Psychological

The Clockmaker’s Promise. AI-Generated.
In a cobbled corner of Eldergate, where the air always smelled faintly of brass and lavender, stood a tiny clock shop called Morrow & Ticks. It was tucked between a crumbling bookshop and a florist that only sold blue flowers. Most people passed it by without a second glance. But those who entered often left… changed.
By MUHAMMAD AIZAZabout a year ago in Fiction
Shadows on the Edge of Tomorrow
The train station was almost empty, except for a few scattered travelers dragging their suitcases across the cold concrete floor. The air smelled faintly of rain, and the giant clock above the platform ticked louder than usual, marking each second like a reminder that time was both a gift and a thief.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Behind the Locked Door — A Story of Secrets and Second Chances
The house had been empty for nearly three years when Ayaan returned. It stood at the edge of the small town like a shadow of its former self—paint peeling, shutters hanging loose, garden overgrown. To most people, it was just another abandoned property. But to Ayaan, it was home. Or at least, it had been once.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Fiction
Yixin Yixuan
ZBrush Sculpt - See more on IG or Artstation; Links below In a world divided by conflict and silent defiance, Yixin Yixuan travels as a seeker of peace. After losing her parents to violence and growing up with a warrior couple in the mountains, she stands for resilience and gentle strength. Her journey takes her from loss to legend, as she finds friends and shows a fractured world that sometimes the greatest victories come without fighting.
By Neshzivne Dadirriabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am a Prisoner
“I am a prisoner—not behind bars of iron, but within the fragile walls of flesh and earth. My soul, vast as eternity, is caged in this temporary world, longing for the freedom of the Divine.”
By Zakir Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo of Courage. AI-Generated.
The village of Oakhaven nestled in a valley carved by the Whispering River, its existence a vibrant splash of color against the muted greens and greys of the surrounding mountains. It was famed not for its strategic location, for it had none, nor for its wealth, for it was meager, but for its weavers. And among them, Elara was a legend. Her loom, a sturdy oak frame passed down through generations, was a stage where threads of every hue danced into tapestries that spoke. They told tales of ancient heroes, of the river's whims, of the mountain’s enduring spirit, and of the everyday joys and sorrows of Oakhaven folk. Her work was the village’s collective memory, its vibrant voice.
By Mehrdad Rajabiabout a year ago in Fiction
Post PM of Pakistan Imran khan
written by SHAMS KHAN Early Life & Education Birth and Family: Born on October 5, 1952 in Lahore, Imran Ahmad Khan Niazi was the only son among five siblings in a Pashtun Niazi family. His father, Ikramullah Khan Niazi, was a civil engineer, and his mother, Shaukat Khanum, nurtured his strong family values
By Muhammad Haris khan afridiabout a year ago in Fiction
The Third Man Factor
The sun bakes us, and we try not to moan. We try not to do anything, for even opening our mouths costs precious moisture. The dunes shimmer, there is no breeze.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Thief
TITLE: THE MEMORY THIEF A HEIST OF THE HEART WRITTEN BY: LEGACY WORDS Elias worked as a cleaner at a special hospital called the Mnemosyne Clinic. Here, people could have their sad memories erased. The machine that did this hummed constantly—a sound Elias knew well. It was the sound of forgetting.
By LegacyWordsabout a year ago in Fiction
Simon, A Symbol of Virtue . AI-Generated.
In William Golding's story of Lord of the Flies, the character of Simon is significant. Simon represents a certain type of inherent kindness. He is insightful, helpful, and truth-seeking at all times. He was the lone boy and was the first to realize that the beast was a delusion. He works persistently and for the benefit of the tribe. Being a shy child, he finds it difficult to share his intelligent thoughts with the other boys since he dislikes speaking in front of the group at assemblies.
By Junaid Iqbalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror's Reflection
Lena sat in the dusty attic, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of an old sketchpad. The room around her was still, the only sound being the occasional creak of the house settling. It had been months since she’d come here, since she’d hidden away from the world outside. In the silence, her thoughts roared louder than ever—recollections of failure, dreams that had slipped through her grasp, of who she was and who she no longer believed she could be.
By Mansoor Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
seven hours missing . Content Warning.
