Musawir Shah
Bio
Each story by Musawir Shah blends emotion and meaning—long-lost reunions, hidden truths, or personal rediscovery. His work invites readers into worlds of love, healing, and hope—where even the smallest moments can change everything.
Stories (47)
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The House That Wrote Letters Back
When Lydia first stepped into the weathered seaside house, it smelled faintly of salt and old wood. The realtor had called it charming with potential, but to Lydia, it felt like something else entirely—like the house had been waiting. She had come here after her divorce, tired of the city, tired of voices that promised comfort but carried nothing but noise. The ocean was meant to be her quiet, her restart. But the very first morning, she discovered something that turned her solitude into a mystery: a folded letter on the kitchen table in her own looping handwriting.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Fiction
The Reflection That Spoke First
The first time it happened, I thought I was sleep-deprived. I had dragged myself into the bathroom at dawn, the fluorescent bulb humming above me, and leaned over the sink to splash water on my face. My reflection looked back at me — same dark circles, same tired frown — but then it blinked before I did. I froze. For a split second, it felt like the air between us thickened, as though the glass itself had become a wall I could never cross. Then, with lips I hadn’t yet moved, it whispered, “You can’t keep pretending.”
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Fiction
Postcards from the End of the World
The news had been counting down for weeks. Forty-two days until the asteroid made landfall, the scientists said, give or take a few hours. People coped in their own ways—some fled inland, some held rooftop parties, some barricaded themselves in basements stocked with years of canned beans. I chose to do what I’d always done when life made no sense: pour myself a coffee, sit by the window, and watch the mailman shuffle down the street. It was on one of those mornings, with thirty-nine days left, that the first postcard arrived. The handwriting was hers.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Sent
I found the letter last night, buried beneath a pile of old photographs in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed. The envelope was yellowed with age, the paper inside soft as fabric. My handwriting—shaky, almost unfamiliar—spelled out his name in faded blue ink: Elias. Just the sight of those letters made my chest tighten. I hadn’t seen him in thirteen years, and yet the moment I touched that envelope, the air felt heavy with the past.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Fiction
The Apartment Above Me
I moved into 4B at the end of October, when the air was cold enough to sting and the trees outside were little more than crooked black lines against the sky. The building was old—brick walls pocked with history, pipes that clanked like they had opinions. My friends warned me about the quirks of older apartments, but I wasn’t prepared for the first thing I noticed my very first night: the noise from the apartment above me. It wasn’t just footsteps—it was pacing, like someone walking in slow, deliberate circles.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Horror
The Library of Unwritten Streams
Sasha had been streaming on Twitch for two years, with little to show for it besides a few loyal followers and a collection of half-finished playthroughs. So when a new user, “Archivist_00,” dropped into her chat one night and whispered, “You’ve been invited to The Library,” she assumed it was a joke. But the link they posted led to a login page that looked oddly like Twitch—except the logo was a black book instead of a purple chat bubble. Against her better judgment, she clicked.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Horror
The Memory Vending Machine
I first saw the vending machine on a Tuesday night, half-hidden between a cracked pillar and a graffiti-covered bench on the lower platform of East 12th Street Station. It didn’t sell chips or soda. Instead, rows of tiny glass bottles lined the inside, each one glowing faintly, a handwritten label tied around its neck. Above the coin slot, in faded gold letters, were the words: “Memories — $3 each.” I almost laughed. New York was full of gimmicks, but this one was charming enough to make me stop.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Fiction
Old is Gold
When Ayaan’s grandmother passed away, she left him a small wooden box. It was the kind of thing most people would overlook—scratched on the sides, the latch slightly loose, the wood darkened by decades of touch. No key was left behind, and no note explained what it contained. At first, the box sat on Ayaan’s desk as little more than a piece of decoration. He was too busy with work, social media, and the constant hum of modern life to think much about it. But one rainy Sunday afternoon, when the power went out and the Wi-Fi blinked into silence, he finally decided to see what was inside.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Humans
The Love Letter I Found in a Library Book
I wasn’t looking for romance when I went to the library that rainy Tuesday. I was looking for silence. The kind of quiet you can’t get in a coffee shop, the kind that isn’t broken by your own refrigerator humming. I wandered to the classics section, running my fingers along worn spines, until I pulled out a weathered copy of Wuthering Heights.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Humans
The Website That Only Exists at 3:33 AM
It started with a post on a forgotten corner of a Reddit thread: “Ever seen the site that only loads at 3:33 AM? Don’t try it unless you’re ready to learn the truth.” I laughed at first, assuming it was just another urban legend meant to spook the chronically online. But my curiosity wouldn’t let it go. The strange timestamp, the cryptic warning—it lived in my thoughts longer than it should’ve. I bookmarked the comment, telling myself I’d check it out the next time I found myself wide awake in the middle of the night, restless and alone.
By Musawir Shah5 months ago in Humans
The Last Screenshot on Her Phone
The house had fallen into silence since Sana’s funeral. It was the kind of silence that sticks to the walls, clings to the curtains, and curls itself around your chest like a fist. Her room remained untouched — books still stacked on the nightstand, perfume bottles still half-used, and her phone… still on her bed, blinking occasionally as if waiting for her to return.
By Musawir Shah6 months ago in Fiction
My Mother’s Password Was Always My Name
When I was 14, I helped my mother set up her first email account. She wasn’t tech-savvy, but she wanted to learn so she could stay connected — to my school, our relatives, and maybe, deep down, to me. When the time came to choose a password, she turned to me and asked, “Can I use your name?”
By Musawir Shah6 months ago in Families
