Love
The Girl Who Dreamed and Loved Silently
She was a simple girl from the hills of Himachal, filled with dreams that touched the clouds—dreams of studying more, becoming something big, going places, and writing her own story. But life doesn’t always follow dreams. Her health became a hurdle, and the weight of financial problems pushed her dreams further away. When her grandmother passed away, the foundation of her life cracked. She felt lost, empty, broken, and fell into the darkness of depression. Still, she kept going. She completed her diploma in Computer Science and hoped to do B.Tech, knowing that graduation was important for her career. But life threw another challenge—her elder brother was already studying, and the family couldn’t manage both. So, she quietly dropped a year.
By Lost Some Whereabout a year ago in Fiction
My Mother’s Last Recipe
My Mother’s Last Recipe Written by Shah Zai Love isn’t always found in words—it can be folded into dough, stirred into sauce, and passed down through generations, one bite at a time. I never expected a recipe to make me cry. The day after my mother’s funeral, I found myself in her kitchen, holding a weathered wooden spoon and staring at a stack of old index cards. Her handwriting—neat, slanted, and unmistakably hers—stared back at me from the top card: > “Zehra’s Sunday Chicken Stew — For when the soul needs warmth.” The ink was smudged near the corner, perhaps from years of being handled with flour-dusted fingers. Or maybe from tears. I wouldn’t know—until then, I’d never dared cook it myself. My mother had been the sun around which our little family orbited. Her kitchen was her kingdom, and her love language was food. She never said “I’m proud of you,” but she always made sure your favorite dish was ready when you came home. She never said “I love you,” but she always packed your lunch with a secret sweet—just enough to remind you someone cared. When I moved away for university, I never learned to cook. “Too busy,” I used to say. “I’ll learn later.” But later kept getting pushed off until it was too late. And now, here I was—home again, motherless, and more lost than I’d ever been—holding her last recipe like it was some kind of sacred map back to her. The Ingredients of Memory I laid out the ingredients carefully, just like I remembered her doing. Chicken thighs, tomatoes, garlic, potatoes, turmeric, salt, pepper, and the one thing I always teased her about—a cinnamon stick. “Cinnamon?” I’d laugh. “Isn’t that for desserts?” “You’ll understand one day,” she’d say, with a smile that meant she wasn’t going to explain. The house was eerily quiet now, the silence pressing against my ears. I half-expected her voice to float in from the hallway: “Did you wash your hands? Don’t bruise the herbs!” But all I had were memories, each one rising with the scent of every chopped clove and seared onion. I browned the chicken in her old cast-iron pot, just like she taught me, letting it crisp at the edges. The sound—sizzling, popping—filled the emptiness of the room. And then came the tomatoes, softened into a deep red paste that smelled like home. Each stir of the spoon felt like a prayer. A Recipe Written in Love As the stew simmered, I sat at the kitchen table, flipping through more of her recipe cards. Each one was a snapshot of a moment. “Fatima’s Wedding Sweets.” “Rainy Day Lentils.” “Cure-for-Broken-Hearts Rice.” She had named dishes not just for taste, but for life’s occasions. For heartbreak. For joy. For ordinary Wednesdays when you needed something warm and soft to remind you that you were still okay. The door creaked open, and my younger brother Amir stepped in. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Is that… mom’s stew?” he asked. I nodded. He sat down silently, watching the steam curl into the ceiling. “She made it for me the day I flunked my final exam,” he said. “Didn’t say a word. Just put the bowl in front of me like it was medicine.” We didn’t talk for a while. We just sat in the stillness, letting the stew speak for her. The Last Bite When the stew was finally ready, I ladled it into the same chipped bowls we’d used growing up. Amir took one, and I took the other. The first bite was like stepping back in time—rich, tender, warm, and just the tiniest bit sweet. And then I understood. The cinnamon. It wasn’t just an ingredient. It was a signature. A whisper of something unexpected. Like my mother herself—soft where you least expected, bold when it mattered most. Tears rolled down my cheeks, not from grief this time, but from something deeper. Connection. Legacy. A reminder that even though she was gone, she’d left behind a language we could still speak.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day My Shadow Spoke Back
The Day My Shadow Spoke Back It began on a Tuesday, the kind of day that slips between calendar pages unnoticed, with overcast skies and coffee that tastes vaguely like memory. I had just finished rearranging my bookshelf — again — when I noticed something strange
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
My Dead Brother Sends Me Voicemails
The first voicemail came on the anniversary of his death. It was just after midnight. I was scrolling through old photos of us when my phone buzzed. The caller ID said “Unknown.” I let it go to voicemail. A minute later, a notification lit up:
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The House Where Time Sleeps. AI-Generated.
At the edge of Thorn hollow village, where the trees grew thick with silver moss and the wind never howled, stood an ancient manor, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. The villagers called it cursed. They said the clocks inside had never moved—not for over a hundred years. They whispered that if you listened too closely near its doorstep, you'd hear the ticking of memories instead of time.
By Adil Nawazabout a year ago in Fiction
A Look at Life. Top Story - July 2025.
Jesse's mom always knew he was odd. He was in fact, "different" from the other small children that gathered in the courtyard play area. That's why they shunned him. But it was strange to her that it never seemed to bother her little blond-headed boy. He was in a world of his own most of the time and probably hadn't noticed their mocking of him. They called him four eyes because of the thick glasses he wore with the head strap to keep them secure. But maybe he hadn't heard their nips because he wore hearing aids in both ears. Even Jesse's mother, Brittany thought he appeared more like a ninety-year old man than a a five year old.
By Shirley Belkabout a year ago in Fiction
Not Him. Not Now. . Runner-Up in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
This was meant to be the summer of progress. New systems, new structure, new home, new routine. A new rhythm to life for all of us. A proper house this time, one that came with more than one bedroom for the four of us, a solid roof, floorboards that didn't screech under pressure. It was supposed to be a summer of painting walls and building garden beds. We had planned to flourish this season.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
