Love
borrowed morning
Every morning, before the sun fully stretched across the rooftops, Aahil would wake up to the smell of chai and the soft hum of old Bollywood songs drifting from the kitchen. And every morning, he would find Meher standing barefoot on the balcony, cup in hand, staring at the horizon as if she were asking the sky for one more day.
By umais khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Snowbound Horizons
The snow began to fall just outside the town of Elmsworth, soft as whispers and cold as regret. Leo tightened the straps on his pack and pulled his scarf higher up his face, his breath forming small clouds that vanished into the pale blue air. He had been walking for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. Time moved differently when the world was white and quiet.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Names
The Library of Forgotten Names Written by Raza Iqbal The building had no sign. Tucked between a shuttered bakery and an abandoned tailor shop in a quiet corner of Bruges, the heavy oak door didn’t creak when opened—it sighed, like someone waking up from a long sleep. Emilia Laurent stood on the cobblestone threshold, a letter trembling in her hand. The letter had come without return address, sealed with wax bearing the insignia of an hourglass wrapped in ivy.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
One Last Ride: The Taxi Driver’s Secret
One Last Ride: The Taxi Driver’s Secret Written by Mirza Nobody knew his full name—everyone just called him “Baba Taxi.” For more than thirty years, Baba Taxi drove the streets of Lahore, weaving through its dust, chaos, and colors. His old yellow-and-black cab was a familiar sight—scratched, dented, but somehow proud. His back slightly hunched, white beard trimmed, and smile always kind, Baba was the silent companion of countless passengers. To the world, he was just another aging driver. But behind the wheel, Baba held a secret, one he never revealed in a word but lived in every journey he took. He wasn’t just driving people from point A to point B. He was looking for someone. Every evening before ending his shift, Baba would drive to the railway station and wait near the exit gate. For twenty years, he would sit silently, eyes scanning the faces as passengers disembarked. Some looked at him curiously, some asked for a ride, and many just passed by. But none were the face he was looking for. People joked that Baba was obsessed with the station. Some drivers whispered he was waiting for a lost love, others said he was senile. Baba never explained. Then, one rainy Thursday in July, everything changed. A young woman named Meher flagged down Baba's taxi near Liberty Market. Her eyes were red from crying. She clutched a backpack and held a folded letter in her hand. “Railway Station,” she said quietly. Baba glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Something in her expression—something broken yet familiar—caught his attention. The silence in the cab was heavy, except for the hum of the engine and occasional splashes from puddles. Baba didn't ask questions. He never did. But as they neared the station, she broke the silence. “My mother used to tell me a story,” Meher said suddenly, voice cracking. “About a taxi driver who used to take her to college every day. She said he never charged her a rupee. Just asked her to promise him something.” Baba's hands stiffened slightly on the steering wheel. “She said he made her promise that one day, when she had a daughter, she'd tell her about him. About his kindness. About how he saved her life one night when she almost ran away from home after a fight with her parents.” The girl smiled faintly through tears. “She never told me his name. Just called him ‘Baba Taxi.’” The car stopped. Meher opened the letter and held it toward him. “She passed away last month. Cancer. But she left this... for you.” Baba’s fingers trembled as he took the letter. Dear Baba Taxi, If Meher finds you, it means she listened. I never forgot that ride. You talked me out of leaving home that night. You said I would regret losing my family, and you were right. Because of you, I went home and reconciled with my parents. Because of you, I stayed. I married, I raised my daughter, and I lived a full life. If you're reading this, please take care of her. Like you did with me. Just this once. She’s lost right now. She needs you. With all my heart, Zoya. Baba’s eyes glistened. It had been her. For all these years, he'd returned to that station, hoping. Not to find her again, but to return a photo he’d found under the backseat the night she almost ran away. A photo of her and her parents. He kept it, in case one day, someone came looking. Baba reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small, creased photo. Meher gasped. “That’s... my nani and nana,” she whispered. He handed it to her with the gentleness of a grandfather. For a few moments, silence wrapped the cab like a blanket. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle. “You’ll stay with me tonight,” Baba said quietly. Meher nodded. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe. Epilogue Meher did stay. She spent a few nights at Baba’s small home. He cooked daal and parathas, told her old tales of Lahore, of love lost and found, of how every rider in his taxi left a story behind. She shared stories of her mother, listened to songs from Baba’s dusty cassette tapes, and slowly, something inside her began to heal. A few weeks later, Meher left for Islamabad, where she had been accepted into an arts program. But she promised to call every week—and she did. Baba didn’t wait at the railway station after that night. He didn’t need to anymore. He had finally completed the ride he’d waited a lifetime for.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
Finnick and Annie
Annie never liked the ocean, not really. It wasn’t fear—it was memory. Saltwater reminded her of too many things: promises made on sun-drenched docks, broken bottles tossed into tidepools, and the echo of a boy's laughter fading into the waves.
