Short Story

Letters Between Floors
Sophie Lang had worked as an office assistant on the 12th floor of Zurich’s glass-and-steel landmark, the Vantage Building, for three years. She was efficient, quietly charming, and just anonymous enough to go unnoticed by most of the high-powered suits who passed her desk. Except one. Every Tuesday at precisely 10:15 a.m., Markus Rüegg, the CEO of Rüegg International Holdings, would walk out of the executive elevator on the 14th floor, two floors above Sophie’s station. He never looked rushed. Never impatient. Always in that tailored charcoal suit and a navy silk tie. And every Tuesday, he’d send a handwritten note down to her desk. The first one read simply: You make this building warmer than all the glass and heat ever could. No name. No signature. Just beautiful cursive on thick linen stationery. Sophie thought it was a joke. A prank from the interns. She tucked the note into her drawer and told herself it meant nothing. But the next Tuesday, another appeared, hand-delivered by the same grinning security guard. Some mornings, your smile lingers longer than my coffee does. She’d barely smiled that day. By week five, curiosity turned into anticipation. She began to keep the notes in a little leather folio. Each one was different—never demanding, never inappropriate, always poetic. And though they never said his name, she knew. Markus Rüegg was a ghost in the building. Everyone whispered about him—he was “too young” to have built such a legacy, “too Swiss” to show such warmth. But Sophie saw glimpses. He once held the elevator door for a pregnant cleaner. Another time, he brought a thermos of tea to the night receptionist. She started writing back. Do you write like this to every assistant in Zurich? The next Tuesday: Only the ones who hum when they staple. She didn’t know she hummed. Their written exchange bloomed over the months. The building became a secret world they shared—a world of paper and ink and late-afternoon glances through glass walls. One note changed everything. Would you meet me for coffee, 5:15 p.m., Café Miro across the street? She nearly dropped the paper. Her hands trembled. She’d never once imagined what he looked like up close—his energy, his expression when not hiding behind executive poise. At 5:12, she stood outside Café Miro, hands tucked into her coat. Her heart thumped with a rhythm only nervous hope could produce. And then he was there. No bodyguards, no entourage. Just Markus, holding a single yellow tulip and looking more human than she imagined. “You came,” he said, smiling. “I almost didn’t,” she replied. “This all felt…” “Like fiction?” he offered. “Yes.” “Well,” he said, gently holding the tulip between them, “then let’s write it.” --- They became something rare—quiet and intense. Markus was still the man in the tailored suit, but with her, he shed layers he didn’t know he wore. Sophie, once reserved and content to hide behind her post-it notes and printer codes, found her laughter. They kept the relationship quiet. Switzerland was small. So was the building. She didn’t want rumors. He respected that. They met in secret parks after work, traded books like other couples traded playlists, and even wrote each other letters by mail for the thrill of it. He called her *die Sonne unter Glas*—the sun beneath the glass. But love, even the kind written in ink and tulips, isn't immune to life’s tides. In late November, Markus was offered a merger deal that required relocating to Singapore. It was everything his board wanted—and everything Sophie feared. “I don’t belong in a world of penthouse negotiations and diplomatic dinners,” she said the night he told her. “I don’t belong in a world without you,” he whispered. Still, she said no. No to long-distance promises. No to the idea of becoming a hidden shadow behind a powerful man. So he left. And the building, once a place of glances and words passed like confessions, became just another office again. Sophie kept working. The notes stopped. Her folio stayed closed. Months passed. Seasons turned. Until one spring morning—one full year after their first note—she arrived at her desk to find a letter. It was the same thick linen paper. Still humming when you staple? Her breath caught. Inside the envelope was a boarding pass—Zurich to Singapore. One-way. She stared at it, her pulse roaring in her ears. No demands. Just a choice. She didn’t go. Not at first. Weeks passed. The note remained on her nightstand like a dare. One rainy evening, while organizing the old office archives, she found an envelope addressed to her, dated months ago, buried beneath a stack of forgotten HR reports. Inside was another letter. No boarding pass this time. Just words. I understand your silence. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that timing isn’t everything. Choice is. And you have all of mine. That night, Sophie packed a bag. --- Markus looked up from his corner table at the rooftop café in Singapore. The rain hadn’t quite stopped, but the sky was clearing. She stepped out of the elevator. “Still writing letters?” she asked. “Only one,” he said. He handed her a small envelope. Inside, a note: You’re not the sun beneath the glass anymore. She looked at him. He smiled. “You’re the sky itself.” --- Author's Note: This story is based on true patterns of life in Zurich’s business world, inspired by real urban routines, Swiss corporate culture, and the universal ache of workplace romance—where moments are fleeting, and written words become the soul's loudest voice.
