MD SHAMIM RANA
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Stories (73)
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At the End of the Road, Sunrise
Day 1: Getting there As the vehicle sank into the soft ground at the end of the road, it let out one last sigh. With a backpack thrown over her shoulder and boots crunching on gravel, Lila stepped outside. At the edge of the clearing stood a small hut that had belonged to her grandmother and had been abandoned for a long time. The wood was aged but still intact.
By MD SHAMIM RANA8 months ago in Chapters
The Song of a Bird at Dawn
Day 1: The Window Is Empty Long ago, the house had become quiet, although not in an abrupt or shocking fashion. Slowly, like ivy growing over stone, silence fell. Unnoticed at first, it clung to corners. Then, heavy as unsaid sadness, it spread over her heart, then over the mantle where the photos had been, then over the walls.
By MD SHAMIM RANA8 months ago in History
The Farmer’s Morning Ritual
An old farmer named Liang lived in a peaceful valley shrouded in mist and time, where the river whispered secrets to the stones and the mountains stood like everlasting sages. At the edge of a rice paddy that gleamed in the morning sun like a mirror was his humble wooden cottage, which had paper windows and a sloping tiled roof. The sun-dappled rhythm of each day and a cat named Yun were all that remained of his family.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in Blush
An Unexpected Visitor at Dawn
The frost-kissed grass had a delicate golden color as the first rays of morning streamed across the peaceful countryside. The village of Elmswood lay motionless, encased in the last remnants of sleep, and the rooster had not yet started his call. A thin line of smoke billowed languidly from a chimney in the distance, originating from the cottage of Edith Whittaker, a widow who was more renowned for her isolation than her kindness.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in BookClub
The Lonely Park Bench at Sunrise
The park bench waited every morning before the sun had fully emerged from the darkness. It stood as a silent sentinel watching the lake, tucked away beneath an old elm tree whose limbs draped like languid arms extending after a long dream. Like unshed tears, Dew always clung to the weathered slats and iron arms. It had experienced stillness, joy, grief, and most importantly, love.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
The Smell of Freshly Baked Bread
Some smells persist long after the event has ended. The earthy odor of fall leaves, the crisp perfume of snow-laced air, the smell of rain on dry pavement. However, nothing sticks with me as much as the aroma of freshly made bread—warm, yeasty, slightly sweet, and alive, like a loved one's breath against your neck on a chilly morning.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
Morning Jogger, Midnight Dreamer
Every morning at exactly six o'clock, Isla pulled her hair back into a ponytail, put on her well-worn sneakers, and went outdoors into the clear morning light. The metropolis was still wiping sleep from its eyelids, and the world was quiet. Running was more than simply exercise; it was a ritual, a haven, and a way to let go.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
The Secret Garden Awakens
The Arrival on the First Day When Elara got out of the creaky carriage and onto the cobbled walk leading to Wrenmoor Manor, the sky was heavy with early spring mist. It was a place she had never seen before, not even in pictures. She only knew that it had been bequeathed to her in an unexpected inheritance by her late great-aunt Isolde. Elara saw it as an opportunity to start over because she was exhausted from years of city life and dealing with a shattered heart.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
A Morning of Rain and Regrets
Like tentative fingers tapping on the past, the rain started before dawn, rapping lightly across the window panes. It was a gloomy, muttering rain that seemed to go on forever, enveloping the entire world in a thick sigh. Streetlamps illuminated the city streets below, where puddles formed on the tarmac like mirrors. With his hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees, Aiden sat at the edge of his bed in a small apartment on the fourth floor, gazing at the floor with an expression that could turn any stillness into sorrow.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
Whispers in the Morning Fog
First Day With its mossy stone walls, winding paths where horse hooves had rang, and a hushed atmosphere that only ancient places could have, Windmere was a peaceful village. Every morning the fog came, whispering down chimney stacks, curling through the trees, and resting on the cobblestone streets like a memory no one could quite remember.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in Lifehack
The Artist Who Painted the Dawn
An elderly man named Eliot Venn lived in the seaside village of Marindale, where the water embraced the cliffs and seagulls composed poetry in the sky. He was an artist, but not the sort you see at a weekend market or gallery. Eliot did not ever sell his writing. He never showed it. His house, a bungalow surrounded by ivy and situated on the eastern cliffs, was a haven of lost canvases, their hues hidden from the outside world. Eliot had a lot of talent, but that was not what made him special. He was talking about it. He always depicted the sunrise in his paintings.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in History
A Cup of Coffee and a Chance Encounter
As Amelia entered the café and brushed the snow from her coat, the bells above the door jingled sweetly. The smell of freshly brewed coffee enticed her to exhale, and the place's warmth enveloped her like a blanket. After weeks of dreary skies, it was one of the few January mornings when the sky appeared nearly blue.
By MD SHAMIM RANA9 months ago in Confessions
