Asghar ali awan
Bio
I'm Asghar ali awan
"Senior storyteller passionate about crafting timeless tales with powerful morals. Every story I create carries a deep lesson, inspiring readers to reflect and grow ,I strive to leave a lasting impact through words".
Stories (44)
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The Whispers Beneath Blackwood Manor
It was nearly midnight when Evelyn Crane at Blackwood Manor, the sprawling, ivy-choked estate her late uncle had left her. The old mansion loomed like a corpse against the moonlit sky its windows dark, its doors gaping, its walls seeming to breathe with the wind.
By Asghar ali awan3 months ago in Horror
The Bench at Platform 4
By [Asghar ali awan] Every morning, the same whistle pierced the crisp air of dawn. The 7:45 train slid into Platform 4, a routine so familiar that even the pigeons seemed to know the schedule. Amidst the hum of engines and the murmurs of sleepy commuters, there was always one old wooden bench, worn smooth by years of waiting and two strangers who sat on it.
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Fiction
The Echoes Beneath the Lake
Author [Asghar ail awan] The winter that year arrived earlier than anyone expected. By the time November had barely begun, the lake behind Old Pine Hill had already turned to glass. It wasn’t the kind of ice you could skate on yet — thin and uncertain, like a secret not ready to be told.
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Letter Home
The sound of the postman’s boots on the gravel was enough to send Clara’s heart racing every morning. It had been three months since James left for the front, and every letter that arrived carried the warmth of his presence, even across oceans and battlefields. She lived for the scratch of his handwriting, the way he always signed off with “All my love, always — James.”
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Fiction
The Last Cup of Tea
The steam rose slowly from the chipped porcelain cup, curling into the morning light like a soft whisper. My grandmother always said tea was not just for drinking — it was for listening. “If you’re quiet enough,” she told me once, “you can hear the world telling you its secrets.”
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Humans
The Last Letter She Never Read
Arjun sat by the window, the paper in his trembling hand stained with the drops of tea he hadn’t touched. Outside, the autumn leaves were falling, just as they had the day she left. He remembered every detail the soft warmth of the sun that day, the way her laughter lingered in the air, the weight of his pride that had
By Asghar ali awan4 months ago in Families
