Love
The First Teacher of Every Child"
"The First Teacher" In a quiet village nestled between the hills, lived a young boy named Sami. He was curious, playful, and full of questions about the world. But his world began and ended with one person—his mother, Amina.
By syed waqar ahmedabout a year ago in Fiction
After the Departed
It was raining softly. The cemetery was silent except for the faint sound of footsteps. A lone man walked slowly between the graves, a white rose in one hand and an old letter in the other. This was Zaid — the same Zaid who had once been loved beyond imagination by Saba. He reached a familiar grave and sat beside it like he was meeting an old friend. "Where did the story end? You still have to declare me deceased." These were the last words Saba had said to him in their final meeting. Saba was a tender-hearted girl, full of warmth and sincerity. She entered Zaid’s life like spring — filling every corner with color and light. For a while, it seemed like nothing could go wrong. Their bond was pure, silent, and deep like an ocean. But fate has its own plans. Saba was diagnosed with cancer. Zaid fought. He prayed, begged, spent nights without sleep at the hospital, holding on to hope. He tried everything to pull Saba away from death’s grip, but some journeys cannot be delayed, only made gentler. Saba, even in pain, never let go of her grace. She wrote letters, each filled with the fragrance of love and the weight of farewell. One such letter read: "Zaid, if I am no longer here, don’t let my memories die. My name, my words, my laughter — let them live with you. They are yours to keep." The last day of her life was the darkest day in Zaid's. She lay in the hospital bed, weak and pale. When he held her hand, she opened her eyes slowly, smiled faintly, and whispered, "Where did the story end, Zaid? You still have to declare me deceased." Tears welled up in his eyes, but before he could speak, she gently closed her eyes — forever. Zaid never forgot her words. He kept every letter, every picture, and every moment safe — locked in memory and in heart. A year after her death, he built a small library in her name. It was filled with her writings, his memories, and their story. People came, read, cried, smiled, and learned what love truly means. Every year, on her death anniversary, Zaid would return to her grave with a white rose. He would sit quietly, sometimes talking to her, sometimes just watching the sky. "Where did the story end, Saba? You live in every memory." he would whisper. Years passed. Time aged him, but his love remained untouched. He never married, never let anyone else fill Saba’s place. In his heart, she was still present — not as a wound, but as a presence, as a truth that never faded. Fifty years later, Zaid too left this world. When they found him, he was lying peacefully in bed, holding one of Saba’s letters close to his chest. A smile lingered on his face. The letter had a note written by him: "Now the story is complete, Saba. Now you may declare me deceased." --- Summary: This is not just a tale of loss — it’s a testament to eternal love. Some stories do not end with death. Some continue to live on, through letters, through memories, through silence. Zaid and Saba’s love reminds us that when love is true, it doesn’t need to be loud — it simply never dies.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
A Mother’s Final Wish
In the race of life, we often forget the very hands that held us when we couldn’t stand, the hearts that beat for us before we even understood the world. This is a story of one such mother, whose silent sacrifices were only realized when her son heard her final wish. Shafiq was a well-educated and successful young man working in a top firm in the city. After the death of his father, his elderly mother was left alone. For a while, he tried to care for her, but soon, life got in the way. Work responsibilities increased, his own family demanded time, and slowly, he began to feel that looking after his aging mother was too much of a burden. Then came the decision. “There’s a reputable old-age home in the city,” he told himself, “They have trained nurses, proper care, medical support—she’ll be better off there.” And just like that, his mother was taken to the old-age home. In the beginning, Shafiq would visit her often. Weekly calls, occasional visits, sending fruits and medicines—it all looked good from the outside. But time, as always, wore things down. The visits became monthly, then rare. The calls turned into short check-ins, and soon, even those stopped unless there was a reminder from the old-age home. His mother, however, never complained. She never expressed hurt. Her silence, however, held stories of loneliness and longing. One day, Shafiq received a call from the old-age home. “Mr. Shafiq, please come immediately. Your mother is critically ill. It may be her last moments.” The phone nearly dropped from his hands. A wave of guilt, panic, and sorrow swept over him. Images from the past began flashing before his eyes—the nights she stayed awake when he was sick, the mornings she packed his lunchbox, the sacrifices she made silently. He rushed to the old-age home. There she was—frail, weak, but peaceful. Her body had shrunk, but