Psychological
The Memory Merchant. AI-Generated.
Some memories hurt too much to keep—others hurt too much to lose. No one ever asked to remember. They came to forget. Heartbreaks. Accidents. Regrets that gnawed at the edges of sleep. People lined up around the block to step into a shop that promised peace—not truth. The kind of peace that comes not from healing, but from absence.
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıranabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of room 313
It was supposed to be just another hotel stay. Adeel was a travel writer—his job was to observe, experience, and move on. He had stayed in over 80 cities, written about rainstorms in Kerala, food markets in Morocco, and forgotten railways in Eastern Europe. But this time, he found himself in a lesser-known Pakistani town, Mehrabad, where his editor asked him to cover a story on “the cultural soul of small places.” He checked into Hill View Lodge, a modest two-star hotel standing on the edge of an old colonial-era hill. The receptionist, a young boy who looked about seventeen, barely glanced up. "Room 313, third floor,” he mumbled, sliding the key. Adeel took the elevator—one of those clunky iron ones with a caged door—and made his way to the room. Room 313 was like any other: beige walls, a creaky ceiling fan, a cracked window overlooking the misty road, and a bed that groaned under its own weight. He tossed his bag onto the chair and collapsed on the mattress. The journey had been long, and his head pounded from the heat. But just as his eyes began to shut, he heard it—a knock. Soft. Repeating. Three times. He opened the door. Nobody. Only the dim corridor stretching into silence. He shook his head, blaming it on tiredness, and closed the door. That night, strange things started happening. At exactly 3:13 AM, the ceiling fan stopped. His laptop screen flickered. And the air turned icy cold. He wrapped himself in the thin blanket but felt a whisper near his ear: > "Find me." He jumped up, turned on all the lights, and searched the room. Empty. He laughed nervously. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was jetlag. But it wasn’t. The next morning, Adeel asked the receptionist, “Has anyone complained about Room 313?” The boy looked up sharply, then glanced around. “No sir,” he said quickly, “it’s just an old room.” Adeel paused. “Anyone ever… die there?” The boy hesitated. “Sir, all rooms have stories. But we don’t speak about that one.” Now curious—and slightly obsessed—Adeel began to dig. He visited the local archives. The town library. He interviewed old shopkeepers and chai walas. And then he found it. A small newspaper clipping from April 13, 2013: > “Girl Found Dead in Hill View Lodge Room 313. Seventeen-year-old Sana Rehman was found hanging from the ceiling fan of Room 313 under mysterious circumstances. No signs of forced entry. Her diary was never recovered. Police ruled it suicide.” Adeel’s blood ran cold. The date? 13th April 2013. The time of events? 3:13 AM. The room? 313. Too many patterns. That night, he sat at the room desk, staring at the fan, waiting. At 3:13 AM, it happened again. The fan stopped. The air turned ice. And the whisper came, louder. > "I'm here. Find the pages." His instincts as a writer kicked in. He began searching the room. Behind the cupboard. Under the mattress. In the bathroom tiles. And finally—behind a loose wall panel—he found it. A torn, dusty diary. The first page read: > "My name is Sana. And if you're reading this, I did not kill myself." The diary revealed everything. Sana had been a brilliant student who came to Mehrabad for a scholarship exam. She stayed in Room 313. But on her second night, she noticed someone following her. A man in the hotel. She wrote how she complained but was ignored. Then one day, the diary stopped mid-sentence. The last line read: > “If something happens to me, it was never my choice.” Adeel sat frozen. This wasn’t a haunting. It was a cry for justice. He scanned the diary, added it to his story, and titled it: “The Girl in Room 313: A Voice That Was Never Heard.” He published it. Not just in his magazine—but on every blog, platform, and forum he had access to. The story went viral. One Week Later... The hotel was sealed. A retired staff member confessed anonymously that the manager at that time was dismissed quietly after the incident. No police action. No real investigation. But now, with public outrage, the case reopened. Adeel returned to Mehrabad to attend a town memorial for Sana Rehman. Her family wept as they saw the diary pages printed in full, finally heard after 12 years. And Room 313? It was locked forever. One Year Later... Adeel stood on a TEDx stage, invited to speak on “The Power of Stories.” He said: > “Sometimes stories don’t just entertain. They reveal. They shout when others whisper. Sana’s story wasn’t just words—it was justice delayed. But not denied.”
By Muhammad Abbas about a year ago in Fiction
Lights Over London . Runner-Up in The Summer That Wasn’t Challenge. Top Story - July 2025.
“Madam, you should come below.” Elizabeth took a long drag on the cigarette tucked neatly in the ornate silver holder. She ashed it in the ivory tray sitting beside an untouched glass of brandy. “You know Dickie, I still remember the fireworks at old Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. Sat right in this spot. I was sixteen, fresh from New York. Archie and his father lined the streets that day, and god knows what they did once the fireworks started,” She watched the horizon alight with activity while the tendrils of discarded cigarette ash swirled into the night through the open sitting room window. It was odd to see her London street all alive yet silently empty at the same time.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the Waves Remember Us. AI-Generated.
Some loves are not lost—just carried away. The sea did not keep time as humans did. But he did. Every year on the same day—August 17th—he returned to the shoreline where the cliffs curled like question marks and the wind never remembered to rest.
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Emotion Simulator. AI-Generated.
In the year 2047, emotions were no longer abstract. They could be packaged, stored, replayed—felt again. All thanks to the E-Synapse: a neural interface allowing users to fully experience someone else’s recorded emotions.
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıranabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror Doesn't Lie, But It Forgets
The Mirror Doesn't Lie, But It Forgets By Hamza Khan It started with something small. A necklace—gold, delicate, with a tiny blue stone. Ada had never owned one like it, yet there it was, around the neck of her reflection as she brushed her teeth. For a moment she froze, staring. The real Ada, in her cotton T-shirt and tangled hair, was bare-necked. But her reflection wore the necklace like it belonged.
By Hamza khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Where the Silence Slept
Silence had a home here. Not the kind of silence that follows loud noise—the pause in conversation, the hush of an empty room—but a deeper, heavier kind. The silence that settles into the bones of a place, wrapping itself around the walls and the furniture, curling in corners like a sleeping animal that refuses to be disturbed.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
How To Disappear: Part Two
Part One: - “Jayce, you’re being ridiculous.” Jayce doesn’t make excuses. It’s starting to become exhausting to do so. He doesn’t tell his mother about anything that happened yesterday, or today. He doesn’t mention the cigarette he smoked by the lake, or the way the fish glittered under the gleaming sun.
By angela hepworthabout a year ago in Fiction
