"The Empty Swing"

In the courtyard of an old village house, an ancient swing dangled silently. It creaked with the breeze, swaying ever so slightly, as if invisible hands rocked it gently. But no one had sat in that swing for years. Dust had settled, memories had aged, and the swing… remained still.

Zubaida sat by it every morning. Her frail hands stroked the ropes lovingly, as though her child still lay curled in it. Sometimes she’d hum a lullaby, eyes closed, as the breeze carried her voice into the emptiness.

The swing had once belonged to Ali — her only son. The light of her life. After her husband passed away, Ali was all she had. He was not just her son; he was her reason to breathe.

Ali had always been bright, kind, and obedient. The village schoolteacher often praised him, saying he would go far. And so he did — to the city, where he dreamt of becoming someone his mother could be proud of. Zubaida, though her heart ached, encouraged him. She wanted him to rise beyond the boundaries of their small world.

In the beginning, he called every week. Letters came, full of love and details of the city. Zubaida would read them over and over until the paper wore out. But one day, the letters stopped. The phone went silent. Days turned to weeks, weeks into months.

Then came the dreaded call.

Ali had met with an accident. The city was ruthless. A bus, a sharp turn, a crowd — and he was gone. The authorities could not even retrieve his body. All they returned to Zubaida was his wallet… and a void.

People said time heals everything. But time only deepened her sorrow. Every morning, she cleaned the swing, placed a clean cloth over it, and gently rocked it — waiting.

“He will come,” she’d whisper. “My Ali never breaks a promise.”

Neighbors pitied her. Some tried to reason with her. Others mocked her behind closed doors, calling her mad. Even the village cleric offered prayers and charms to help her "move on." But Zubaida’s faith in her son’s return never wavered.

Years passed.

One dusty afternoon, a young man appeared at her doorstep. He looked like someone from the city, with a bag slung over his shoulder and kind eyes filled with hesitation.

“Are you Zubaida Bibi?” he asked gently.

“Yes, son. Who are you?”

“My name is Ahmed. I was Ali’s roommate in the city. We studied together. He always talked about you — every single day.”

Her eyes welled up.

“He told me,” Ahmed continued, “that if something ever happened to him, I should come and meet you. He left this for you.”

Ahmed handed her a worn-out notebook. It was Ali’s journal.

Zubaida’s hands trembled as she held it. Inside were pages filled with Ali’s handwriting — messages for her, stories of his struggles, his dreams, and prayers written for her happiness.

She clutched the notebook to her chest, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. After all these years, she felt him again — his presence, his words, his love.

That night, for the first time in years, she sang Ali’s favorite lullaby to the swing, smiling faintly, as though he were right there, tucked inside it.

The next morning, neighbors found her sitting beside the swing — still, peaceful, and no longer waiting. Her eyes were closed, hands resting gently on Ali’s diary. A smile lingered on her face.

Zubaida had finally reunited with her son — not in this world, but in the one beyond.

The swing still swayed, ever so softly. Perhaps in the breeze, or perhaps… by love.

short story, emotional, sad story, motherhood, love, loss, hope, grief, inspirational fiction, touching story, English short story