Abuzar khan
Stories (123)
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From Graves to Garden Hearts
In the quiet town of Elderhollow, where mist hung low and time seemed to stroll instead of run, there lay an old cemetery on the hill. It was not frightening, nor desolate. Moss curled over the stones like green lace, and birds often sang from the trees that bowed over the resting souls. But still, people stayed away — all but one.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
I Slept in That Forest Once — And Died to Live Again
I slept in that forest once. Just for a night. Just to escape. That’s what I told myself when I packed nothing but a notebook, a flask of tea, and the ache in my chest. The world had grown too loud, too cruel, and I needed to disappear.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
Snowball and the Whispering Moon
Snowball was not quite a rabbit, nor exactly a fox. He had fur as white as freshly fallen dreams and eyes like polished sapphires. In the village, they called him the quiet wanderer, for he never made a sound. Not even his paws left prints in the snow.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
She Was the First in Her Village to Touch the Stars
They said the stars were not for touching. The elders in the village of Olya repeated it like a bedtime prayer. “The sky belongs to the gods,” they’d say, “and the stars are their lanterns. Look, but do not reach.”
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
Late-Night Confessions Over Cold Coffee
The bell above the door didn’t ring—it coughed. That old diner on 9th and Rosewood had stopped trying to be anything other than what it was: tired linoleum floors, booths with torn red vinyl, and a jukebox that only played silence. The only thing still working was the neon sign in the window. It sputtered COFFEE into the dark like a promise that nobody asked for.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Sold Her Paintings Too Soon
Elena never meant to sell the first one. It was a small canvas—just a girl under a red umbrella walking through a storm. She had painted it in the early days, when no one but the rain and her mother’s old piano knew how much her heart bled into the bristles of her brush.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
The House with No Exit Plan
It was the kind of house no one remembered moving into. A corner lot wrapped in hedges that grew faster than they should, windows that caught the morning light just right, and floors that never creaked in protest. It looked ordinary from the outside—safe, even. But everyone who entered learned the same lesson:
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
The First Cut
The first cut wasn’t with a blade. It wasn’t even visible. It came one spring morning, in the back of a red pickup truck with rusted doors and a cracked windshield, the kind of vehicle that smelled like gasoline, coffee, and broken promises. I was sixteen. My father was silent.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Poets
