Fiction

The Quiet Place
When I was a child, my grandmother used to tell me that every person has a quiet place — a small corner of the world where the noise fades and you can finally hear yourself think.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The House by the Sea
The first time I saw the ocean, I was six years old. The waves terrified me — too loud, too alive. But my father laughed and carried me on his shoulders, saying,
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The Sky Between Us
The night before my brother left for the city, the stars were brighter than I’d ever seen them. We sat on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, watching planes blink their way across the sky. He had a ticket, a packed suitcase, and a heart full of dreams.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
When the Wind Remembers
The wind in our town has a sound of its own — soft, whispering, like it carries old memories through the trees. When I was a child, my grandfather used to tell me, “The wind remembers what we forget.”
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
Art That Breathed
In a quiet street in Florence, Italy, where every corner smelled of paint and coffee, there stood a small art studio with cracked windows and ivy creeping up its walls. Inside, a man named Luca spent his days surrounded by canvases that never sold and colors that refused to fade.
By LUNA EDITH4 months ago in Art
The Things We Leave Behind
When my father passed away, I found a small wooden box tucked beneath his bed. No lock, no label — just a simple box that smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
Before the Light Fades
The day I realized my mother was forgetting me, the sun was setting. The sky looked like it was bleeding—orange fading into violet, then blue, then almost nothing. She stood by the window, her fingers tracing the glass as if she could touch the light before it disappeared.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
How I Learned to Stay Calm When Everything Went Wrong
The morning everything went wrong, the sun was shining. That felt cruel, somehow. The light came in soft through the curtains, golden and warm, but I was sitting on the edge of my bed with a weight in my chest I couldn’t name.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The Night We Forgot to Say Goodbye
The night I left my hometown, the rain wouldn’t stop falling. It wasn’t a storm, just a slow, endless drizzle that made everything smell like wet earth and endings. My suitcase sat by the door, half-zipped, half-certain, just like me.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The Things We Leave Unsaid
When Emma Langley’s father passed away, the town barely noticed. He had been a quiet man — a retired teacher who lived alone in a small white house at the end of Hawthorn Road. The mailbox still had his name on it in fading black letters: James Langley.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The Train That Waited Until Dawn
The night train from Birchfield to Marlow had always been almost empty — a quiet line that only a few people bothered to take anymore.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art
The House That Waited for Spring
The rain had been falling since morning, slow and steady, like the world was washing itself clean. The streets of the small town were almost empty, except for a woman standing under a broken umbrella, staring at the front window of a little antique shop.
By Charlotte Cooper4 months ago in Art