Azmat Roman ✨
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Stories (158)
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The Girl Who Drew Doors.
In the quiet town of Elmbrook, where the fog rolled in thick every morning and the rain tapped gentle lullabies against windowpanes, lived a girl named Mira. She was an oddity by the town’s standards—not because she wore mismatched socks or talked to the crows, but because she carried a piece of chalk wherever she went. Bright blue, always sharpened to a perfect point.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Signed, Your Ghost
The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. Mara found it tucked neatly into her mailbox, nestled between bills and a coupon booklet. There was no return address—only her name handwritten in a script that looked strangely familiar. The envelope was pale gray, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp bearing the impression of a feather.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Yesterday's Future
The last time I stood on the rooftop of our old apartment building, the city looked different. Back then, we were seventeen. The skyline shimmered with possibility, every blinking light a promise waiting to be kept. We called it “the edge of tomorrow”—that crumbling rooftop with graffiti on the walls, where dreams felt like they might leap straight into the sky.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror Remember
The mirror had been in our family for generations. Tall, framed in dark oak, with curling patterns carved along the edge like vines frozen in time. It stood in my grandmother's room, pressed between her wardrobe and window, half-covered by a faded velvet cloth.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
We Fell in Love Between the Pages
It began, as the best stories often do, in a bookstore. I had just moved to the city, the kind of move you make when you're not sure what you're running from or chasing. A fresh start, I told myself. I wandered into a little secondhand bookstore tucked between a laundromat and a coffee shop. It wasn’t anything special at first glance—dusty shelves, faint smell of paper and cinnamon—but something about it felt like home.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Vanished Twice
The first time Leah vanished, she was six years old. It was a sticky summer afternoon in the quiet town of Arden Falls. Leah's mother, Marlene, had left her playing in the backyard while she ran inside to grab lemonade. When she returned, the swing was empty, swaying in the breeze. The gate was latched. There were no signs of a struggle—no footprints but Leah’s.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
What The Ocean Took
The ocean had always been a part of Clara’s life. She was born in a cottage on the windswept cliffs of the Maine coast, raised by a fisherman father who smelled of salt and seaweed and a mother who hummed old sea shanties as lullabies. Every morning, the tide whispered stories through the stones and sea-glass outside their home. Clara used to listen, believing the waves carried messages from another world.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
The Day My Mind Betrayed Me
It started like any other day. The sun filtered through the beige curtains of my apartment, casting familiar patterns on the wooden floor. The kettle whistled. The dog barked downstairs. My calendar reminded me of a client meeting at 10 AM. Normal, routine, forgettable.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Fiction
Litters I Never Sent
I’ve always believed words have weight. That’s why I wrote them down, and that’s why I never sent them. The first letter I ever wrote to you was the night after you left. Not a goodbye—because you never gave me one—but a memory I couldn’t let go of. It was a Tuesday. You had that stupid green scarf wrapped three times around your neck even though it wasn’t cold. I hated that scarf. You said it smelled like your mother. I said that didn’t make it a good thing.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
