meerjanan

Joined August 2025

61 stories

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A curious storyteller with a passion for turning simple moments into meaningful words. Writing about life, purpose, and the quiet strength we often overlook. Follow for stories that inspire, heal, and empower.

Stories (61)

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The Painter of Forgotten Faces
In a narrow alley where the cobblestones were worn smooth by time and silence, there lived a woman named Imaan. Her home was a crumbling stone building with ivy curling around its windows like old thoughts clinging to the mind. She kept to herself, speaking only when spoken to, and even then, her words were few and soft, like the brush of a feather on paper.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Art
The Sound of Her Steps
In a quiet neighborhood where jasmine climbed over old brick walls and the breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from the corner bakery, lived Mrs. Kareem.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Psyche
The Marriage Proposal Mix-Up
In the heart of Gulab Nagar—a town where news travels faster than a scooter with a flat tire—lived a young man named Shani. At 26, he was what you might call selectively ambitious. He could nap for eight hours straight without interruption, debate the best chai spot in town for hours, and had once written a 10-page essay on why socks are overrated. But when it came to jobs? He preferred to “explore his options.”
By meerjanan5 months ago in Humor
The Clockmaker’s Gift
Tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a baker’s shop with flour-dusted windows, there was a narrow lane most people walked past without noticing. At the end of it stood a small, unassuming store with a crooked wooden sign that read: Naveed the Clockmaker. The paint was worn, the letters softened by years of rain and sun, but the name still held.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Lifehack
*The Forgotten Bench*
In a small town cradled by rolling hills and thick forest, there was a wooden bench by the lake. It wasn’t grand—its green paint had peeled, one leg was uneven, and the wood bore the soft scars of time. But if you sat there long enough, you might feel something linger in the air—quiet, familiar, like the echo of a laugh carried by the wind.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction
The Mirror in Room 313
Rain lashed against the cracked windows of Hillview Manor as Adeel pulled his jacket tighter, stepping through the front door. The wind howled behind him like a voice trying to say something just out of earshot. The lobby was dim, lit by a single bulb that buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across peeling wallpaper.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Horror
The Last Appointment
On the third floor of City General Hospital, tucked between the radiology wing and the pharmacy, was a small, unassuming room with a faded nameplate on the door: Dr. Fareed – Internal Medicine.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Psyche
The Brush Between Worlds
Tucked between a subway entrance and a glass-fronted café in the heart of the city stood a small, unassuming studio with peeling blue paint and a hand-lettered sign: Zehra’s Corner – Paint. Breathe. Be.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Art
The Letter That Crossed Empires
In the year 1271, the world trembled beneath the shadow of the Mongol Empire. From the steppes of Central Asia to the gates of Eastern Europe, the name Khan carried both fear and awe. Kublai Khan, ruler of the Yuan Dynasty and grandson of Genghis, sat in his summer capital of Shangdu—a city of jade-tiled roofs and wide courtyards where scholars, merchants, and emissaries from a hundred lands gathered.
By meerjanan5 months ago in History
The Window That Waited
In a quiet corner of the city, where the traffic never quite quieted and the buildings leaned into each other like old friends, stood a weathered apartment block with peeling paint and a rusted fire escape. It wasn’t grand or new, but it had stood for decades, holding stories in its walls.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Fiction
“The Last Letter of Kabul”
Kabul, 1839 — The air was thick with dust and silence, the kind that settles before a storm. A fifteen-year-old boy named Ameer moved through the narrow alleys of the old city like a shadow, his bare feet quiet against the sun-baked stones. In his hand, pressed tightly against his chest, was a folded sheet of paper sealed with wax—the last words of his father.
By meerjanan5 months ago in History
“The Misadventures of Mr. Bashir’s Goat”
In the sleepy village of Chamanpur, where the rooster crowed like a clock and the gossip traveled faster than the wind, lived a man named Mr. Bashir. He was a man of stature—both in height and in self-opinion. With a thick, well-groomed mustache that curled at the ends like a vintage cartoon villain’s, and a waistcoat that strained just a little too hard across his belly, Bashir carried himself like a man who’d never lost an argument.
By meerjanan5 months ago in Humor

meerjanan

Bio

Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(61)

Filter by community

The Painter of Forgotten Faces

The Sound of Her Steps

The Marriage Proposal Mix-Up

The Clockmaker’s Gift

*The Forgotten Bench*

The Mirror in Room 313

The Last Appointment

The Brush Between Worlds

The Letter That Crossed Empires

The Window That Waited

“The Last Letter of Kabul”

“The Misadventures of Mr. Bashir’s Goat”

Stories (61)

The Forgotten Bench