Through every word, seeks to build bridges — one story, one voice, one moment of peace at a time.
THE STORY The town of Rafiya Bay stretched along a jagged coastline, where the ocean met the cliffs in foamy waves. Generations of families had fished these waters, navigating storms, tides, and hidden rocks. And for generations, the lighthouse at the edge of the cliff had guided them home safely.
By M.Farooqabout a month ago in Humans
THE STORY The town of Saharabad had once been famous for its gardens. Every home had a little patch of greenery, a few flowers, or a small vegetable patch. But the largest garden, in the center of town, had been abandoned for years.
THE STORY The town of Almarah was once known for one thing above all else — its bell. Every morning at sunrise, the old bell in the town square rang softly, echoing through narrow streets and open windows. It marked the beginning of the day, calling shopkeepers to open their doors, children to hurry to school, and elders to sit outside with their tea.
THE STORY The town of Grey Hollow had once been known for its beautiful night sky. People would sit on rooftops, fields, and riverbanks to watch stars that glowed like diamonds scattered across velvet.
THE STORY Every autumn, the small town of Nourfield transformed into a sea of golden leaves. Children walked to school kicking orange and red piles, the air crisp, the sky calm.
THE STORY The small town of Dar-e-Noor was divided—not by walls, not by borders, but by a single, crumbling wooden bridge that crossed the quiet river running through its heart.
The city of Mehrabad was once celebrated for its vibrant neighborhoods. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between old brick houses, and lanterns lit every corner in the evening. Families would gather in courtyards, sharing stories, food, and music.
By M.Farooq2 months ago in Humans
The village of Kiranpur had once been famous for its river. Clear water ran between the fields, reflecting the sunlight like a river of gold. Children swam and fished, women washed clothes while sharing laughter, and farmers carried their harvests along the riverbank.
In the heart of a city fractured by years of conflict and mistrust, there was a neighborhood few dared to enter. Empty houses, cracked sidewalks, and silent streets told the story of a community divided by old feuds, broken promises, and misunderstandings.
For as long as anyone in the towns of Ravleen and Busaira could remember, the old stone bridge connecting them had been the heart of the community. Merchants carried spices and fabrics across it, children raced along its worn stones after school, and festivals spilled over its center with laughter, music, and bright lanterns.
Between two ancient mountains lay a peaceful little village called Noorne, a place filled with warm people, green fields, and gentle streams. Yet every evening, when night fell, the sky above the village became nothing but a dark, hollow emptiness.
In the heart of a small, historic town, two neighborhoods lay on opposite sides of a narrow, old stone bridge. For decades, the residents had avoided one another. A small disagreement over a property line had escalated into years of cold silences, gossip, and mistrust. The bridge, once built to connect, had become a silent divider. People crossed it only for errands, hurrying across without a word, their eyes fixed straight ahead.
