Family
The Last Time I Held Her Hand
She always held my hand first. From the moment I was a small child, scared of thunder shaking the windows, to the days I was twenty-five, overwhelmed by the weight of the world, she reached for me before I could reach for her. Her hand was a silent promise—a shield against fear, a harbor in the storm.
By Muhammad Aqib7 months ago in Poets
The Last Letter
The Last Letter By VoiceWithin It was a cold, wind-bitten November afternoon when I returned to the house I once called home. The journey back had taken less than two hours by train, yet it felt like crossing decades of silence. I stood outside the front door for a long time, hand hovering over the key in my pocket, unsure if I deserved to open it.
By VoiceWithin7 months ago in Poets
