Love
Wild Love at Christmas Eve. AI-Generated.
Snow had started falling just before sunset, turning the small town into a quiet dream. Christmas lights blinked softly along empty streets, and the air carried the scent of pine and distant fireplaces. For most people, Christmas Eve meant family, laughter, and warmth. For Evelyn, it meant escape. She stood outside the old train station with a single suitcase, her breath fogging the cold air. She hadn’t planned to come here. In fact, she hadn’t planned anything at all. Life had collapsed too suddenly—an ended engagement, words that could not be taken back, promises that turned hollow overnight. She only knew one thing: she needed to disappear, even if just for a night. side the small café across the street, Noah wiped down the counter, glancing at the clock. He was closing early, like every Christmas Eve. There was no one waiting for him at home, no celebration planned. Just memories and silence. He had learned long ago not to expect miracles. As he turned off the lights, he noticed her through the frosted window—standing alone, snow collecting in her hair, eyes fixed on nothing. Something about her stillness pulled at him. Against his better judgment, he grabbed his coat and stepped outside. “Are you okay?” he asked gently. She turned, startled, then nodded too quickly. “Yes. I’m fine.” It was the kind of lie people told when they didn’t want to explain their pain. “The trains aren’t running tonight,” Noah said. “Snowstorm.” Her face fell for just a second before she masked it again. “Figures.” He hesitated, then gestured toward the café. “I’ve got hot coffee. And a fireplace. You don’t have to be alone out here.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, Evelyn followed him. ey sat across from each other in silence at first, hands wrapped around warm mugs. Outside, the snow thickened, the world slowing down as if giving them permission to breathe. “My name’s Noah,” he said. “Evelyn.” Another pause. “I wasn’t supposed to be here,” she admitted quietly. “Neither was I,” he replied with a small smile. Something softened between them. ey talked the way strangers do when they know they’ll never meet again—honest, unguarded. Evelyn spoke of dreams she had given up on, of loving someone who chose certainty over love. Noah spoke of loss, of a life that didn’t turn out the way he’d imagined, of learning to live with quiet. “You don’t seem broken,” she said at one point. He laughed softly. “We hide it well.” Outside, church bells rang faintly, announcing midnight. “It’s Christmas,” Evelyn whispered. “Doesn’t feel like it,” Noah replied. She looked at him then—really looked at him—and saw something wild and gentle in his eyes. Not chaos, but freedom. The kind of freedom that comes from surviving. e power flickered once, then went out. The café fell into darkness, except for the glow of the fireplace. Evelyn laughed, surprised by the sound of her own joy. “Of course.” Noah stood and added wood to the fire. “Looks like we’re stuck.” She didn’t mind. They sat closer now, sharing warmth, listening to the fire crackle. Time felt suspended, like the world had shrunk just for them. “Do you believe in Christmas miracles?” she asked. He thought for a moment. “I believe in moments. And sometimes… moments are enough.” Their eyes met. The space between them felt charged, alive. Slowly, carefully, he reached for her hand—not demanding, not rushing. She let him. The kiss that followed was gentle, hesitant, filled with everything they hadn’t said. It wasn’t about desire alone. It was about comfort. About finding someone in the dark and realizing you weren’t alone anymore. rning came quietly. The snow had stopped. Sunlight streamed through the windows. Evelyn stood by the door, suitcase beside her once more. “I should go,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. Noah nodded, though his chest tightened. “Yeah.” They stood there, neither moving. “Last night,” she said softly, “reminded me that I can still feel. That matters.” He smiled. “It does.” She hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Noah.” “Merry Christmas, Evelyn.” She walked out into the light. eeks later, Noah found a postcard slipped under the café door. I didn’t disappear this time. I stayed. I started over. Thank you for the wild love of one perfect night. —E. He smiled, folding it carefully. Outside, snow began to fall again. Some loves aren’t meant to last forever. Some are meant to save you. eflection Wild love doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers—on a quiet Christmas Eve—just loud enough to heal two hearts.
By Zahid Hussain9 months ago in Fiction
The Taj Mahal
The Taj Mahal I did not expect it to feel so quiet. Not silent, just calm in a way that made my chest slow down without asking. The Taj Mahal stood there as if it had been waiting, not for crowds or cameras, but for someone willing to look beyond the shine. White marble catching the light, not showing off, simply being present. I realised then this place was not built to impress the world. It was built to hold a feeling that refused to disappear.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 9 months ago in Fiction
Wild Love at Christmas Eve. Top Story - December 2025.
If we grow old together, help me to remember the catch in my voice when I faced this old world anew one Christmas Eve ... Aflock in the town's tavern, my head a mix of love and merry. Downing my glass of Moscato, my head spinning with claustrophobia, I ripped away from the endless whir of clutches and kisses. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I found relief in the welcome outside air.
By Susan L. Marshall9 months ago in Fiction
Riptide; Chapter 4
Raven stops beside me on the deck. "Cannons at the ready, Captain." I nod, watching the ensign as they finish reknotting the remaining rigging of the mainmast. If this idea worked, we just might be able to get the fixed sail up. "Are they loaded?"
By Katarzyna Crevan9 months ago in Fiction
The Gospel of Gumption
The assignment from her editor was a footnote, a punishment for having annoyed a major advertiser. “Go to Gumption, Vermont,” the email read. “Cover their ‘Fall Furnival.’ Yes, with a ‘U.’ File 500 words on the quirky local color. Try not to poison the well.”
By Habibullah9 months ago in Fiction
The Last Café Before Midnight. AI-Generated.
The Last Café Before Midnight Rain didn’t usually scare anyone in the city. But that night, it seemed heavier—like the sky was trying to wash away something it couldn’t name. The streetlights blurred into long yellow streaks, and the wind carried the smell of wet asphalt and loneliness.
By shakir hamid9 months ago in Fiction
The Threshold of Then
Elara found the door on a day when her present felt particularly thin. The maple tree at the edge of her property was ancient, its bark a geography of ridges and valleys. Today, in the low, slanting light of October, she saw the lines she’d always taken for natural cracks had formed a perfect rectangle. And within that rectangle, someone had long ago painted a simple, weathered green door, complete with a tiny brass knob that was just flecks of ochre paint.
By Habibullah9 months ago in Fiction
The Lonely Grave of Tala
On the vast and ancient soil of Iraq, along a quiet stretch of desert highway between Dhi Qar and Basra, lies a small, solitary grave. There is no marble, no ornament, no towering gravestone. Just a humble mound of earth with a simple name etched upon it: Tala. No surname. No dates. No phrases carved to explain who she was. Just Tala — a name that still trembles with memory despite the decades that have passed. Tala was a young woman from Poland, soft-hearted, gentle-spirited, and deeply believing in the kind of love that ordinary people only dream about. The kind of love that writes letters in long winter nights. The kind that waits patiently on station platforms. The kind that turns separation into devotion instead of distance. Her beloved — also Polish — had come to Iraq years earlier, in 1972. He worked for a Polish company called Dromex, assigned to build a high-speed road stretching from Dhi Qar to the port city of Basra. It was grueling work in a harsh climate, with the desert heat fierce enough to dry one’s breath, but he stayed, for it was a good contract and a secure job. And while he stayed, Tala waited. She lived in Poland, far from the roaring Iraqi sun, writing him letters filled with warmth. Every envelope carried a little love, a little prayer, and the quiet ache of her longing. Some letters spoke of daily life. Some spoke of the way she counted the days until his return. And some spoke only of her heart — simple, soft, sincere. Toward the end of the year, near the days of Mawlid celebrations, Tala wrote him a message that stood out from all others. In that letter, she said: “This time, you will receive a special gift.” But she never told him what that gift would be. He waited, curious and excited, not knowing that her words held a secret that would alter both of their destinies forever. Then the new year arrived — 1981. A year that would carry both the light of hope and the shadow of tragedy. And that gift she had spoken of? It was Tala herself. She had secretly packed her bags, arranged her travel, and boarded a long journey from Poland to Iraq — crossing borders, seas, and skies, carrying only one burning wish in her heart: to stand suddenly before him and watch surprise bloom in his eyes. She imagined his shock, his laughter, the way he would run to her, perhaps even lift her into a grateful embrace. She imagined them walking together on the desert road he always described in his letters. She imagined touching the place where he worked, seeing the sunsets he often wrote about. She imagined beginning a new chapter with him. But fate — harsh, silent, and merciless — intervened. Somewhere between Dhi Qar and the place where he labored each day, Tala’s journey ended abruptly. The vehicle she traveled in met with a severe accident. The desert does not spare easily; one moment the sand is still, and the next, lives are overturned. Tala’s heartbeat stopped on that very road — the same road she was traveling to reach him. Her footsteps never reached the man she loved. Her breath was taken away before she could even call his name. When the news reached him, it shattered him. The desert sun had never felt so cruel, the air never so heavy. He rushed to where she lay, unable to comprehend how the woman who crossed continents for love now lay silent on the sands. He refused to let them take her far away. He said: “Bury her here. In this soil. Near this road where I pass every day. Let her remain close to me. Let me walk by her side, even if she sleeps beneath the earth.” And so, Tala was buried in the soil of Dhi Qar — not in a foreign place, but in the closest place possible to the heart of the man she loved. A small grave was made beside the very road she had been traveling on to reach him. The desert winds embraced her. And the earth of Iraq became her final home. Years rolled forward like the wheels of desert caravans. The work finished. The Polish engineers returned to their homeland. The Dromex offices closed. Life moved on as life always does — without mercy, without pause. Her beloved, too, eventually returned to Poland. But Tala’s grave stayed. No one moved it. No one erased it. No one claimed it. It remained exactly where it had been placed — a silent witness to a love story that ended before it could begin. Today, along the road between Dhi Qar and Basra, travelers sometimes notice a small mound of earth on the roadside. Many do not know the story. Some merely glance at it, assuming it is an old, forgotten grave. But some — those who stop their cars, those who sense the strange pull of quiet history — walk toward it. They read the single name. Tala. They feel something move within them. Some place a flower. Some sprinkle water, a gesture of respect in this land of scorching winds. Some whisper a brief prayer. Some simply stare, imagining the fragile thread of destiny that pulled a girl from Poland across continents, only to leave her here — eternally resting beneath the Iraqi sky. Her grave is not just a mound of earth. It is a story stitched together with letters, longing, and unanswered hopes. It is a story of a young woman who believed so deeply in love that she crossed the world for it. It is a story of a journey interrupted by fate, of a meeting that never happened, of a reunion promised but denied. It is a reminder that love can be powerful enough to lead someone across nations — and fragile enough to be lost in a single moment. Tala came to Iraq as a gift. But destiny demanded something else. Her final breath was given to the road that was meant to bring her to her beloved. And so she remains — not forgotten, not erased — but woven forever into the deserts of Iraq. A quiet symbol of love that never had the chance to bloom. A love that reached the grave before it reached the embrace. Tala’s grave is not just a grave. It is a love story… buried before it ever found its ending.
By Ikram Ullah10 months ago in Fiction
