Psychological

"The Clockmaker's Secret"
In the heart of a forgotten town where time seemed to stand still, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias Grey. His shop, tucked between two crooked brick buildings, had no sign — only the soft ticking of countless clocks behind foggy windows betrayed its purpose.
By Israr khan7 months ago in Fiction
Born of Grit
Born of Grit A Tale of Tenacity and Triumph In a sun-baked alley of a sprawling shantytown, where hope was as scarce as shade, lived a boy named Sameer. At nine, he roamed the streets, collecting plastic bottles to trade for a handful of coins. His father, a rickshaw puller, toiled until his lungs gave out; his mother sold wilted vegetables at the market’s edge. Their one-room shack sagged under the weight of poverty, but Sameer’s spirit refused to buckle. In his pocket, he carried a tiny, broken calculator, its cracked screen a mystery he longed to unravel.
By Shohel Rana7 months ago in Fiction
The Librarian's Apprentice
The Librarian's Apprentice Written by Noor Muhammad In a quiet seaside town in Portugal, far from Lisbon’s buzz and the glamour of tourist trails, lived a boy named Luca. He was the son of a fisherman who rarely returned home dry and a mother who worked at a local diner, wiping tables and dreams at the same time.
By Moonlit Letters7 months ago in Fiction
The Light Beneath the Streetlamp. AI-Generated.
The Light Beneath the Streetlamp Written by Noor Muhammad In the heart of a crowded Pakistani city, where honking rickshaws and endless duststorms ruled the day, lived a boy named Ahsan — a name that meant "perfection" in Arabic, though life had rarely been perfect for him.
By Moonlit Letters7 months ago in Fiction
The Window Without Glass. AI-Generated.
The Window Without Glass By Noor Muhammad In the dusty corner of a crowded street in Lahore stood a crumbling house with no proper gate, faded paint, and a window that hadn’t seen glass in years. Behind that window lived a boy named Haris.
By Moonlit Letters7 months ago in Fiction
Hearts against the Storm
The sun had barely risen over the horizon when I opened my eyes in Hamza’s small apartment. The air was still, heavy with tension. Alya lay beside me on the mattress, curled up, clutching the shawl Hamza had given her the night before. I could see the bruise on her arm — Azeel’s mark. My blood boiled at the sight.
By Mehmood Niaz7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter in the Attic
The Last Letter in the Attic It was a cloudy Sunday morning when Maya decided to finally clean out the attic of her late grandmother’s house. The wooden ladder creaked beneath her as she climbed, each step sounding like a whisper of time gone by. The attic smelled of old paper and cedar, the scent of things that had remained untouched for decades.
By Musawir Shah7 months ago in Fiction
Magic Robren
The wind sliced around them, laced with the chill of an early winter. The dazzling city skyline behind them melted into the smooth swirls of the Milky Way above. Hecate drifted through the night sky with little urgency, almost amused by the tiny rebels flanking her. She would’ve ditched them out of sheer boredom—if not for the strange pull she felt toward this bold little witch who dared disturb her realm in this neon age.
By waseem khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Last Phone Call Before Midnight
It had been six months since Emily's husband, Daniel, died in a vehicle accident that was brought on by a slick, rainy road. Her sadness turned into a profound stillness rather than disappearing. The vibrant atmosphere of her home was now dominated by the soft hum of appliances and the occasional creak of the old wood.
By Shahjahan Kabir Khan7 months ago in Fiction
The Tree That Grew Backward
The last time Maya saw her grandfather’s orchard alive, she was seven. Rows of pear trees stretched like disciplined soldiers, branches heavy with fruit he called "sunlight made solid." Now, twenty years later, she stood in the same spot, breathing air thick with decay.
By Habibullah7 months ago in Fiction
Episode 14: The Meeting Beneath the Ash
They called it neutral ground, but there’s no such thing anymore. The city library had burned down in the third month—flames and screams and paperback confetti—but the basement was still standing. So that’s where we met. Between the cracked pillars and the sleeping mold, beneath a banner that used to say SUMMER READING IS LIT!
By Paper Lantern7 months ago in Fiction
Another Night at the Library
Working for two libraries usually during the night shift is for some a lonely time to work such a job, but for me it's a chance to work and do something that makes me feel good about myself. There was a night not so long ago at another library where I kept hearing the phrase 'Read the Book." "Read the book." so at the end of the shift the voice or more of a whisper lead me to a certain table that had an open book to a particular story and I read the book which by the way was 'The Holy Bible' and open to the story of the 'Good Samaritan' which helped me to make a decision for my life.
By Mark Graham7 months ago in Fiction