Masih Ullah
Bio
I’m Masih Ullah—a bold voice in storytelling. I write to inspire, challenge, and spark thought. No filters, no fluff—just real stories with purpose. Follow me for powerful words that provoke emotion and leave a lasting impact.
Stories (52)
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The Village That Never Forgot Her Name
When the world moved on, one village kept her language alive — through love and legends. Tucked between the shadowed arms of two ancient hills, wrapped in the breath of cedar and lavender, lay the village of Aremia. Not marked on modern maps, not whispered in tourist trails, Aremia endured in silence — not forgotten, but quietly remembering.
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in History
She Wasn't Real — But She Saved My Life
I was eight years old the first time I saw her. She was sitting on the swings at the park, gently rocking back and forth, her sunflower-yellow ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She turned to me with a grin that felt like sunlight and said, “I’ve been waiting.”
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Fiction
My Grandmother Spoke a Language That No Longer Exists
When I was a child, my grandmother used to mutter under her breath in a language that no one else in the family understood. She never taught it to us. Sometimes, when she was tired or when something slipped out in frustration, words would fall from her lips like fragments of a broken spell. We would ask her what she said, and she would shrug it off. “Old words,” she’d say. “No use anymore.”
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Families
The Day My Father Disappeared Into Silence
I was eight years. old when my father stopped speaking. Not just to me, but to the world. One day he was humming old folk songs in the kitchen, and the next, his voice was gone—not in volume, but in presence. He was still there, his body casting the same tall shadow on the porch, his fingers still gently fixing clocks and radios like before. But something had changed—something invisible, irreversible.
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Families
My Grandmother Spoke a Language That No Longer Exists
Myrandmotherpokeanguagehatoongerxist When I was a child, my grandmother used to mutter under her breath in a language that no one else in the family understood. She never taught it to us. Sometimes, when she was tired or when something slipped out in frustration, words would fall from her lips like fragments of a broken spell. We would ask her what she said, and she would shrug it off. “Old words,” she’d say. “No use anymore.”
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in History
The Game That Saved My Mental Health
There was a stretch in my life, not so long ago, where everything felt like it was crumbling. I was 27, stuck in a job that felt like an endless loop of meaningless tasks, and a relationship that had turned cold and quiet. The isolation, especially post-pandemic, had turned inward—I stopped talking to my friends, I skipped meals, and the idea of getting out of bed each day started to feel like a herculean task. It wasn't any one thing, just a slow accumulation of disappointments, fatigue, and loneliness. I was slipping into a version of myself I didn’t recognize, or like.
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Gamers
The Classroom That Refused to Segregate
In ering summer of 1942, deep in the pine forests of Monroe County, Alabama, stood a one-room schoolhouse named Pine Hill School. The school was nothing remarkable to the casual eye: weather-beaten wood siding, a rickety bell tower, and a chalkboard perpetually coated in dust. But within its cracked walls unfolded a quiet revolution—a defiance so subtle it barely left a footprint in history books, yet bold enough to change the lives of every child who passed through its doors.
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Education
The Mirror That Remembers
The Mirror That Remembers Every truth has two sides—only one looks back. The mirror arrived on a rainy Thursday. Wrapped in oilcloth and twine, it leaned against the porch of Eleanor Wren's inherited Victorian house like an uninvited guest. There was no note, no return address—just a scrawled name on a small tag: "To Eleanor. It’s time."
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Humans
Choking Skies
"When the air turned toxic, survival became the only story left to tell." The sky was once blue. People had forgotten what that looked like. For the last twenty years, the sky above the city of Virelia had been a permanent shade of gray—thick, heavy, and still. The sun rarely pierced through the layers of soot and smog, and when it did, it cast an eerie, orange glow that felt more like a warning than warmth.
By Masih Ullah7 months ago in Earth
