Young Adult

The Last Feather of Vithariel
The Last Feather of Vithariel They said the gods once sang from the mountain peaks, and the birds carried their songs across the wind.
By Shafi Ullah Darweshabout a year ago in Fiction
The Cursed Reunion
I remember the initial days in the Orphanage when I was brought there at 4, a small, scared child with a worn-out doll. My brother, Raghav, was six. They told me he was a handful, always getting into trouble, always trying to run away. But to me, he was just my brother, my only link to a past I couldn’t remember. He was my protector, the one who would sneak me extra biscuits at dinner and tell me stories of a world outside the orphanage walls.
By BGabout 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
THE SUBWAY SMILE
Emma hated the subway. Every morning, she squeezed into the crowded cars, headphones on, eyes down, just another face in a sea of commuters. New York City was supposed to be exciting, but after a year, all she felt was invisible.
By ZS Teachabout a year ago in Fiction
When Our Hands Finally Found Each Other
We’d been close since university — long before we ever thought to call ourselves anything more than friends. Back then, life was a blur of lectures, library sessions that lasted until midnight, and hurried walks to coffee shops just before they closed. Alex was there through all of it, a constant in a world that felt like it was forever changing.
By Gift Wesley Sageabout a year ago in Fiction
That Summer, We Almost Lost Each Other
The summer before college felt like it would last forever. Endless days by the lake, sleepy towns that never changed, and the kind of laughter that echoed long after dark. My best friend Emma and I had always been two halves of one story, but that summer, everything shifted. We’d grown up next door to each other, spending most of our childhood tangled up in scraped knees, whispered secrets, and impromptu dance parties to whatever song was playing. Even when high school got messy — the kind of messy that splits you into cliques and changes the way you look at yourself — Emma and I held on to what we had.But that summer, something felt different.It started when a group of travelers parked their rusty campervan near the lake. They were older, with sun-bleached hair and stories about places we’d only seen in movies. They invited us to sit around their fire one night, passing around roasted marshmallows and playing old indie tunes that made the dark feel softer. Emma was enchanted — especially by one guy named Leo, who smiled like someone who hadn’t thought about tomorrow in years.
By Gift Wesley Sageabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Bookstore on Earth
They told us memory was safer in the Cloud. They told us stories were outdated, too subjective, too emotional. Better to stream "CoreFacts" straight into the cortex. Clean. Efficient. Compliant. They told us that paper was dangerous. That pages burned too easily. That ideas — real, messy, unfiltered ideas — could start fires bigger than flames. So we forgot how to read. --- I was seventeen the day I found it — the Bookstore. It wasn’t on a map, obviously. No digital ping, no AI marker, not even a shadow on the overhead satellite grid. It just was. Tucked between two collapsed buildings in a dead zone outside the Northern Sector, where signal dropped and even drones refused to fly. I had run from home, again. My Learning Implant glitched for the third time during compliance training, and they threatened to reset me. Not just my schedule — me. Erase 17 years, back to blank. Easier to reprogram than repair. I climbed through debris and static. And then… I heard it. Not a sound, exactly. More like a hum. A pulse. A voice with no words, just presence. It led me to a metal door half-swallowed by ivy and time. When I touched it, it opened on its own. Inside, the air smelled like something wild and sacred. Paper. --- It wasn’t a bookstore like in the archives — no neon, no chip counters, no ad-drones buzzing quotes. Just shelves. Rows and rows of them. Wooden, scarred, groaning under the weight of forgotten dreams. Each book was alive. I swear. As I passed, they whispered. Not audibly — not really. But I felt them. Like dreams pressing against my skull. Longing. Desperate. Like they knew they were dying. I picked one at random. > The boy folded the map again, but the compass still pointed to her name. That sentence lit up my mind like fireflies. My implant couldn’t translate it. It wasn’t designed to handle metaphor. Emotion. Wonder. So I read more. Page after page. I didn't even realize I was crying until a drop hit the page. The book purred. Yes, purred — like a cat warming under a sunbeam. And then it faded. Not into nothing. Just… into memory. My memory. --- A voice startled me. “You gave it what it wanted.” I turned. An old woman stood behind the counter, her eyes the color of candle smoke. “The stories are starving,” she said. “If someone doesn’t read them, they vanish.” “But I remember it now,” I said. “I have it.” She nodded. “That’s the point.” Each book held a soul, she explained. A memory that once lived, loved, failed, fought, dreamed. In this world of synthetic knowledge and digital thought, no one felt stories anymore. > “We stream everything,” I said. “Isn’t that the same?” “No,” she whispered. “Streaming is like staring through glass. Reading… is breathing someone else’s air.” --- I came back every day. I read until my eyes ached and my heart felt bruised. The stories were wild. Some whispered like lullabies. Others screamed like battle cries. One made me laugh so hard I thought my ribs would crack. Another made me believe in love — not the kind programmed by algorithms, but messy, aching, real love. And every time I finished a book, it would glow faintly and then fade into dust. Into me. --- The woman told me I was becoming a Librarian. Not the kind that scanned barcodes or shelved books. No. A keeper. A transmitter. A walking library of stories too fragile for silicon, too dangerous for digital storage. > “When the last book fades,” she said, “you will be the only one left who remembers.” --- That was months ago. Or years. Time is strange here. I haven’t left the Bookstore in a long while. Part of me thinks I never actually entered. That it entered me. But I know this: The world outside is losing its soul. Faster every day. And somewhere out there, there’s another seventeen-year-old who feels like the world doesn’t quite fit. Who glitches during compliance. Who sees something more. To that person, if you're reading this: Come find me. The stories are waiting. And they remember you. ---
By Asim Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
In the Light of Her Eyes. Content Warning.
It began with a look—a look that pierced the dull haze of a rain-soaked Thursday afternoon in November. I was seated at the window of an urban coffee shop, my nose fogged with steam from coffee and loneliness. Routine was life now. I worked, returned to an empty apartment, listened to the ticking clock at night, and asked myself when something would shatter this locked box I referred to as a heart.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Honest Hustler – Jamal’s Road to Halal Success
In the narrow streets of Lahore, lived a young man named Jamal. He was 19, full of dreams, but without money, education, or support. His father had passed away when he was 13, and from that day, he became the “man of the house.”
By Waqif Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Laughed When the World Slept
Some nights, the quiet holds a secret, and if you listen closely, you’ll hear her laugh. They say the town of Marrow’s End falls silent after midnight. The streets empty, the windows darken, and the only sound is the soft hum of the wind weaving through the cracks in the old wooden houses. But there’s one exception — a sound no one can explain and no one ever talks about. A laugh, ringing clear and sharp, slicing through the silence like a blade.
By Muhammad Ilyasabout a year ago in Fiction
Survive The Lesson
I didn’t fall. I was taken. I remember the front doors of Waterfall Grammar groaning open like a yawning mouth. My cardigan was too thin. I felt the cold bite into me like teeth.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
The You That Was Never Really Here
I finally cried over you once I realized that you were really and truly gone. Our entire family sat around the dining room table and in the adjacent room with their attention divided between whoever was speaking in that moment and whatever was going on behind their phone screens. The only non-victims of such an awkward emotional scene were your great-grandchildren, who were running around and picking at the drywall, unbeknownst to their parents.
By Jennifer Ticknerabout a year ago in Fiction