Love
The Influence Code: Why The Most Powerful People Don’t Work Hard — They Work People
Imagine if success wasn’t about how hard you worked, how early you woke up, or how many books you read. What if the true game was happening in invisible rooms, whispered conversations, and backdoor deals? What if the world you see is just a stage — and real power belongs to those who know how to move people, not mountains?
By Umar Khattakabout a year ago in Fiction
The last message she never sent
The Last Message She Never Sent Maya stared at the blinking cursor on her phone screen, the words typed but never delivered: *"I still love you. I never stopped."* Her thumb hovered over the send button, but she couldn’t bring herself to press it. Instead, she locked her phone and placed it face-down on the coffee table. Rain tapped gently against the window, echoing the quiet storm in her chest.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the colors met
The town of Aurelia was a grayscale place. Not metaphorically—literally. Everything in Aurelia, from the cobblestones to the sky, existed in muted shades of gray. The trees had leaves, but they were ash-toned. The roses grew, but bloomed in smoky charcoal. Even the people's clothing and skin seemed touched by some strange filter, washed out and dim.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Fiction
One Rainy Tuesday
Rain painted soft rivers on the windows of the little corner cafe, blurring the world outside into a watercolor of gray and green. Inside, the scent of wet pavement mixed with freshly ground coffee and the faint floral trace of chamomile tea. Mira sat at her usual table by the window, a well-worn copy of a poetry collection open in front of her, though she hadn’t read a line in the last fifteen minutes.
By Sarwar Zebabout a year ago in Fiction
When Dreams Remember
Elira had always felt the quiet pull of something just out of reach. It began in dreams—glimpses of a place she had never seen. A field of golden grass beneath a violet sky. The haunting sound of a melody carried on the wind. A boy with storm-grey eyes who looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered. At first, they were fleeting. But soon, the dreams returned night after night, growing more vivid. The boy’s voice called her a name she didn’t recognize. And every morning, she woke with a deep ache in her chest, like mourning something she’d never had. When her grandmother passed away, Elira returned to the creaking old house where she'd spent her early childhood. The attic hadn’t changed. Dust lay thick on every surface, the air heavy with time. She didn’t know what she was looking for—only that the dreams had begun again the day her grandmother died. While digging through a trunk of faded letters and brittle photographs, her fingers brushed something cold. A silver locket, smooth and ornate, etched with unfamiliar symbols. She held it up to the dusty light, and as soon as it touched her skin, something pulsed inside her—like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. The attic vanished. She stood in the golden field. The sky rippled like silk, violet clouds drifting above. Wind tugged at her hair, whispering her forgotten name. And there, just ahead, stood the boy. Kaelen. “You’ve returned,” he said softly, his voice trembling like a secret too long held. “But… you don’t remember me.” “I don’t know you,” Elira whispered, but her voice betrayed her. Part of her did. His eyes—grey like storms—did not accuse. They only mourned. “You were mine. And I was yours. Before the world broke us apart.” Each night after that, Elira returned to the dream. And Kaelen waited. He never begged her to remember. Instead, he told her stories—of a world torn by war, of a people called the Valeans, and of a Keeper who had sealed away her memories to protect dangerous knowledge. “You were the Keeper,” he told her once. “You chose to forget… to save lives.” In the waking world, Elira sought answers. She brought the locket to the library, where she met Callen, a quiet archivist with a scholar’s eyes. “These symbols are Valean,” he said, brushing dust from a heavy tome. “A lost language. A lost people. Wiped out in the Cataclysm War over two hundred years ago.” “That’s impossible,” Elira said. “I’ve seen them. I’ve… been there.” Callen stared at her. “Sometimes the past doesn’t die. Sometimes it waits—carried in blood, in dreams.” They searched together, uncovering forgotten texts, crumbling maps, and whispers of the Valean Keeper who vanished with the knowledge to end the war. All signs pointed to one truth—Elira hadn’t imagined the dreams. She was remembering. One night, as the wind hummed in the field, Kaelen took her hand. “You asked me once who you were.” She nodded, heart pounding. “You were the Keeper of Truth. You held the secrets that could stop the war. But others tried to take them. So you hid them—even from yourself. You left me… to save everything.” Pain sliced through her. “I left you alone.” He shook his head, gently. “You saved us all. But the world is waking again. And this time, you don’t have to carry it alone.” Following a hidden map found in the ruins of an ancient temple, Elira and Callen traveled to a forgotten mountain. At its peak, half-buried in snow and stone, stood a sealed chamber, humming with ancient energy. The locket glowed in her hand. As she pressed it into the carved indentation in the door, stone groaned and shifted. Inside, murals lined the walls—images of Elira in her past life, standing beside Kaelen, leading others, protecting a silver-bound book. The pedestal stood in the center, humming with power. She touched the book. And memory returned. The war. The betrayal. The moment she chose to forget. The love she left behind. Kaelen’s voice begging her not to go. She turned to Callen, tears streaking her cheeks. “This knowledge… it could save us. Or it could destroy everything again.” Callen met her gaze. “That’s not a burden you should carry alone.” Her fingers tightened around the book. “Then I won’t. I remember now. And I won’t forget again.” Kaelen’s voice echoed within her, soft and sure: “You’re not alone.” Elira stepped out of the temple, silver book in hand, the wind lifting her hair like a banner. The Keeper had awakened. This time, she would fight. This time, she would remember. And this time, love would not be lost to time.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Once upon a time....
Once upon a time in a classroom almost like this one there sat a teddy bear on the windowsill. This teddy was owned by a little boy that was brought in for show and tell. He shared the teddy bear's name with the class for the bear helped him with his reading. The little boy liked to read to the bear. The little boy left the bear for use for another day and share with his friends. The little when passing the school that late afternoon he told the bear be good and sleep tight. See you tomorrow, Teddy Bear.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
Raindrops against the window
The old music box is still playing our little song, with a bit of wear on the gears. I still wind that thing up, especially every night at 8:13—the exact time you left me, darling. It is funny, the little stupid details the mind latches on to. Some will be helpful, as I am sure there is a time and place when I will want to remember everything about you.
By Muhammad Farhad Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
She is a moon
She Is a Moon They said she was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. A girl who never shouted, who rarely laughed too loud, who sat by windows as if the stars whispered to her. But no one asked why. No one wondered what storms brewed behind her stillness. They just called her distant — like the moon.
By FAIZAN AFRIDIabout a year ago in Fiction
"Fragments of Farewell"
A Death in the Family: Finding Life After Loss Chapter One: The Phone Call It was a rainy evening when Emily’s phone rang. She was sitting at the small dining table in her apartment, a cup of lukewarm tea in her hands, staring out at the blurred cityscape. The phone’s ring cut through the silence, and a sudden chill crept up her spine.
By Muhammad Azeemullahabout a year ago in Fiction
