Mazharul Dihan
Bio
I just love to write stories for people
Stories (20)
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A Love That Will Never Die
The wind was soft that afternoon, rustling through the tall grass by the lake where Evelyn sat, her fingers trailing through the pages of a worn journal. Fire and lavender hues covered the sky as the sun sank slowly below the horizon. Evelyn had spent her entire life thinking about him, and that evening begged to be remembered. Leo was his name. They had met in the spring of ’82, when she was just seventeen and he had a laugh like sunshine—loud, careless, contagious.
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Humans
The Sound Of Her Smile
When Sam was born, the world was silent. A childhood shaded with sign language, lip reading, and a soft, humming quiet that he’d come to love like an old friend. He didn't really mind his silence. He had music through the vibrations of a piano, voices in the flicker of lips, and laughter in the fluttering of hands.
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Humans
The Silence Of Wexley Manor
Ivy and shadows covered the old Wexley Manor, which stood like a forgotten monument at the town's edge. Since the Branwick family vanished without a trace twenty years ago, no one dared venture near it. However, curiosity is cruel. Mara wasn't looking for trouble when she dug through her grandmother's attic and discovered the journal. The name Edith Branwick was printed on the brittle leather-bound book. Pages written in frantic handwriting on the inside described whispers in the walls, reflections that moved independently, and what Edith referred to as "the silence between the ticks." The majority would have given up reading. Mara wasn't. She found herself holding her journal in front of the rusted gate of Wexley Manor on a stormy afternoon. Despite the fact that it was early autumn, her breath became cloudy in the cold air. As if the house had been waiting, the front door creaked open before she touched it. Time had stood still inside. Dust spewed through the gray light from the cracked windows as furniture sat beneath yellowed sheets. Mara told herself that it was just old pipes, but the smell of mold and something metallic—maybe blood—hung in the air. She followed the journal’s entries like a map. “The second-floor nursery, behind the armoire,” it read. As she climbed the grand staircase, each step groaning under her weight begged her to turn around. In the nursery, faded wallpaper peeled like curling fingers. A broken crib sat in the corner, and a one-eyed teddy bear lay beneath it. The armoire stood out against the wall. Mara took her time. She then moved it to the side. A door exists behind it. The handle was extremely icy. The temperature immediately dropped as she opened it. Broken mirrors lined the walls of the dark, narrow hallway beyond. They showed more than just her image—some of them were smiling, others were crying, and one was bleeding from the eyes. She proceeded forward. The hallway bent impossibly, the ceiling shrinking until she had to crawl. The silence was oppressive—no wind, no distant thunder, just the slow, wet sound of her breathing and the thump of her heart.
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Horror
Some Doors Should Never Be Opened-Even A Little
Emma noticed the keyhole the first night she was in the old house. It was on the door at the end of the hallway — solid oak, locked tight, no knob, just a small brass keyhole no bigger than her pinky nail. The realtor had mentioned the room was “sealed off” due to renovations, but Emma had bought the house cheap and as-is. She didn't think much of it.
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Horror
High-Performance Home Office: Working from Home and Maintaining Productivity
1. Establish a solid routine first: A consistent daily routine is one of the most powerful ways to stay on track. It's tempting to hit snooze or roll right from bed to your computer when your workday doesn't start with a commute, but doing so can hinder your focus. Begin your day at the same time each morning, just like you would if you were heading into the office. Put on your clothes, eat breakfast, and plan your day. Starting with a sense of structure sets the tone and signals to your brain that it’s time to focus.
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Education
A Chance in the Fall
Jack didn't want to be loved. Not during the golden lull of October, when the trees had crowns of fire-colored foliage and the wind carried secrets. The Velvet Page, a small, quiet bookstore on the corner of Main Street, was where he worked during the day. He preferred a slow, secure, and predictable life. On the other hand, Claire was a whirlwind of improvisation. After quitting her job in the city, she had just moved to the town. She traded coffee-fueled meetings for painting landscapes and reading by the lake because she was getting sick of the noise and schedules. One rainy afternoon, their worlds collided. Claire ducked into The Velvet Page to get out of the rain, her damp auburn hair curled around her cheeks, and her eyes looked at the shelves like they had all the answers. When she came to the counter, she said, "You've got a great collection of poetry." Blinking from his notebook, Jack looked up. He said, clearing his throat, "I try." "Have any favorites?" “Rumi. However, I'll read anything that makes me feel a little sad. Jack grinned. "We've got a lot of pain in aisle three." That was the beginning. Claire began going to the store almost every day. She occasionally bought books. She occasionally did not. They talked for hours at times. Occasionally, only a few minutes. However, something gentle began to emerge between them as a result of those quiet exchanges—Claire's laughter and Jack's rare but warm smiles. Jack began to watch the door whenever it jingled toward the end of November, hoping it was her. In the midst of the gray, Claire brought light and color into his little world. She showed him how to make chai tea, showed him her drawings of autumn landscapes, and once even read him poetry aloud while the store was empty and the rain was gently tapping on the windows. At first, Jack had no idea what was going on. He had never experienced anything like this before. However, one night, following her departure, he discovered a folded note on top of a book she had borrowed. It read: in her wacky handwriting. "I think I want to write a story with you if love is a story." His long-dead heart sprang back to life. He awaited with nervous anticipation the following morning. However, Claire was absent. neither the next day. Days went by. Jack made an effort to tell himself to give up hope, but he couldn't help himself. He thought back on every smile and glance, wondering if he had just imagined everything. She returned a week later, just as the last leaves gave way to winter. She looked sorry with flushed cheeks and eyes. She said as she entered the store, "I had to go back to the city for a few days." "Family matters." In an effort to maintain his heart rate, Jack nodded. "You wrote a note." She smiled hesitantly. "I intended it." He raced his heart as he walked around the counter, now standing close. "Then I suppose... I ought to tell you something," Claire shook her head. “Oh?”
By Mazharul Dihan9 months ago in Humans
U.S. Under wartime law, the Supreme Court temporarily stops deporting Venezuelan migrants.
The United States Supreme Court has temporarily halted the deportation of a group of Venezuelan migrants under a wartime immigration law in a significant and closely watched decision. The ruling halts the Biden administration’s recent efforts to apply Section 212(f) of the Immigration and Nationality Act, a provision dating back to 1952, which grants the president sweeping authority to restrict immigration in times of national emergency or when it is deemed detrimental to the interests of the United States.
By Mazharul Dihan10 months ago in Journal
The Hollow Ones
Whispers that weren't quite human were carried by the wind as it howled through the skeletal trees of Black Hollow. Claire tightened her coat, cursing herself for taking the shortcut through the woods. The old logging road had seemed like a good idea at dusk—shave twenty minutes off her hike back to town. But now, with the moon hidden behind thick clouds and the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly rancid, she regretted every step.
By Mazharul Dihan10 months ago in Horror
