Sahir E Shafqat
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Home Through the Winter Rain
Winter arrived gently that year, not with snowstorms or icy winds, but with steady rain that seemed to fall without end. The sky was a soft gray, heavy and calm, and the air smelled of wet roads and cold earth. On one such evening, a small family climbed into their own car, ready to begin the familiar drive home. The engine started with a low, comforting sound. The headlights cut through the mist, glowing warmly against the rain. The parents sat in the front seats, wrapped in thick coats, their breaths forming faint clouds before the heater slowly warmed the air. The mother adjusted the mirror, smiling softly as she glanced back at the children. The father rested his hands on the steering wheel, careful and steady, already focused on the road ahead. In the back seat, the children were bundled together like little birds hiding from the cold. Their jackets were bright against the dark interior of the car, and their shoes were still damp from puddles they had jumped in earlier that day. One child hugged a stuffed bear tightly, its fur worn soft from years of love. Another leaned close to the window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass in twisting paths. “Look,” one of them whispered, tracing a finger along the foggy window. “That one is winning.” The rain seemed alive outside, each drop racing the others, merging and separating, disappearing at the bottom of the glass. Streetlights reflected in the wet road, stretching into long golden lines that shimmered and broke apart as the car moved forward. The heater clicked louder now, filling the car with warmth. Slowly, gloves were pulled off, scarves loosened. The tight cold of winter faded into something soft and safe. The radio played quietly in the background—an old song the parents knew by heart. They didn’t sing out loud, but their heads moved gently to the rhythm. As the car traveled through the rain, the father slowed at each turn, careful not to rush. Tires whispered against the wet road. The mother pointed out familiar places as they passed—a closed bakery, a dark park, a row of houses glowing faintly from inside. Everything looked different in the rain, quieter, calmer, as if the world itself was resting. The children grew sleepy, their earlier excitement fading into peaceful silence. One rested their head against the other’s shoulder. The stuffed bear slipped onto the seat between them. Outside, the rain tapped steadily on the roof, a soft rhythm like a lullaby. “Do you remember,” the mother said gently, “when we used to drive like this before you were born?” The father smiled. “Long drives. Late nights. Just us and the road.” “And now,” she said, glancing back again, “we’re all here.” The children didn’t fully hear the words, but they felt their meaning. They felt it in the warmth of the car, in the way the parents’ voices sounded calm and close, in the steady movement carrying them safely forward. The road curved toward the edge of town. Trees stood bare, their branches dark and shining with rain. Water pooled along the sides of the street, reflecting the passing lights like tiny mirrors. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then fell silent again. One child stirred and yawned. “Are we almost home?” “Soon,” the father answered softly. That word—home—settled into the car like another blanket. Home meant dry clothes and warm soup. It meant lights in the windows and shoes left by the door. It meant safety from the cold rain and the long gray sky. As they drove, the rain began to slow. The drops grew smaller, lighter, until they were more like a mist. The clouds above thinned just enough to let a pale glow through, not quite moonlight, but something close. The world felt gentler somehow, as if winter itself had decided to be kind. The car turned onto a quiet street. Houses lined the road, each one familiar, each one holding its own small stories. The father parked slowly, switching off the engine. Suddenly, the world felt very still. The rain whispered one last time, then faded into silence. The children woke fully now, blinking and stretching. Coats were zipped, hats pulled on. The mother gathered the stuffed bear and handed it back with a smile. The father stepped out first, opening the door and letting in a breath of cool winter air. They walked together toward their house, shoes splashing softly in shallow puddles. The porch light glowed warmly, welcoming them home. Inside, the house smelled faintly of dinner and clean air. The door closed behind them, shutting out the cold and the rain. Jackets were hung up. Shoes were lined neatly by the door. The children laughed quietly, already talking about tomorrow. The parents watched them for a moment, tired but content. Outside, winter continued its slow rain. Inside, the family moved easily through their evening, wrapped in comfort and love. And though the night was cold, and the roads were wet, the journey had been enough—because they had made it home together.
