Sanchita Chatterjee
Bio
Hey, I am an English language teacher having a deep passion for freelancing. Besides this, I am passionate to write blogs, articles and contents on various fields. The selection of my topics are always provide values to the readers.
Stories (58)
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The Clockmaker's Last Secret
Chapter 1: The Unwinding In the quiet village of Ash Hollow, time moved like molasses—thick, slow, and sweet. Nestled between misty hills and whispering pines stood a dilapidated clock shop, its sign creaking in the wind: Hargrove’s Horology. Inside, Elias Hargrove, the town’s last clockmaker, labored over his final creation. His hands, gnarled but steady, adjusted a tiny gear no larger than a ladybug’s wing.
By Sanchita Chatterjee9 months ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
Chapter 1: The Thirteenth Chime The fire alarm screamed at 3:33 a.m. Evelyn jolted awake, her heart slamming against her ribs. Smoke curled under her bedroom door like ghostly fingers. She stumbled to the window, but the latch—rusted shut for years—refused to budge. Behind her, flames licked the walls of her father’s old clock shop, devouring decades of gears, pendulums, and handwritten repair logs.
By Sanchita Chatterjee9 months ago in Fiction
The Library of Forgotten Words
The first time Clara stumbled into the library, she wasn’t looking for answers. She was running from the silence. It had been six months since the accident—since the screech of tires and the hollow ring of a phone call had cleaved her life in two. Her husband, James, was gone, and with him, the sound of his laughter, the cadence of his voice, the stories he’d scribble on napkins and slip into her coat pockets. Now, their apartment echoed with absence. So Clara walked. She walked until her feet blistered, until the streets of London blurred into a maze of rain and stone. That’s when she saw it: a crooked building wedged between a pawnshop and a boarded-up café, its sign hanging by a single chain.
By Sanchita Chatterjee9 months ago in Fiction
The Poet and the Caged Muse
The town of Veridian Hollow was known for two things: its fog-soaked cobblestone streets and the poets who haunted them. Every dusk, ink-stained dreamers gathered in dimly lit taverns to recite verses about love, loss, and the ache of existence. But Elias Wren was different. He didn’t recite—he couldn’t. For three years, his quill had lain dormant, his parchment blank as the hollows of his heart.
By Sanchita Chatterjee9 months ago in Fiction
