The Writer...A_Awan
Bio
16‑year‑old Ayesha, high school student and storyteller. Passionate about suspense, emotions, and life lessons...
Stories (119)
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Hidden face:. AI-Generated.
The rain have been falling for hours, washing the city in a blur of silver and shadow. in the dim glow of the streetlamps, people moved quickly past, faces hidden beneath umbrellas, masks, and scarves. but among them become one determine who regarded to hold more than just the load of the hurricane — a man whose face become by no means seen, handiest whispered approximately.
By The Writer...A_Awanabout a month ago in Fiction
The Chair That Wouldn’t Stay Still:. AI-Generated.
It started out as some thing small, something clean to push aside. every evening, just after midnight, the wooden chair inside the living room shifted. at the start, it become a faint scrape, the sound of its legs dragging slightly across the floor. The own family idea it was the wind damn the home windows, or possibly the vibrations of passing vehicles. but the chair stored moving.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Fiction
The Door That Was Left Open:. AI-Generated.
It turned into a quiet morning in the neighborhood. The sun had just all started to rise, portray the streets in gentle gold. kids prepared for school, shopkeepers lifted shutters, and the rhythm of every day existence spread out as normal.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Humans
The Bus That Never Arrived:. AI-Generated.
The bus forestall on the edge of the city turned into continually crowded at dusk. workplace employees, students, and weary vacationers amassed there, each clutching bags, books, or phones, expecting the familiar rumble of the night bus.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Humans
The Letter That Arrived Too late:. AI-Generated.
The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the Khan household, casting long shadows across the dining table. A pile of unopened mail sat waiting, most of it bills and advertisements. But among them lay a single envelope, yellowed at the edges, its handwriting delicate and unfamiliar.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Families
The Clock That Stopped:. AI-Generated.
The town of Noorabad had always lived through the rhythm of its clock tower. rising above the marketplace, its steady tick changed into extra than a measure of hours—it become a heartbeat, a reminder that life moved ahead irrespective of what. children found out to remember time via its chimes, shopkeepers opened and closed their stalls with its rhythm, and elders regularly said, “as long as the clock ticks, Noorabad breathes.”
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Humans
The Teacher's Empty Chair:. AI-Generated.
The study room became strangely quiet that morning. the usual shuffle of papers, the whispered exchanges before the bell, even the apprehensive laughter of latecomers—all appeared muted. on the front of the room sat the instructor’s chair, empty and waiting, its absence heavier than any presence.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Education
The Empty Corridor:. AI-Generated.
The corridor stretched with no end in sight earlier than me, silent and still. Its partitions were lined with diminished posters, reminders of activities long past, and the faint smell of chalk lingered inside the air. It changed into overdue within the afternoon, and the school had emptied. yet here i was, standing at the edge of a corridor that regarded to hold extra than just shadows.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Motivation
The Midnight Alarm:. AI-Generated.
The alarm rang in the dead of night. It wasn’t the shrill hearth drill that students had been used to, nor the well mannered chime of a college bell. This sound became deeper, heavier, almost steel — as if the constructing itself became crying out.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Horror
The Last Class:. AI-Generated.
The Class room become unusually quiet that morning. The form of silence that presses in opposition to the partitions, heavy and unyielding, as if the air itself refuses to transport. college students shuffled in, their eyes darting in the direction of the clock, closer to each other, in the direction of me — however in no way in the direction of the blackboard.
By The Writer...A_Awan2 months ago in Fiction
