Azimullah Sarwari
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Stories (17)
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“The Day Death Knocked Softly”
The Day Death Knocked Softly It happened on a Tuesday. Michael Reeves was an ordinary man, 52 years old, a biology teacher, a father of two, and a man who considered death a medical fact, not a mystery. But on that particular Tuesday, at precisely 3:14 PM, his heart stopped.
By Azimullah Sarwari7 months ago in Humans
The Bridge Between Us
I don’t remember exactly when the bridge first began to crack. Maybe it wasn’t just one moment. Maybe it was thousands — soft, silent moments that fell like dust between us. Unnoticed, unspoken, until everything was covered in a quiet kind of distance.
By Azimullah Sarwari7 months ago in Poets
The Soldier Who Forgot His Name
He didn’t remember his name. That was the first truth he had to make peace with. When he woke up beneath the crumbled wall of a nameless town, with ash in his mouth and blood drying on his fingers, there was no name echoing in his mind. Only a low humming, like distant thunder that never struck, and the heavy silence that follows a scream too loud to hear.
By Azimullah Sarwari7 months ago in Psyche
When the Mind Becomes a Maze
My mind is not a home anymore — it’s a maze of echoes I can’t escape. There was a time when thinking felt like clarity, when my thoughts flowed like quiet rivers winding through open valleys. But somewhere along the way, those rivers turned into loops — endless, echoing circles of “what if,” “why,” and “was it enough?”
By Azimullah Sarwari7 months ago in Psyche