By Sahir E Shafqat2 days ago in Families
Whispers on Summerisle
I. The Island That Swallowed People Summerisle looked peaceful from the ferry—a quiet crescent of land surrounded by mist and gentle waters. Tourists called it charming. Locals called it home. But to Mara Willen, it was the last place her brother Jonah had ever been seen. He vanished on Summerisle six months ago. The police claimed he probably drowned during a night swim, but Jonah wasn’t the type to just disappear. He always called Mara, always told her where he was going. He was the protective one—her lighthouse during every storm. Now she was here to find out what happened. As she stepped onto the creaking wooden dock, the first thing she noticed was the silence. Not peaceful silence—forced silence. No laughter. No gulls. No wind. Just… stillness. It felt like the entire island was holding its breath.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
The Forgotten Monitor
The Beginning of the End Elliot Adams had always been the type of person to enjoy his privacy. He preferred the hum of his computer to the chatter of the outside world, the glow of his monitors to the faces of people. His apartment was small, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, with nothing more than the faint thrum of passing cars to break the stillness. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and his desk, where he spent most of his days, was cluttered with papers and empty coffee cups. His two monitors sat at the center of it all, glowing with the dull intensity of endless lines of code. He was a freelance software developer—a job that allowed him to work from the comfort of his own space, a luxury he didn’t take for granted. Most days, his work was simple: update websites, debug programs, and write scripts. But lately, there had been something strange about the project he had been assigned. It started innocuously enough. A simple contract with an unnamed company—just another piece of work he could quickly finish and move on from. The task seemed straightforward: improve the security system for a monitoring software that tracked office usage. Nothing too fancy, no heavy lifting. But as he started digging into the code, something felt… off. For one, the system wasn’t just tracking office activity—it was tracking people. More than that, it was tracking thoughts. Their patterns. Their moods. The software was accessing data that shouldn’t have been available to anyone, not even the creators.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
Her Name Was Rowan
The Missing Girl The island of Summerisle was a quiet, remote place—a patch of green surrounded by endless ocean, where the sounds of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the breeze and the waves. It was the perfect setting for a peaceful life. At least, that’s what Sergeant Edward Howie had thought when he was assigned to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a little girl named Rowan Morrison. Rowan was just a child, no more than seven or eight, and she had vanished without a trace. The islanders, an insular and strange community, had little to say about it, and the authorities were of no help. So, Sergeant Howie—headstrong, methodical, and determined—was sent to find out what happened. He arrived on Summerisle with little more than a suitcase and a sense of duty, unaware that his quest would lead him into a nightmare far deeper than any crime he had encountered in his career.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
The Last Watchman
The Arrival The island of Dryvale had always been a place of whispers and half-forgotten legends, tucked away on the outskirts of the world, beyond the reach of most modern maps. The residents of nearby towns spoke of it only in hushed tones, often with an air of unease. But for Marcus Flynn, the quiet, solitary man who had recently retired from city life, Dryvale represented his last chance at peace. Marcus had been a watchman—one of the quiet, watchful figures who kept an eye on everything but was never seen. But after decades of trudging through cold, fog-covered nights in a world full of noise, he longed for silence. The offer to take over the watchman’s post on Dryvale had come unexpectedly, but he took it without hesitation. He arrived at dusk, greeted only by the steady rhythm of the ocean crashing against the rocks below. The lighthouse stood tall, a silhouette against the dying light, its beam dormant for now. The island’s single road wound up to the old stone structure, flanked by scrubby trees and unkempt gardens. There were no other buildings—only the lighthouse and the few, scattered homes of the dwindling islanders. "Don’t stay out too long," an old fisherman had warned him as he boarded the boat. "The night brings strange things here." Marcus had smiled politely, assuming it was just another superstition, but deep down, a flicker of unease had settled in his stomach. The journey had been long and tiring, and the promise of solitude seemed to call to him, overshadowing the oddities of the place. The Watchman's Routine The first few days were uneventful, as Marcus settled into his new life. The island’s inhabitants were reclusive but not unfriendly, often leaving him to his own devices. There was an elderly woman, Ms. Bray, who lived just a few hundred yards from the lighthouse, and she brought him fresh food and supplies every few days. She spoke little but seemed to know more about the island than anyone else. “Don’t go out at night, Marcus,” she would always say before leaving. “The sea changes then. It’s not the same world.” But Marcus dismissed her warnings. After all, he had seen his share of eerie places, and he wasn’t easily scared. His job was simple: keep the light on, watch the waves, and wait for the storm that would inevitably come. It was a quiet, predictable life, and that’s what he had come here for. However, on the seventh night, things took an unexpected turn. The Sound It began with the wind. At first, it was just a whisper, the kind of noise that comes when the world shifts ever so slightly. Then the whispers turned into voices—a low murmur that seemed to come from the farthest reaches of the island. The sound was distant, and Marcus tried to ignore it, attributing it to his tired mind playing tricks on him. But as the wind howled through the cracks in the lighthouse, the voices grew louder. They were no longer whispers but distinct words, like someone standing just behind him, murmuring his name. “Marcus… Marcus…” His heart pounded in his chest. He turned swiftly, but the room was empty, as it