Asghar ali awan
Bio
I'm Asghar ali awan
"Senior storyteller passionate about crafting timeless tales with powerful morals. Every story I create carries a deep lesson, inspiring readers to reflect and grow ,I strive to leave a lasting impact through words".
Stories (35)
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The Boy Who Traded His Fear. Content Warning.
Ali grew up in a small, dusty village in northern Pakistan, surrounded by fields of wheat and corn. His father was a farmer who believed that true success came only from the sweat of your brow. “Money made behind a screen,” he would often say, “isn’t real money.”
By Asghar ali awan2 months ago in Education
The Whispering Shadows. Content Warning.
The old house at the end of Hollow Street had stood abandoned for nearly fifty years. Its windows were cracked like spider webs, its roof sagged under the weight of forgotten years, and the wind that passed through its broken walls always carried whispers faint, chilling, and disturbingly human.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Horror
The Whispers Beneath Blackwood Manor
It was nearly midnight when Evelyn Crane at Blackwood Manor, the sprawling, ivy-choked estate her late uncle had left her. The old mansion loomed like a corpse against the moonlit sky its windows dark, its doors gaping, its walls seeming to breathe with the wind.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Horror
The Bench at Platform 4
By [Asghar ali awan] Every morning, the same whistle pierced the crisp air of dawn. The 7:45 train slid into Platform 4, a routine so familiar that even the pigeons seemed to know the schedule. Amidst the hum of engines and the murmurs of sleepy commuters, there was always one old wooden bench, worn smooth by years of waiting and two strangers who sat on it.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Fiction
The Echoes Beneath the Lake
Author [Asghar ail awan] The winter that year arrived earlier than anyone expected. By the time November had barely begun, the lake behind Old Pine Hill had already turned to glass. It wasn’t the kind of ice you could skate on yet — thin and uncertain, like a secret not ready to be told.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter Home
The sound of the postman’s boots on the gravel was enough to send Clara’s heart racing every morning. It had been three months since James left for the front, and every letter that arrived carried the warmth of his presence, even across oceans and battlefields. She lived for the scratch of his handwriting, the way he always signed off with “All my love, always — James.”
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Fiction