her eyes still held the same warmth. He took her hand in his and said softly, “Ammi... is there anything you need? Should I bring you something?” She looked at him with calm eyes, then replied in a tired, slow voice: “Beta, please place a cooler here in this room... it gets very hot, and the people living here suffer a lot. Also, have the broken windows fixed, so that the cold doesn’t trouble them during winters. Plant a few trees in the yard... people can sit under their shade and feel a little comfort. Keep good food in the fridge... there were so many nights I slept hungry.” Shafiq was stunned. “You’re about to leave this world, and you're worried about all this? Why didn’t you ever complain to me before?” Her lips curved into a faint smile. Her eyes sparkled for a moment as she said: “My son, I have learned to live without comfort—heat, cold, hunger... they don’t bother me anymore. But I fear the day when your children might bring you here in your old age. I don’t want you to suffer. I raised you with all the love and care I had, and I pray that when you're old, you are treated better than I was.” Shafiq’s eyes filled with tears. His mother—who had every right to complain—chose compassion. She asked for no apology, gave no blame. Instead, she left him with a lesson—a truth that shook his soul. She passed away that night. But something inside Shafiq changed forever. In her memory, he transformed the old-age home. He installed new coolers, had the windows repaired, planted trees in the garden, and ensured the fridge was always filled with nutritious food. He also funded a program for elderly care at the home. No elder would sleep hungry, sit in heat, or suffer in cold again—not under his watch. And whenever someone asked, “Why are you doing all this?” he would simply say: “For a mother… who, even in her last breath, thought of others’ comfort before her own.”
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
The Touch of Lips
The evening had been polished by the falling rain, casting a soft glow over the city. The café, which Irfan passed by daily, was unusually crowded today. Sitting in a corner near the door, he watched the steam rise from his coffee cup. Every sip carried a memory—one that had stolen the fragrance from his life. This story goes back to his university days. A poetry evening had been held, where eyes that understood his verses had first shown him the meaning of life. That girl, Zara, clapped gently, smiling at each of his lines. That one look they shared settled deep in his heart. They grew closer—poetry, tea, and dreams binding them together. One day, in a quiet moment, Zara asked him, "Have you ever thought... what if all this ends?" Irfan had smiled, “Then we will live on in poetry.” Perhaps Zara had already sensed the storm. Months later, she disappeared—no message, no explanation. Irfan searched the city like a madman, but Zara had vanished like the last line of an unfinished poem. Time passed. Irfan became a celebrated poet, but the emptiness remained. Every poem, every verse still carried the scent of Zara. He often questioned if her touch had just been a dream—but then he would remember that single kiss, when her lips met his—one fleeting moment that held the warmth of centuries. > "Once her lips had met with mine, All my life, I ran my tongue across them in search of her." That verse had become the truth of his soul. Then one day, fate seemed to show mercy. The same café. The same table. And Zara—like she had never left. Nothing had changed, except the eyes, which now held years of untold stories. "Why didn’t you come back?" Irfan asked. Zara took a deep breath. "I was diagnosed with cancer, Irfan. I couldn’t bear to pull you into a battle between life and death." "You took away my right to be by your side, Zara. You were the only truth in my life." Tears welled up in Zara’s eyes. "Your memories were my medicine. I read your poems every day, listened to your voice. You were never really far away." Irfan fell silent. The wounds were old, but the balm was new. Time had given him pain, but perhaps it was time to offer healing too. Zara gently took Irfan’s hand. "If my touch still lives on your lips, maybe we can live again." Irfan nodded. Pain, love, and reunion—all sealed in a single touch. --- Epilogue: Sometimes, one moment lays the foundation for an entire lifetime. The love story of Irfan and Zara was born of such a moment—a kiss that quenched a thirst of years and left behind a language on the lips that only hearts could understand.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
I Have 90 billion Licking Gold
• Introduction In the ever-expanding universe of manga, new stories emerge that captivate readers with unique premises, engaging characters, and imaginative worlds. One such title that has been gaining notable attention is *I Have 90 billion Licking Gold*. While this manga might not yet be on everyone's radar, it offers a refreshing blend of fantasy, adventure, and character-driven storytelling that deserves more exploration. We will examine the plot, characters, and thematic elements of "I Have 90 billion Licking Gold" as well as its growing influence on the manga community in this article. ---
By Akib Akhterabout a year ago in Fiction
