Azmat Roman ✨

Joined April 2025

158 stories

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Stories (158)

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My Father's Voice in the Attic.
It started with a voice—soft, unmistakable, and impossibly familiar. I was alone in the house, brushing dust from old photo albums in the parlor, when I heard it. A low murmur floated down from the attic, like a conversation overheard through a wall.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Until the Sky Fails .
They made the promise when they were ten. Sitting on the rusted roof of an abandoned train car, legs swinging over the edge, dirt on their cheeks and sun in their hair, Eli turned to Mara and said, “Promise me you’ll never leave.”
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Letter to the Ocean.
They said she talked to the ocean like it was an old friend. Every morning at dawn, Lena would walk barefoot across the cold sand of Greyrock Bay, a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand. She’d stand where the waves met the shore, let the foam kiss her toes, and read her letter out loud.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The House that Listens
They say the house at the edge of the woods can hear you. Not in the way people overhear secrets or dogs tilt their heads at sound. No—the house listens. It pays attention. It remembers.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Our Names in the Ashes
The wind blew soft over the charred remains of the village. Smoke still curled like the fingers of the dead, grasping at the sky in silent mourning. Beneath the scorched earth, the bones of yesterday whispered names long forgotten, names now written only in the ashes.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
She Forgets Me Every Morning.
The first time she forgot, I thought it was a joke. Ellie had always been playful, the kind of woman who left notes in my shoes, who named the spider in the corner “Gerald,” who kissed me every morning and said, “Nice to meet you, stranger.”
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Where the Quiet Things Wait.
It began with a hum. Not a loud one, not anything you’d notice in a crowd. But in the stillness of the woods behind the old Thatcher house, it hummed low and constant—like the earth itself was whispering.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
When the Birds Forgot to Fly
No one noticed at first. A few birds lingering longer on tree branches. A flock of starlings circling but never soaring. People thought it was the weather—too warm, too cold, too still. The scientists called it an anomaly, a disruption in migratory patterns, nothing to worry about.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Photograph.
They found the camera in the rubble—an old Polaroid, scuffed and half-buried beneath the collapsed beams of what used to be a café. It still had film inside. That, more than anything, felt like a miracle.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Silence Between Lighting.
The storm began the night my father stopped speaking. At first, I thought it was just the rain—thick sheets slamming against our farmhouse windows like fists of water. The lightning came in bursts, brief and violent, illuminating the hollow look in his eyes. Then came the silence, longer than thunder’s pause, deeper than the quiet that follows grief.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
We Bloomed us in The Dark.
The power cut out on the first night of the siege, sealing the city inside a hush so absolute that we could hear our own heartbeats scraping fear across our ribs. Windows glowed faint ember-orange from candle stubs; the streets outside lay ink-black, littered with echoes of distant shell bursts. That was when the caretaker herded the remaining tenants of Ashgrove Apartments—four families on the brink of unraveling—into the building’s unused basement greenhouse.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Beneath the Paper Sky
When the world ended, it didn’t crumble into fire or freeze into silence—it folded. It began on a Tuesday, with the sky. One moment it was bright with morning sun, clouds drifting lazily across the blue. The next, a sharp crease appeared overhead, as if some invisible hand had bent the heavens along a straight edge. Birds scattered. Planes veered. And within hours, more folds appeared—crisp, geometric lines slicing through the sky like origami instructions.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction