Mystery
Death is a mystery (Episode 3)
DEATH IS A MYSTERYđ... BUT IT OFTEN SEND SIGNS BEFORE IT COMES đ (Episode 3) UJUALA village was no longer the same after the death of the old man. People walked more slowly. They greeted more gently. Even the children stopped chasing each other around the village square. The weight of mortality hung like mist on everyoneâs shoulders.
By Haya princessabout a year ago in Fiction
WHERE ROOTS REMEMBER YOUR NAME
The Premise: In a coastal town where gardens grow memories, 34-year-old floral genealogist Aris Thorne can touch plants and see their ownersâ hidden traumas. Her gift thrives in the greenhouse of Saltwick Houseâa crumbling estate where flowers bloom from buried secrets. When widower Silas Vale hires her to revive his wifeâs poison garden, Aris uncovers a root system preserving his late wifeâs final words: âHe didnât mean to kill me.â
By Hamayoun Tareen about a year ago in Fiction
The Rise of Perfect Partners
Introduction: A New Age of Companionship As artificial intelligence continues to revolutionize the world, its impact is no longer confined to offices, data centers, or automation industries. One of the most fascinatingâand controversialâdevelopments is the emergence of AI-powered humanoid companions, particularly AI robot women. These intelligent machines are not just about performing tasks; theyâre stepping into roles traditionally reserved for human relationships.
By Ahmad shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Fell in Love with Silence
The world knew Elena Greyâs voice. It was velvet and fire, filling stadiums, breaking hearts, topping charts. Her songs were love letters to millions. Until one day, her voice vanished. A rare condition stole itâsilence swallowed her whole. No farewell tour. No final note. Just gone.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Voice Memos I Never Sent
The first voice memo was for Michael. I remember recording it one evening while walking home. The sky had turned a soft indigo, and Iâd just passed the coffee shop where we first met â not by fate, but because you knocked over my laptop with your messenger bag. You apologized, bought me a coffee, and the next thing I knew, we were building a life.
By âđŠđ âđŠđ đžđđ«about a year ago in Fiction
The Taxi Only Comes at Midnight
I first noticed it two weeks after moving into Apartment 7B. Every night at exactly 12:00 a.m., a black taxi pulls up to the curb outside my building. Its headlights cut through the mist like twin blades. The engine hums low, steady, as if itâs been waiting for centuries to be heard. Then it just... waits. I assumed it was someoneâs late-night ride at first. Maybe a neighbor working a graveyard shift. But no one ever comes out to greet it. No driver steps out. No door opens. And at exactly 12:10 a.m., it drives away, vanishing into the empty street like smoke. It happened again. And again. Always the same. So last night, I did something I wasnât sure I had the nerve for. I got in. --- It was cold inside the taxi. Colder than it shouldâve been. The kind of cold that creeps beneath your skin and makes your bones remember sadness. The driver didnât speak. I couldnât even see his face, just the faint outline of a cap and gloved hands on the wheel. A quiet, vintage jazz tune played on the radio â something from another era, soft and warped like an old memory. I cleared my throat. âWhere are we going?â He didnât answer. The city outside the windows looked⊠off. Familiar buildings in the wrong places. Streetlights blinking in patterns that didnât feel random. The people we passedâif they were peopleâmoved like they were stuck between frames of film, stuttering through time. I pressed my hand against the window, and it felt like glass and something else â something humming and alive. After what felt like hours but couldâve been minutes, the taxi stopped. --- We were in front of a small diner with no name, glowing faintly under a flickering neon sign that just said: OPEN. I stepped out. The door creaked behind me as I entered. The air inside was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and pie and something softer â like nostalgia. There were people in the booths, talking in hushed tones, none of them making eye contact. The waitress behind the counter looked up and smiled like sheâd been expecting me. âYouâre late,â she said. âI wasnât told where I was going.â âDoesnât mean you didnât need to be here.â She poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I took a sip. It was perfect. Not just goodâperfect. Like every warm drink youâve ever needed during your coldest hour. Then a voice behind me whispered my name. I turned. It was my mother. But she had died five years ago. She looked the same. Younger, maybe. Healthier. Her eyes held no pain. âHi, sweetheart,â she said, reaching out like weâd just seen each other yesterday. I couldnât speak. âI only have a few minutes,â she said. âThe taxi waits for no one.â We talked. I donât know how long. She didnât explain how or why. Just smiled. Told me she was proud of me. Told me to let go of the guilt. That her leaving wasnât my fault. That I could stop punishing myself now. I cried. When I turned to wipe my tears, she was gone. And the waitress was at my side again. âTime to go.â --- The taxi was waiting where Iâd left it. This time, as we drove, the streets felt calmer. The glitching figures were gone. The lights seemed to flicker more warmly. When we pulled up to my building again, the driver finally spoke. âNext time, bring someone who needs to say goodbye.â I blinked. âThereâll be a next time?â He didnât answer. But as I stepped out and turned around, the taxi was already gone â dissolved into the misty night like it had never existed. --- Itâs been five nights since. The taxi still comes at midnight. And now, I wait too. Just in case someone else needs that ride.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Wrong Reality"
When Marcus Trent awoke on June 12th, everything felt slightly... off. The alarm buzzed at 6:45 a.m., just like it had every weekday for the past five years. He rolled out of bed, brushing past his cat, Nimbus, who meowed in protest. The air smelled like burnt toast, even though his toaster was unplugged. In the mirror, his reflection blinked a moment after he did.
By farooq shahabout a year ago in Fiction
