Short Story
Some Notes for the Project
Memo to Self: The following notes were found at the building site after a search was conducted by the replacement crew. No sign of the original workers hired is available except for the notebook discovered and recorded here. We will keep searching to see if we can discover what happened. And the notes might provide some sort of clue as to what went down. The owner of the original site cannot be contacted and we still have work to complete.
By Kendall Defoe 10 months ago in Fiction
The Dawn and the Moon
The study smelled of old parchment, stained wood, & pipe smoke. Lord Edran Ainsel sat behind his ancient desk, its surface worn smooth by generations of hands that had signed treaties, condemned traitors, and helped pen the future of Goodhollow.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Room. Content Warning.
I was only 12 when the terrible accident happened, you were put in the hospital for a few days. The doctors said that you were just in a comma with minor brain damage and that your memory would come back and everything would be normal again. You, Me, Mom and Dad. But we wouldn't be... the doctors lied...
By KENDY SEREDA10 months ago in Fiction
The Room That Moved On
I hadn't opened the door in six years. It wasn't because I couldn't. The handle still turned. The hinges still worked. I knew this because I checked sometimes — late at night, when the house went quiet and my hand drifted to the brass knob the way a tongue finds the socket where a tooth used to be. I'd feel it give, feel the door ready to swing open, and then I'd walk away.
By Edward Romain10 months ago in Fiction
The First Person. Winner in The Forgotten Room Challenge. Top Story - December 2025.
She enters the room. The door, she knows, has been here - unpainted wooden panels, plain brass knob, no keyhole - between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening of every day, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever been inside.
By Hannah Moore10 months ago in Fiction
THE END - part one. Content Warning.
That was it then. Betsy was gone. Her body was still warm. I tested the heat of her flesh and my finger made a dent, the same way it would have a few short minutes ago. She didn’t move, though, and she couldn’t talk anymore, but I couldn’t be sure that the voice she listened to inside her head wasn’t still talking to her.
By Bruce Kell10 months ago in Fiction
The Silent Doorway
The first time Mira heard the sound, she thought it was the wind. A soft tap-tap-tap coming from the end of the hallway, near the old wooden door no one ever touched. Her grandmother had always told her, “Stay away from that door. Some rooms are better left alone.” But curiosity is louder than warnings, especially when the house feels too quiet.
By Kashif Wazir10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 24
Chapter 24 The cavern stretched vast and unnatural, lit faintly from the glow of the single light in the distance of the city sized cavern. Sara pressed forward, spear in hand, armor flexing silently, her Sporesight cloud extended to its full hundred feet. The air was thick with shrieks and glittering wings as wave after wave of Crystal Crawlers swarming to block her path.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
Our Treasured Place
Hair blowing in the wind, the young girl pulled the loose ribbon the last strands of the way, the bow collapsing. She tied the pink velvet around itself, tucking it into a hidden pocket of the matching peacoat with mud splattered up from the hem.
By Emma K. Weir10 months ago in Fiction
The Room at the End of the Hall
(A son returns home after five years to open the room his father left behind. The door was closed out of grief, but what he discovers inside changes the way he sees love, loss, and family. This emotional story explores how memories can stay frozen in time, waiting for the courage to be unlocked again.)
By Salman Writes10 months ago in Fiction
Golden-Hour Post-It
The first time it happened, no one believed the story. Not even me. I was walking to the bus stop just before sunrise, the air still holding that bluish quiet that belongs to people who wake up early. That’s when I saw it—a yellow sticky note pressed against the corner of a bakery window. The word warmth was written on it in a child’s handwriting, all uneven letters and soft pressure, as if the writer wasn’t sure they were allowed to write it. I didn’t think much of it until the sun rose. And the moment the first line of golden light touched the note, the bakery door unlocked on its own, and the ovens—cold for years since the owner retired—released a breath of heat that rolled into the street like fresh memory. People stepped outside their buildings, rubbing their eyes, confused. The warmth spread gently, like someone had opened a hidden door inside the morning. That was miracle one. The notes began appearing every few days. Always before sunrise. Always gone by noon. I started paying attention. One morning I found mend stuck to a cracked section of sidewalk near the park. When sunlight warmed it, the concrete shifted and sealed itself as if remembering how it used to be. An elderly woman walking nearby froze and placed a hand over her heart. “My husband tripped on that last week,” she whispered. “I told him it would heal itself one day.” Miracle two. No one knew where the notes came from. Some people said it was a prank. Some said the town council was trying to inspire hope. Some thought it was an artist experimenting with light. But I kept thinking of the handwriting—soft, uneven, honest. Like a child learning their letters. Then, one morning, I caught a glimpse. A small figure stood on the steps of an apartment building, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair tied in a low ponytail. The kid looked around, making sure the street was empty, then pressed a fresh sticky note to the window. Before I could call out, they ran off, leaving only the flutter of paper behind. I walked up to the note. It said listen. The sun hadn’t risen yet. The note was waiting for it. I stood there until the light arrived, slow and soft, sliding across the glass. Then it happened. The building behind the window—usually filled with the noise of rushed mornings—fell into a deep, almost sacred quiet. And in that quiet, the faint sounds of someone crying drifted through the open hallway. A neighbor from the third floor hurried down, as if hearing it for the first time. Within minutes, the crying was replaced with voices—soft, comforting, present. Miracle three. By then the whole neighborhood had felt the notes in some way. More had appeared: grow next to a wilting tree that sprouted new leaves by sunset. ease on the door of a small grocery whose owner had been struggling; customers lined up unexpectedly that day. hope on the bench where a lonely teenager always sat. Someone joined him that morning. They talked for hours. The miracles were small. Local. Soft-footed. But they mattered. And then, one morning, I found a note on my own window. I didn’t know how long it had been there. Maybe minutes. Maybe days while I failed to see it. The sky was still dark, but the word was clear and simple, slanted slightly to the right: begin I stood there holding the window frame, suddenly aware of all the things in my life I’d put off: the apologies I owed, the projects I left unfinished, the promises I had made to myself and quietly stepped away from. When the sunlight finally reached the note, nothing grand happened. No glowing, no sudden music, no shift in the world. Instead, something shifted in me. A tiny click deep inside, like a lock turning from within. A feeling that maybe the smallest miracles are the ones we perform ourselves once someone hands us the first word. The note curled as the day warmed, and I understood: It wasn’t magic that changed the town. It was permission. And sometimes, permission arrives on a yellow square of paper in the softest hour of morning.
By Jhon smith10 months ago in Fiction
