Abuzar khan
Stories (123)
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The Window That Never Closed
I was thirteen when I noticed the window in our living room never closed fully. It wasn’t broken—it just stopped an inch short, letting the wind slip through like a secret. Mom used to put a thick velvet curtain over it, tucking it tightly as if she could shut out the cold and the world together. But I’d always pull it open the moment she left the room. I wanted to feel the wind. I needed to.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Echo of Empty Rooms
I was twelve when I first realized that silence could be heavy. Not just absence-of-sound heavy, but thick—like molasses in the air. The kind of quiet that clings to your skin, seeps into your bones, and hums in the corners of rooms long after voices are gone.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Boy Who Lived in the Mirror
Ever since I was a child, I noticed something strange about the mirror in my bedroom. It wasn’t just a reflection of me — it was something more. Sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and the world outside faded away, the boy in the mirror seemed to move on his own.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Fiction
A Voice I Only Hear in Dreams
I first heard her voice in a dream. It wasn’t a whisper or a shout, but something in between—soft and clear, like a melody drifting across a quiet room. I woke up with the sound still humming in my ears, but when I reached for it in the waking world, it slipped away like smoke through my fingers. The memory of that voice clung to me, fragile and elusive, like a secret waiting just beyond reach.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Psyche
I Named My Loneliness After You
You left on a Tuesday. I remember because it rained, and the coffee I made that morning went cold sitting untouched on the windowsill. You left quietly—no screaming, no door slamming, no final hug. Just a half-empty closet and a silence that didn’t know how to leave with you.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Rain That Raised Me
I didn’t grow up with lullabies or warm embraces, but I did grow up with rain. Some children had parents who held them close when the world turned gray. I had a tin roof and a broken window that whistled when the wind pushed through it. That sound—low, soft, then rising—was the only song that cradled me to sleep. The rain didn’t judge. It didn’t shout. It simply came and stayed, as if it knew I needed it.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Humans
The Forgotten Song of My Father
When I was a child, my father’s presence filled the house like smoke—always there, lingering, yet impossible to hold. He wasn’t cruel, and he wasn’t kind. He was quiet. A man of few words, fewer expressions, and a kind of stillness that made even the walls hesitate. He simply existed, floating in and out of rooms, his footsteps muffled by worn carpets and quiet regret.
By Abuzar khan6 months ago in Families
The 6:17 to Somewhere New
Marc hadn’t taken the 6:17 PM train in nearly two years. That train used to be his daily escape—his rhythm, his ritual—until one day it quietly became his cage. Back when he worked in the glass-and-steel tower downtown, Marc believed in rhythms. Wake up. Coffee. Commute. Keyboard clatter. Lunch break. More clatter. Train home. Repeat. The predictability gave him purpose, or at least the illusion of it.
By Abuzar khan7 months ago in Humans
The Day the Door Stayed Closed
I still remember the way the light spilled through the cracks in the curtain that morning. The dust danced like tiny spirits in the air. Outside, children rode their bicycles and shouted with laughter. But inside, the house was silent—too silent.
By Abuzar khan7 months ago in Humans
