Through every word, seeks to build bridges — one story, one voice, one moment of peace at a time.
It was a cold Sunday morning when Rehan missed his train — again. He had been running late for his job interview, his bag slung over one shoulder, his heart pounding as the train doors closed in front of him.
By M.Farooq2 months ago in Humans
The phone rang at 4:17 a.m. In the dim glow of her apartment, Mariam stirred awake. Her first instinct was fear — calls at that hour rarely brought good news.
Every morning before sunrise, Sami, a quiet old man, walked to the small wooden bridge that crossed the narrow river running through his village.
It had been raining for three days straight. The kind of slow, patient rain that softened everything — the air, the roads, the people.
The old apartment building stood quietly at the end of the street, half-forgotten by time. Its walls were faded, balconies chipped, and the elevator, as usual, refused to work. The residents had long stopped expecting it to.
The community center was quiet that afternoon — unusually quiet. Only the faint hum of ceiling fans and the smell of old wood filled the air.
Every evening, as the sun dipped behind the jagged city skyline, Sabeen climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop of her apartment building. Dust coated the concrete steps, and the railings were chipped from years of neglect, but she didn’t mind. This rooftop had become her sanctuary.
Mariam loved the library. It wasn’t a grand, modern building with flashy lights and air conditioning that smelled of plastic. It was old, with tall wooden shelves, worn carpet, and a faint scent of dust and ink that somehow made her heart calm. The soft murmur of pages turning, the distant footsteps of visitors, and the quiet hum of the radiator created a rhythm she had come to rely on.
Every morning, long before the city streets buzzed with traffic, Adeel unlocked the door to his small bakery. The warm scent of freshly baked bread, cinnamon rolls, and cardamom buns filled the air, mixing with the gentle hum of the ovens and the faint crackle of the early morning radio.
The river ran quietly under the old stone bridge, its waters reflecting the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The city around it hummed softly, but here, the world seemed paused — the constant chatter of traffic and distant sirens softened to a gentle backdrop.
Zoya had always loved the city park behind her apartment. It wasn’t famous or large — just a modest green space with a few benches, flowering shrubs, and an old fountain that had long stopped working.
The city had fallen into a muted quiet by the time Ali stepped onto the platform. Neon lights flickered over puddles left by the afternoon rain, turning the concrete into a river of reflection. His coat was damp, his shoes leaving wet prints on the tiles.