By USAMA KHANabout a year ago in Fiction
The Beauty of Dance
There are few things in life that can express emotion the way dance can. Where words fall short, the body speaks. Where silence lingers, movement rises. Dance is not merely performance; it is a conversation between the soul and the world. It tells stories, celebrates cultures, and heals wounds that are too deep for speech.
By Hanif Ullah about a year ago in Fiction
The Birthday Gift She Left for Every Year After Her Death
The Birthday Gift She Left for Every Year After Her Death Written by Mirza Written by Mirza My mother passed away on a cold Tuesday morning in November—two days before my 17th birthday. She was 48. It was breast cancer. She fought like hell. And then one day, the fight was over. Grief didn’t hit me all at once. It came in slow, painful waves. At first, I felt like I was walking through a fog, and then came the crashing silence in the kitchen, the empty seat at the table, the sound of my dad crying behind closed doors. But what I didn’t know was that my mother had left something behind—something that would reach across years of silence and fill my birthdays with a love I thought I’d lost forever. The First Birthday I didn't want a cake. I didn’t want to celebrate. But my father came into my room on my birthday morning holding a small, white envelope. His eyes were red, but he smiled the kind of smile you give when you’re trying not to cry. “This was left for you,” he said, and handed me the envelope. In my mother’s handwriting, it said: "For Maddie. Birthday #17." Inside was a letter. Not a long one, but long enough to shatter the wall I’d built around my heart. It was written months before she died. > "Happy 17th, sweetheart. I wish I could see your face today. I know you're hurting, and I know the world feels unfair right now. But I want you to know that even though I won’t be with you physically, I’m with you in every moment. I’m so proud of you. Go do something kind for yourself today—eat your favorite cake. I love you, forever. —Mom" I sobbed. My dad sat beside me, holding my hand like I was five again. That letter brought her back for a moment, and for the first time since she died, I smiled through my tears. A Tradition Beyond the Grave Every year after that, another letter came. On my 18th birthday: > "Happy 18th, my grown-up girl. You’ll make mistakes. It’s okay. Be gentle with yourself." On my 19th birthday: > "I hope college is treating you well. Or whatever you're doing. I’m proud, no matter what path you choose." On my 21st birthday: > "Don’t drink too much! But have fun. Today is about joy, and you deserve all of it." Each letter came with a small gift: a necklace I’d seen in her drawer when I was younger, a favorite scarf she used to wear, a photo of us at the beach with a note that simply read, “My sunshine.” I later learned she’d spent months writing and packaging these gifts with my aunt. There were 30 letters in total. Thirty years of love, sealed in envelopes and stored in a cedar box in my aunt’s attic, ready to be handed over one by one. The Letter That Changed Everything When I turned 25, life was a mess. I’d just gone through a painful breakup. I’d lost my job. I was living back home with my dad, feeling like a failure. That birthday morning, I didn’t want a letter. I didn’t feel like reading anything from a mother who had never seen me as the adult mess I’d become. But I opened it anyway. > “Maddie, I know this year may be hard. I have no idea what you’ll be facing when you read this. But I want to tell you something I wish someone had told me when I was your age: You are allowed to fall apart. You are allowed to not have it all figured out. The world won’t always be kind, but you must be kind to yourself. That is how you survive the storm. You’re stronger than you think. And if today you don’t believe that—believe in me, believing in you.” I cried so hard, I forgot what I was upset about. She didn’t even know what I was going through, but somehow, she did. It felt like she was still guiding me, still reminding me how to stand when all I wanted to do was fall. A Gift That Keeps Giving On my 30th birthday, I found a second note tucked inside the usual envelope. > “If you’re reading this, and if you’ve found happiness—then this is the year I want you to pay it forward. Give someone else a reason to smile on their birthday. A letter. A hug. A cupcake. Anything. And tell them, it’s from someone who knows birthdays can be hard sometimes.” That year, I baked cupcakes and brought them to a local shelter. I slipped little notes into each one: > “You are loved. You matter. Someone is thinking of you today.” It changed something inside me. Her gift was no longer just for me. It was alive in others, too. The Final Letter (But Not Really) On my 31st birthday, the letter felt heavier. The handwriting looked shakier. > “Maddie, This is the last one I wrote. I don’t know where life has taken you, but I hope it’s beautiful. I hope you’re still laughing at things that don’t matter and crying over things that do. I hope you’ve found love—not just romantic, but the kind you find in friendships and quiet mornings and books you don’t want to end. I hope you’ve become the woman you were always meant to be. And if you ever forget who you are— Just close your eyes. And remember this: You were loved so fiercely, by someone who would have carved thirty more letters if she had the time. Happy Birthday, my heart. I’ll always be with you.” I didn’t feel sadness that day. I felt full. I felt seen. The Legacy Now, I write letters too. To my own daughter. She’s five. She loves coloring and asking big questions about the moon and why cats don’t talk. I don’t know how long I’ll be around. None of us do. But I know one thing for sure— Love doesn’t end with the body. It lingers in ink, in paper, in little acts of kindness passed from one hand to the next. And somewhere, in a quiet cedar box at the back of my closet, there are envelopes. Sealed. Stamped. Waiting.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Still Sky. AI-Generated.
The sky above Elowen was beautiful—perfect, in fact. A sheet of endless blue, motionless for as long as anyone could remember. The villagers called it The Stillness, a gift from the gods, or perhaps the price of peace. But for Aris Vale, it felt like a lie. He stared up at it now, lying on the grass behind the school’s weather-beaten fence, his telescope beside him, untouched. “Still not blinking,” he muttered. “Still not moving. Just... still.”
By Adil Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
He Carved Her Name Into the Tree Every Year
He Carved Her Name Into the Tree Every Year Written by Mirza Each autumn, when the leaves began toHe Carved Her Name Into the Tree Every fall like fireflakes from the sky, an old man with a slow gait and gentle eyes would walk the narrow path beside Silverlake. He always carried the same worn satchel, a blanket tucked inside, and a rusted pocketknife older than many of the trees lining the path. He walked past the crooked wooden sign reading Lakeview Trail, past the bench where young lovers often sat and whispered dreams, and toward a tall sycamore tree by the water’s edge. Its bark bore many stories — initials, hearts, dates — but his was always the deepest, the most carefully etched. He reached the tree and paused. His hand, trembling from age, brushed across the bark where one name stood out from all the others: “ELENA.” Every year, he came back to this tree. And every year, he carved her name a little deeper. The First Carving It was 1975. He was 19, and she was 17 — a firecracker in a denim skirt with paint on her cheeks and wild dreams in her eyes. They met at a community picnic, and she’d laughed at his serious face as he tried to explain the difference between oaks and sycamores. That same evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, she’d dragged him by the hand to the lake and said: “Let’s carve our names into that tree. That way, even if we forget, it won’t.” He’d hesitated — trees were living things, and cutting into them felt like vandalizing something pure. But she looked at him with those eyes, and he caved. J + E — a simple carving, surrounded by a heart. She smiled and kissed him, her lips tasting like lemonade and certainty. The Middle Years Life, as it does, grew complicated. They got married two years later, moved into a cramped apartment, and eventually found their way into a modest house with peeling paint and a yard full of weeds they never had time to pull. He became a school teacher. She became an artist, though most of her work never left the garage. But they always had Silverlake. Each anniversary, they’d walk the trail, find the tree, and carve the date below their initials. The bark grew thick over the years, but somehow their markings endured. When she had their daughter, Lily, they brought her to the tree and told her, “This is where we started.” The Last Year Together She started forgetting little things — the names of her paints, the route home, even their anniversary. At first, they joked about it. “My brain’s just full of color,” she’d laugh. But then it got worse. Diagnosis: early-onset Alzheimer’s. The years that followed were cruel. Some days she didn’t recognize their daughter. Some days she mistook him for her father. Some days she stood at the sink crying, unsure of why. But one thing remained: the tree. Even when words failed her, she’d look at the carving and whisper, “That’s me.” Their last visit to Silverlake was in the fall of 2010. She clutched his hand tightly and asked, “Will you keep coming here? Even when I’m gone?” He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Every year. I promise.” She died two months later. The Promise He Kept Since then, he returned every autumn. Alone. He brought a chair now, since standing long became difficult. He’d sit for hours, just staring across the lake, watching the wind stir the water like she used to stir her tea — slowly, with intention. Each year, he’d carve her name again. Not adding anything. Just tracing over the old letters, as if keeping them fresh would somehow keep her memory alive. E-L-E-N-A. Birds nested above. Children played nearby. Young couples passed, not noticing the quiet man who sat with a blade and a heart full of grief. Sometimes, he’d bring their daughter. Sometimes, she brought his grandchildren. They never carved anything. They said the tree belonged to him and her. One Autumn Morning He didn’t come. For the first time in 15 years, the trail remained untouched by his footsteps. The tree stood alone, the bark slowly reclaiming its scars. A week passed. Then two. Locals noticed. Someone left flowers beneath the tree. A note: “We miss you.” Eventually, his daughter returned with her two children. She carried a photo — of her parents sitting beside the sycamore, arms wrapped around each other, the lake behind them glowing like liquid gold. She didn’t cry. She smiled and whispered, “Thank you, Papa. You kept your promise.” That year, she brought a small chisel instead of a knife. And just below the name ELENA, she carved one more word: JAMES. Side by side. Forever. Now the Tree Knows Their Story Years pass. The tree grows. Tourists walk the trail, pointing at the carvings. Some smile. Some wonder. Some take photos. But if you ask the locals, they’ll tell you: “That’s the Love Tree.” “A man came here every year, just for her.” “He never stopped loving her, even after the goodbye.” And if you sit long enough by the lake, on a crisp autumn day, you might just hear the wind whisper her name. Elena. And his. James. Still together. Still growing.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
