Through every word, seeks to build bridges — one story, one voice, one moment of peace at a time.
In a small coastal town, where the nights were darker than the sea, lived an old man named Saeed. Everyone called him the Lantern Maker.
By M.Farooq2 months ago in Humans
Every morning, before the sun rose, Rahim walked down to the small bench overlooking the sea. It was old — wooden, cracked, and half-covered in salt stains. But it was their bench.
Every evening, Mr. Kareem sat by his window with a cup of tea. He watched the street below — the narrow alleyway filled with vendors, children, and voices echoing between old brick walls.
The rain had been falling since dawn. Fatima watched it from the bus window — long silver lines running down the glass, blurring the world outside. Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup of tea that had already gone cold.
The alarm buzzed, sharp and relentless. Arjun groaned, reaching for his phone. Another day, another rush. The same crowded train, the same endless meetings, the same noise that filled his head before he even stepped out the door.
There was a man who lived in a city that never slept. Every morning, he woke to the sound of car horns and construction drills, the buzz of phones, and the hum of news he didn’t want to hear.
When the phone rang that morning, Aisha almost didn’t answer. It was early, and she was halfway through packing boxes — another move, another beginning. She’d been living like that for years — one city to the next, chasing work, escaping silence.
The olive tree had been there longer than anyone could remember. Its trunk was twisted and wide, roots gripping the earth like the hands of someone who refused to let go. Every summer, its branches shimmered with silver-green leaves, and when the wind passed through, they whispered — not loudly, but enough for those who paused to hear.
By M.Farooq3 months ago in Humans
When the world below buzzed and roared, the roof was quiet. Mina discovered it by accident — a narrow stairwell behind the laundry room of her apartment building that led to a forgotten rooftop. The first time she pushed open the old iron door, it groaned in protest. A gust of wind greeted her, carrying city dust and the distant hum of traffic.
There was once a village that had forgotten the sound of peace. It wasn’t that wars had torn through it, or that fires had burned its homes.
In the corner of a bustling city, there was a small café that most people passed by without noticing. Its windows were fogged from the warmth inside, and the bell above the door rang softly whenever someone entered.
