Through every word, seeks to build bridges — one story, one voice, one moment of peace at a time.
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.
By M.Farooq2 months ago in Humans
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.
The sun had just begun to spill its soft golden light through the cracked windows of Class 5B when Miss Rukhsana unlocked the door.
When Sadia’s husband, Faisal, passed away, the house didn’t just become empty — it became silent. Not the soft, peaceful kind of silence that soothes the soul.
The old wooden box had always been there — tucked away at the back of Nadia’s closet, beneath stacks of clothes and forgotten memories.
The garden behind Rania’s house had been forgotten for years. Tall weeds tangled around broken flowerbeds, and the small stone path was barely visible under a carpet of moss.
The old apartment building on Maple Street had seen better days. Cracked walls, flickering lights, and neighbors who rarely spoke beyond polite nods.
The narrow alley behind the old market was never quiet. Children played football with dented cans. Shopkeepers shouted over each other. The air smelled of spices, rain, and sometimes — faintly — of paint.
Every evening, just before sunset, Farid walked to the old bridge at the edge of town. He had been doing this for months — always alone, always at the same time.