By Dr. Dabout a year ago in Fiction
Cabin on the Lake. Top Story - July 2025.
I sighed and pulled my hat brim down to protect my face from the summer sun. Just a few more chapters, I promised myself, turning my attention back to my book. After several efforts to read, I discovered I couldn’t focus on the words, so I leaned back and looked at the lake.
By Julie Lacksonenabout a year ago in Fiction
Awakening
It was his spiritual advisor who’d suggested he try meditation. “Just go and find what’s true.” That was the advice. Torn between warm feelings for the man and resistance to the idea, he asked if a walking meditation would be alright. Thankfully, his guru was all for it. He’d not had the strength to endure the kind of torment, just sitting and just breathing and, worst of all, just being with himself, would evoke. He tried a brief walkabout that night going out around his place for a short time, and even that was rather powerful, in a restless and uncomfortable sort of way. He thought about the toxicity in his life, his unstable relationships and poor decision making, and felt agitated and angry by the time he went back inside. He checked in with the guru, who simply smiled through the screen — theirs was an online relationship — and advised him to continue on.
By David Deane Haskellabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 5: Rescue Girl
They told us to go back in. They always say that. They say it like the walls haven’t grown teeth. Like rescue is still a thing that happens instead of a thing that kills you slower.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Blue Eyes
"You don’t even know them," Jaymie said, voice tight, juice untouched. Scowling, Harry reached for the butter . "I don’t need to. I don't like that sort of thing, I never have. You know that. Some things should stay… traditional." Jaymie scoffed. "You’re being ridiculous." Harry was long past the age when he blushed easily, either from embarrassment or anger. Still, the tops of his ears gave him away. He was stung, but he wasn't backing down. "How are you going to give me grandchildren, that's what I'd like to know," he grumbled. "I don't owe you grandchildren," Jaymie bristled. "Okay, that's fair," Harry forced himself to speak softly, caging his temper behind tired teeth, but it just made him sound all the angrier. "It's all very well, this lifestyle-" "It's not a lifestyle, Dad, we can't help who we love!" "Yes! Yes you can! That's the point! Grass grows where it's watered, as well you should know, or have I taught you nothing?" He glared, and then sighed, pulling a hand down over his craggy face. It made him look like a Basset Hound. "You’re just too young to see it clearly." “I’m not. We've talked every day for a year. Lyric knows me better than anyone ever has.” "Pfft. Talking. Knowing. That's not love." "Then what is? I love Lyric. I know I do. They-" "They." Harry snorted. "That's ridiculous." Jaymie's ears were just as rosy. "You're just a...a... a dinosaur! You don't understand. Or... or maybe," Recklessness took over now, "Maybe you do get it. Maybe you know my generation will bury yours, and you resent us for it. The world is changing, Dad! It belongs to us! Get with it, or get left behind!" Harry put his knife down, slow and deliberate. "I will not be steam-rollered into agreeing with this... this new-age nonsense. It's wrong. It's amoral. Love should be between..." Eyes rolling, Jaymie stood, chair scraping on the kitchen tiles. "Yeah, yeah, a man and a woman, we get it, dad." "Between two people," Harry countered, his voice rising despite himself.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Voices of the Wild
In the heart of the vast Emerald Jungle, where sunlight filtered through ancient trees and rivers whispered secrets to the wind, a different kind of revolution was unfolding. The animals had grown tired—not just of fleeing from traps or the distant crack of rifles, but of their silence in a world dominated by human voices. And so, every week, beneath the twisted roots of the Grand Baobab Tree, the animals gathered. It started with the elephants. Wise and deliberate, they recognized a pattern: the more the humans hunted, the fewer animals returned. And the more animals disappeared, the quieter the forest became. That silence was dangerous. “We need a voice,” said Lumo, the eldest elephant, at the very first meeting. “Not just roars and howls—but a strategy, a media of our own.” The animals were puzzled. Media? Voice? That’s when Zara the parrot fluttered to the front, her feathers shimmering like green fire. “We already have a media,” she said, tapping her beak. “Vocal media. Our words, our messages, our stories. They echo across trees and valleys. It’s time we use them wisely.” Each species was assigned a role. The Reporters: The monkeys, curious and swift, were tasked with gathering information. They swung through trees, observing human paths, photographing traps with pebbles and sticks, and reporting back on hunting hotspots. The Broadcasters: The birds—especially parrots, hornbills, and drongos—formed a communication network, relaying news from one end of the jungle to another. They