it. Maybe she’s still listening.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