had been since he arrived. The beam of the lighthouse cut through the darkness, and the vast expanse of ocean shimmered in its glow. The voices stopped, but only for a moment. Then, as if from nowhere, they began again—closer this time, more insistent. The wind howled louder, and the sea seemed to churn beneath the lighthouse, as if alive with some dark force. Marcus stood at the window, staring out into the blackness, where the ocean met the sky in a terrifying union of emptiness. “Who’s there?” he called into the dark. But the voices were not of the living. They were ancient and hollow, like the souls of the lost. Marcus felt the weight of their presence pressing against him, almost as if they were clawing at the edges of his mind. The Lighthouse’s Secret Unable to bear it any longer, Marcus decided to confront the source of the noise. He grabbed his coat, stepped outside, and made his way down the rocky path that led to the shore. The island was unnervingly still. The only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves, which seemed louder now, more ominous. As he walked, Marcus could feel the cold bite of the wind cutting through his jacket, but his mind was focused entirely on the voices that had drawn him out. The beach was dark, the moonlight barely enough to reveal the jagged rocks that jutted from the water like dark sentinels. And then, at the far end of the shore, he saw something—a figure standing motionless, staring out at the sea. It was a woman, her back to him, wearing a tattered white dress that fluttered in the wind. Her hair was long, tangled, and black as night. “Who are you?” Marcus called out, his voice shaking in the air. The woman didn’t respond. She simply turned her head slowly to the side, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. And then, to his horror, she spoke, her voice not of the living, but of something ancient and lost. “You’re the last, Marcus,” she said, her voice like a breath from a forgotten world. “The last watchman.” The ground beneath Marcus’s feet seemed to tremble. He felt a sharp, sinking sensation in his chest, as if the island itself was alive, and it had recognized him for what he was: a man who had come to watch but not to stay. The woman’s form began to dissolve into the mist, her face becoming more distorted with each passing moment. Her laughter echoed over the waves, chilling Marcus to his core. He turned and ran, stumbling back to the lighthouse, the voices following him, calling his name as if they were the ocean itself, pulling him under. The Truth Behind the Watchman The next morning, the island was silent once more. Marcus, exhausted and shaken, tried to make sense of what had happened. He had seen things, things that couldn’t be explained. The voices, the woman—he had to know the truth. It was Ms. Bray who finally spoke the words he had feared to hear. “Dryvale’s watchman has always been alone,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “No one stays for long. You’re the last, Marcus, and soon, you’ll be part of it. The island claims those who try to leave. It’s in the blood of those who live here.” Marcus’s heart sank. He had thought the job would offer him peace, but now, he realized, there was no escape from Dryvale. The island had a will of its own, and it was watching him—always watching. Moral of the Story The tale of Marcus Flynn teaches us that solitude is not always the peaceful refuge we expect it to be. Sometimes, places that seem quiet and inviting hide secrets darker than we can imagine. The choices we make in search of peace or escape may bring us closer to our own undoing, reminding us that some places are best left undisturbed, and some truths are better left uncovered.
By Sahir E Shafqatabout a month ago in Horror
The Andromeda Pact
Prologue: The Dying Stars The Andromeda Galaxy, once teeming with the glory of ancient civilizations and the shimmer of billions of stars, had fallen into turmoil. The once prosperous interstellar empire, known as the Council of Light, was now a shadow of its former self. Factions fought over dwindling resources, and alien species --- once allies—now tore each other apart in a desperate struggle for control of the stars. But in the darkness of this galactic war, a single hope remained: The Andromeda Pact. A fragile agreement forged in the blood of countless battles, held together only by the fear of mutual annihilation. It was not just the fate of one galaxy that hung in the balance, but the future of all galaxies connected by the Stellar Network—a web of energy conduits that linked every known star system.
By Sahir E Shafqat3 months ago in Fiction
The Thought Archive
🖋️ Story Description In the rain-drenched city of Torrento, memories aren’t lost -- they’re stored. Fifteen years after erasing a tragedy from his past, Elias Crane receives a mysterious notice from The Thought Archive -- a shadowy institution that keeps forgotten memories sealed in glass. Inside one vial lies everything he wanted to forget: the love he lost, the pain he buried, and the truth that never stopped waiting for him. When the Archive forces him to remember, Elias must confront what it means to live without the past -- and whether love is something we can ever truly erase. The Thought Archive is a haunting, introspective story about grief, memory, and the quiet courage it takes to remember who we are.
By Sahir E Shafqat3 months ago in Fiction
Flavors on the Road
The Road That Tastes Different Travel has a way of changing us, but food has a way of rooting us. Every new city, village, or roadside stop I’ve ever stumbled into had its own flavor—sometimes literal, sometimes figurative. The meals I’ve shared, the aromas that clung to my clothes, and the laughter that filled kitchens have all become bookmarks in my memory.
By Sahir E Shafqat4 months ago in Wander
Cooking with Confidence and Zero Accuracy
The Confidence of a Master Chef (Without the Skill) Cooking is supposed to be a life skill, like driving a car or tying your shoes. Some people approach it like fine art, carefully measuring, timing, and seasoning. I, however, approach it like an unlicensed street magician.
By Sahir E Shafqat4 months ago in Humor
Surviving Monday Without Witnesses
The Alarm That Will Not Be Silenced The first sound you hear on Monday morning isn’t the birds singing or the gentle rustling of trees. No, it’s your alarm clock blaring like a war horn, reminding you that the world has decided to throw another Monday at you. You lie there, half-awake, convinced that surely the universe has made a mistake.
By Sahir E Shafqat4 months ago in Humor