squawked warnings in code: “Humans near the southern river!” “Traps spotted near acacia ridge!” The Editors: The owls, with their ancient wisdom and quiet thought, listened to all sides during meetings and helped decide what information mattered most. They organized the jungle’s message. The Public Relations Council: The lions, wolves, and leopards—formerly fierce loners—agreed to unite for “image management.” Rather than being feared as beasts, they now shared tales of loss and survival. Cubs orphaned. Packs scattered. Their stories softened hearts—at least among the animals. And lastly, there was Zara the parrot, who led the "Jungle Voice" — a weekly spoken bulletin aired from treetop to treetop, waterfall to hill. A jungle radio, spoken word. --- Every Sunday at sunrise, Zara perched atop the Grand Baobab and began: “Good morning, creatures of the Emerald! This week, we’ve moved three dens away from human paths, dodged two traps, and helped four injured friends recover. We continue our mission: not to fight humans, but to make them hear us, without bullets, without fear.” The broadcasts worked. The jungle grew alert, informed, and united. Traps were spotted and dismantled. Paths near poacher zones were avoided. When humans approached, coordinated noise—drums of hooves, squawks, howls—made the forest sound too alive, too aware, for easy hunting. But still, the problem persisted. Some humans were too greedy. Too determined. So the Jungle Voice took a bold step: direct communication with humans. At one meeting, Zara said, “If they won’t hear us in the trees, maybe they’ll hear us in their homes.” Using stolen radios dropped by campers and forgotten phones, the tech-savvy crows—naturally suspicious but brilliant—figured out how to mimic human speech. They began recording simple messages: "We are not trophies." "We are not meat." "We are not yours to take." "Please. Leave the jungle wild." The crows planted these recordings near campsites. Some humans laughed. Some were startled. But a few… paused. And listened. Videos went viral: a crow speaking in broken English, a parrot echoing the plea of an elephant, a baboon sketching a skull near a trap. Slowly, sympathy grew. Local conservationists picked up the trend. News spread that “the jungle speaks.” New signs were posted: "Protected Area — The Jungle Has a Voice." --- Back under the Baobab, the meetings continued. Not all problems were solved. Hunting hadn’t stopped entirely. But the animals now had more than instincts—they had information, coordination, and most importantly, a voice. Lumo, with his heavy trunk, looked around at one meeting and said, “We used to run. Now we speak. And one day, they will listen not because we roar… but because we reason.” Zara flew down beside him. “The media of the wild is not cameras or screens. It’s memory. It's message. And it’s unity.” The animals roared, barked, chirped, and trumpeted together. And the jungle echoed—not in fear, but with power. The End
By Dr. Dabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legacy of Home: A Heartfelt Journey Through Memory and Place. AI-Generated.
When the roads lead back to our roots, what we left behind begins to shape who we are. I hadn’t planned on returning. Not to the place that once held all my childhood laughter, midnight fears, and silent dreams. The home I left behind felt like a chapter already closed—until life brought me back, unannounced.
By Nowshad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
A Sorrow Road
“Hello, old friend. Where have you been?” I looked up at a familiar face. It was like seeing a ghost, really. “Tommy?” I said in confusion.
By John Henryabout a year ago in Fiction
A DETECTIVE (English and Italian versions)
I was temporarily living in the oldest and most degraded part of Paris: dirty streets, nauseating smells, neglected shops, homeless people who looked like forgotten souls…
By Giada Gali about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Waltz at Leviathan. Runner-Up in Leave the Light On Challenge.
Rhiannon and Hal sat across from each other at the old beech leviathan of a table, in their small, candlelit kitchen. Fragrant rosemary and olive oil wafted around the house, as they enjoyed the romance of lamps and candles.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
And again and again and again and
The first time it happened, I thought it was a dream. Same with the second. The third felt too real---I thought, he must be a ghost. By the fourth I figured I must be crazy, hallucinating this perfect conjuring of what might have been. But the fifth time proved that others could see him and I felt him under my touch and he must be real. This was real. This is real.
By Raine Nealabout a year ago in Fiction
The Orchard That Grew in a Da. AI-Generated.
I. The Inheritance Leah hadn’t been back to Hollow Root since she was eleven. The family left after the fire—after her father’s silence grew louder than the smoke, and her mother began painting with her back turned to the world. Now, fifteen years later, all she had left was a deed, an urn, and a GPS signal that barely held a pulse.
By Mudasir Hakeemi about a year ago in Fiction