The rain started just as Emma Lowell pulled into the school parking lot. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting for the stream of children to spill out the doors. Bright backpacks, laughter, the high-pitched clamor of release. But her daughter, Lila, did not appear. Emma craned her neck, scanning every face. Nothing. At first, she told herself not to panic. Maybe Lila was dawdling inside, tying her shoes, or talking to the teacher. But when the last of the children scattered to their cars and buses, the tight coil of fear snapped. Emma got out, rain soaking her coat, and marched inside. “Mrs. Lowell,” the teacher said, startled. “I thought you’d already picked her up. She left when the bell rang.” Emma’s mouth went dry. “Left? With who?” “With no one. Just… walked home like usual.” Emma bolted back outside, calling her daughter’s name until her throat hurt. By the time the police arrived, the rain was pounding in sheets. Flashlights cut through the gathering dark. Neighbors gathered with umbrellas, dogs pulled at leashes, voices shouted into the night. The woods beyond the soccer field loomed, black and endless. Every second felt like glass pressing into Emma’s lungs. Seven hours passed. At 11:17 p.m., an officer’s voice crackled over the radio: “We’ve got her.” Emma ran. Her knees nearly gave out when she saw Lila standing at the tree line, barefoot, her small hands wrapped tightly around her backpack straps. She looked… fine. Untouched. Her hair neatly braided. Clothes dry as bone despite the storm. “Sweetheart!” Emma scooped her up, sobbing into her daughter’s neck. “Where were you? What happened?” Lila’s voice was small, almost flat. “I was waiting. They said I couldn’t move until you came.” Emma stiffened. “Who said that?” But Lila pressed her face into Emma’s shoulder and said nothing more. --- The next morning, the house felt wrong. Too quiet, as though something heavy lingered in the corners. Emma tried to cook breakfast, but her eyes kept darting back to her daughter. Lila sat at the kitchen table, humming softly to herself — a tune Emma had never heard before. The sound was sweet and lilting, but unsettling. Emma set a plate down and froze. Inside the backpack Lila clutched to her chest was a sandwich — half eaten, made with coarse brown bread Emma never bought. “Where did you get that?” she asked carefully. Lila shrugged, eyes lowered. “Lunch.” Emma reached for her daughter’s hand and noticed the ribbon tied neatly around her wrist. Bright red, too clean, as if freshly bought. “Who gave you this?” No answer. --- The police came again that afternoon. Two detectives sat stiffly on the living room couch, rainwater dripping from their jackets. “No signs of abduction,” one of them said. “No evidence of anyone leading her away. CCTV cameras on Maple Street flickered to static at 4:15 p.m. and came back at 11:16. That gap…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.” Emma gripped her knees, knuckles white. “You’re saying she disappeared into thin air?” The detective didn’t answer. That night, Emma checked on Lila as she slept. A doctor had found nothing wrong, no bruises, no injuries — except for a faint circular burn mark on her ankle, the size of a coin. Lila’s lips moved in her sleep. Emma bent close, barely breathing. “He said he likes our house,” Lila murmured. “He’ll be patient.” Emma jerked back, heart pounding. --- Over the next two days, the unease only grew. A dark sedan sat idling near the house more than once. When Emma approached, it drove away. Lila refused to look into mirrors. She avoided her toys, preferring to sit by the window with her knees to her chest. Once, Emma found her sketchbook full of drawings: a man with no face, standing in a doorway. The same figure, page after page. On the third night, Emma was folding laundry when she heard her daughter whispering in her room. She froze, listening. “I know. I’ll be ready.” Emma pushed the door open. Lila sat on the floor, speaking to the empty corner of the room. She looked up calmly. “I wasn’t talking to you, Mommy.” Emma’s hands shook. She grabbed her daughter, searching her pockets, desperate for answers. That was when she found the slip of paper: a train ticket, dated the day she vanished. From a station three cities away. But the timestamp fell squarely inside those seven missing hours. --- The next morning, Detective Harris returned. He looked exhausted, tie crooked, eyes rimmed with red. “We’ve enhanced the footage from Maple Street,” he said, setting his laptop on the table. Emma’s stomach turned cold as the video played. There was Lila, walking calmly down the sidewalk at 4:14. Then, static. The feed blinked, jumped — and there she was again at 11:17, standing at the edge of the frame. “Watch closely,” Harris said. Emma leaned in. Frame by frame, the video slowed. For an instant, just before the static swallowed the feed, Lila appeared to be holding someone’s hand. An adult. But every time the figure’s face neared the camera, the pixels warped and blurred, as though the footage itself refused to capture it. Emma pressed her hand to her mouth. “What is that?” Harris shook his head. “We don’t know.” --- That night, Emma sat on the edge of Lila’s bed, tucking the blankets around her daughter. The rain tapped against the window. The house was too still, too watchful. Lila’s eyes fluttered as she drifted toward sleep. Then she smiled faintly, the red ribbon slipping loose around her wrist. “He told me you’ll come with me next time.” Emma’s chest tightened, breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, staring at her daughter’s serene face in the dim light. The clock ticked softly on the nightstand. Each second felt like it was running out.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction