Short Story
Door Glass
Elise first saw him in the mirror. It wasn’t a reflection. It was a presence. She’d been in the changing room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like lazy flies. Her skirt was half-zipped when something flickered at the edge of the mirror—a stain, a shadow too dense to be a trick of the light.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Arrow Storm
Send the sun!!!!! It wasn’t something many in the town had heard thunder from their Kings lips. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or the one before last. Centuries had passed and King Leonel was growing war-hungry, nearing his two-hundred-and-fifty-third birthday. She should have been here to celebrate.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
I Lived One Day Twice — And the Second Time, I Saved a Life
I. It Started With a Flash I remember the exact moment it happened. It was 3:47 PM on a cold Tuesday afternoon. I was crossing the street on 8th and Main, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, when a flash of white light exploded in my vision — like a camera flash times a thousand.
By Muhammad Arif about a year ago in Fiction
The mirror of the second chances
A cold breeze danced through the cracks of the abandoned cottage as Maya brushed dust from the old mirror. It had been years since anyone had set foot inside. The house belonged to her grandmother, a woman known in the village for strange tales and stranger antiques. Now, after her passing, Maya had returned—not to reclaim her inheritance, but to find a part of herself that she'd lost along the way. Life in the city had hardened Maya. A decade spent chasing corporate success left her emotionally numb. Promotions, parties, paychecks—none of it filled the hollowness she carried. Worse, she had cut ties with her parents and abandoned her younger brother after a family feud. She never forgave them. Or herself. The mirror stood taller than Maya, with a bronze frame curled in vines and mythical beasts. Its glass shimmered unnaturally, even in shadow. Her grandmother once told her, “This mirror doesn’t just reflect what you are. It shows what you could be—if you dare to look deeper.” Maya scoffed then. Now, her skepticism was tinged with curiosity. She looked into the mirror… and blinked. The reflection wasn’t right. The woman staring back had the same face, same brown eyes, same tired expression—but something was different. Behind the mirrored version of Maya stood a boy. Her brother, Arman. He was twelve again, standing in the doorway of her old bedroom, holding a paper boat they made together before things fell apart. Maya gasped and stepped back. The reflection remained unchanged. She turned to check behind her. Nothing. No boy. Just silence. “Great. I’m hallucinating now,” she muttered. But something inside her stirred—a memory long buried. That paper boat was the last gift she ever gave him, before the fight, before the slamming doors and bitter silence. She stared at the mirror again. This time, she saw her younger self and her brother laughing in the backyard, making snow angels. The image faded, and a new one appeared: her mother crying in the kitchen, the day Maya left without saying goodbye. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to leave forever,” she whispered to no one. A soft whisper echoed from the mirror. “Then go back.” Maya stumbled backward, her heart pounding. The room seemed to shift, the air thick with emotion. The mirror pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Her hands trembled. “I can’t,” she said aloud. “It’s been too long. They’ve probably moved on.” But deep down, she knew that was just an excuse. The truth was simpler and scarier: she was ashamed. Ashamed of the words she said. Ashamed of the years she stayed silent. Ashamed that she waited until her grandmother died to come back. The mirror flickered again. Now it showed an older Maya, sitting in a sunny garden surrounded by children. Her brother was there too—grown up, smiling, forgiving. “Is this… possible?” she whispered. The mirror said nothing. --- The Next Morning Maya awoke on the dusty couch, the memory of the mirror vivid in her mind. She made a decision. She drove straight to the village where her parents still lived. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. She rehearsed apologies in her head—each one sounding too small for the years they had lost. As she neared the gate, she saw her mother outside, watering the plants. Time had aged her gracefully, but sorrow clung to her shoulders. “Mama?” Maya called softly. Her mother turned. The watering can dropped. “Maya…” she whispered. For a moment, neither moved. Then her mother ran, and Maya found herself wrapped in the kind of hug that melted ten years of pain in a single breath. “I thought we lost you,” her mother sobbed. “I was lost,” Maya replied, “but I want to come home. If you’ll have me.” Inside, her father sat stunned. Arman, now twenty-five, leaned against the wall, arms folded, unsure how to react. “You left,” he said bluntly. “For ten years.” Maya nodded. “I know. And I was wrong.” Silence hung heavy. Then he walked over and hugged her. Tight. “I kept the boat,” he whispered. That night, they sat together over tea, laughing through tears, sharing stories of the years they missed. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. --- Months Later Maya moved back to the village, renovated her grandmother’s cottage, and turned it into a small counseling center. People from nearby towns visited, drawn by the warmth she radiated—a warmth she rediscovered through healing. And the mirror? It remained in her room. Every so often, she’d stand before it, and see versions of herself—some joyful, some broken. But she no longer feared them. She understood now: the mirror never showed what was, only what could be. And for Maya, that made all the difference.
By Shehzad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Cherry Blossoms
The sun is easy on his skin as he rolls over in bed. The rays creep in through the blinds and touch his lashes, playing with his hair. The girl in his arms opens her eyes; she looks at him, carefully entangling herself from his arms, trying not to wake him. She gets out of bed and goes to the window, and when she looks at the sky she knows that this is their last day together. She opens the window and breathes in the chilly morning air fresh from the scent of cherry blossoms; a lone dove is sitting on the tree under the window..The girl turns around and goes to the bathroom to get ready. She puts on concealer, mascara and lipstick. Her makeup is rushed, cakey but she doesn’t care. There is no time to waste. When she returns to the room the boy is sitting up and when she looks into his eyes she can see that the glow from them is gone. She looks around; the flowers from the table, the books by the bed disappeared as well. The room seems rather empty now.
By Jasmine Kozakabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Borrowed Time. AI-Generated.
It began with a knock. Not a loud, urgent knock — just three soft taps, as though the wind itself had grown knuckles. Eli Granger, clockmaker and widower, opened the door of his dusty little shop to find no one outside. Only an envelope, pale and sealed with wax. Inside: a note > "You’ve been chosen to borrow 24 hours of someone else’s life. Use them wisely. Return before midnight." — The Timekeeper Eli laughed. A prank, surely. He tossed the note aside and returned to polishing a pocket watch left by a customer three months ago. That night, the clocks stopped. All of them — from the cuckoo to the grandfather, even the little wristwatch he wore since his wife died. Midnight hung in the air like breath in winter. Then everything shifted. --- He woke up on a yacht. In the Mediterranean. Not his body. Not his life. He was now a tanned, muscular man with perfect teeth and a phone full of unread messages from lovers and business partners. Photos of yachts, parties, sunsets, and champagne bottles filled the gallery. For 24 hours, he was rich, young, and seemingly adored. By noon, he hated it. Everyone wanted something from him — a deal, a kiss, a favor, a selfie. Eli missed silence. Missed sincerity. Missed... being invisible. At sunset, he sat alone on the yacht's edge and whispered to the sea: > "I miss my wife. I miss her laugh more than I missed being young." As if in answer, his watch — the one that had stopped — ticked once. He woke up back in his shop. The clocks were ticking. It was midnight. The note was gone. But there, beside the old register, lay something he hadn't seen in years: A pocket watch — hers — ticking softly. Inside, a photo of them on their wedding day. And a new inscription: > "Time can't be owned. Only shared." — The Timekeeper Eli smiled! He never found out who sent the note. But from that day forward, he no longer just fixed clocks. He listened to them. And sometimes, just sometimes... they whispered secrets of time borrowed — and time returned. -- 💬 Did you enjoy this story? Leave a ❤️ if it made you feel something. Share your thoughts in the comments — and tell me: If you could borrow 24 hours of anyone's life... whose would it be?
By Aftab Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
A boy with broken flag
A boy with broken flag By Austin smith Two faded stripes instead of three, the third scorched by fire, the edges frayed like nerves. The fabric was thin, dirty, and smelled like smoke. But to twelve-year-old Aarif, it was more than just a piece of cloth — it was the last thing left standing. He had found it in the rubble where his school once stood. Concrete chunks covered the ground, mixed with broken pencils and bloodied textbooks. The night before, the soldiers had come. The air had screamed with jets and sirens, and the sky had burned in shades he had no name for. His brother, Sami, had left to help injured neighbors and never returned. His mother hadn’t spoken since sunrise, rocking back and forth on a mat with her prayer beads slipping between silent fingers. His father had already been taken months ago. Aarif didn’t ask where. But the flag… the flag fluttered. Just a corner of it poking through the dust and brick, clinging to a broken stick like it still had something to say. He pulled it out and held it to his chest, ignoring the ash on his fingers. He didn’t cry — he hadn’t cried since the first time the power went out and never came back. He just stared at it. And then, without thinking, he cleaned it in the nearby ditch, tied it to a longer wooden pole, and planted it in the ground where the school’s gate used to be. Every morning after that, Aarif returned. He stood beside it, guarding it, fixing it when the wind knocked it loose. The villagers watched from behind curtains. The soldiers watched from armored jeeps. One of them laughed once. “Go home, little boy. You’ll get yourself killed.” Aarif didn’t flinch. “This is my home,” he said. The laughter stopped after that. A few weeks later, a foreign journalist arrived, camera around his neck, boots far too clean for a war zone. He snapped a photo of Aarif standing barefoot beside the crooked flag. He didn’t ask Aarif’s name — just nodded and walked away. A week after that, someone brought a printed copy of the photo. Aarif saw his face on the front page of a newspaper, beneath a headline he couldn’t read. He didn’t care about the fame. He just wanted the flag to stay up. Then one day, a young woman walked up to him — a teacher who used to work at the school before it crumbled. She looked at the flag, then at Aarif. “Would you like to learn again?” she asked softly. He nodded. And so, classes resumed under the open sky. There were no desks, only crates. No books, just scraps of paper. But there were children. And a teacher. And that same broken flag fluttering beside them like it, too, had survived something. When winter came, the village gave Aarif shoes. When spring arrived, they painted the stone behind him with the words: "Hope Stands Tall." People started gathering — not to mourn, but to rebuild. The soldiers no longer mocked. Some saluted when they drove by. One evening, Aarif stood by the flag alone. The wind was softer now. The air didn’t smell like fire anymore. He touched the cloth and whispered, “Still here.” He thought of Sami — the way he used to laugh with his whole chest. He thought of his father’s quiet strength, of his mother’s hands folding bread in silence. He thought of everything they had lost — and everything they were still holding onto. The flag was still broken. But so was he. And yet, both remained standing.
By Austin smith about a year ago in Fiction
