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 (47)
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The Lantern in the Fog
In a quiet coastal town where mornings arrived wrapped in mist, there lived a young mapmaker named Arin. His workshop faced the sea, and every day he drew detailed charts of places he had never visited. He mapped mountains he had never climbed and rivers he had never crossed.
By Asghar ali awan12 days ago in Motivation
The Day the Mountain Answered
At the edge of a small town stood a mountain that didn’t look especially tall. It had no famous name, no marked trails, and no visitors’ center. Yet everyone in town knew about it. People spoke of it the way they spoke about dreams—beautiful from a distance, intimidating up close.
By Asghar ali awan12 days ago in Motivation
The Map of Maybe
On the last day of school before summer, when the air felt like freedom and warm pavement, Lina found the map. It slipped out of an old library book she’d checked out on a whim — “Unsolved Mysteries of Small Towns.” The paper was yellowed, soft at the folds, with a crooked line drawn in red ink. An X marked a spot near Miller’s Woods, the patch of forest everyone said was “too boring” to explore.
By Asghar ali awan17 days ago in Humans
The Clockmaker’s Compass
In the coastal town of Oakhaven, where the mist clung to the cobblestones like a damp wool blanket, lived an old man named Elias. Elias was the town’s clockmaker, a man whose fingers were permanently stained with oil and whose eyes were perpetually narrowed from years of peering into the microscopic hearts of timepieces. His shop was a sanctuary of rhythmic ticking a thousand different heartbeats synchronized into a single, steady pulse.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Motivation
The Sculptor of Silence
In the heart of a bustling renaissance city lived a young man named Elian. While his peers sought fortune in trade or glory in the military, Elian possessed a singular, quiet obsession: stone. He spent his days in the dusty corners of a local quarry, watching how the sunlight hit the jagged edges of marble and granite. To others, these were mere building materials. To Elian, they were shells containing trapped spirits waiting to be set free.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Motivation
The Echo in the Floorboards
The house on Miller Street didn't look haunted. It didn’t have sagging shutters or a bleeding foundation. It was a crisp, mid-century modern ranch with floor-to-ceiling windows and honey-colored oak floors. Elias bought it because it felt "transparent." After a messy divorce and a cramped apartment, he wanted a life where nothing could hide.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Horror
The Weight of a Secret
Arthur was a man who prided himself on his silence. In the small, salt-crusted village of Oakhaven, he was the local locksmith a trade that required nimble fingers and a closed mouth. People brought him their locked diaries, their rusted safes, and their heavy oak chests, and Arthur opened them all without a single question.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Horror
The Clockwork Inheritance
The fog over Blackwood Manor didn’t just sit; it breathed. It clung to the jagged stone walls like a damp shroud, chilling Elias to the bone as he turned the heavy iron key in the lock. Elias was a man of cold logic a structural engineer who believed in blueprints, load-bearing walls, and the unyielding laws of physics. Ghosts, he often said, were merely drafts in old houses.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Horror
The Archive of the Last Seed
The city of Orizon was a marvel of the 24th century. It was a vertical spire of silver and light that pierced the clouds, powered by the constant vibration of the atmosphere. Inside, everything was synthetic. The walls were made of self-healing polymers, the air was scrubbed to a perfect clinical scent, and the food was printed in 3D blocks of nutrient-dense protein. To the citizens of Orizon, "nature" was a high-resolution simulation you could project onto your bedroom walls if you were feeling nostalgic for a history you never lived.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Fiction
The Clockmaker of Chronos Lane
In the heart of a city that never stopped to breathe, there was a narrow alleyway known as Chronos Lane. It was so thin that two people could barely walk abreast, and at its very end sat a shop no larger than a garden shed. The sign above the door didn't say "Jeweler" or "Watch Repair." It simply bore the image of a single, unadorned brass gear.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Fiction
The Keeper of the Unlit Lamps
The city of Oakhaven was famous for one thing: its silence. Not a peaceful, rustic silence, but a heavy, expectant hush that draped over the cobblestone streets like a damp wool blanket. In Oakhaven, people lived by a singular, unwritten rule: Do not burn brighter than your neighbor. For centuries, the city had been filled with thousands of iron streetlamps, ornate and beautiful, but none of them had ever been lit. The citizens believed that light brought unwanted attention that to shine was to invite the wind to blow you out.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Motivation
The Architect of the Wall
In a remote village tucked between jagged mountains and a vast, unforgiving desert, lived a young man named Elian. Elian was a laborer, strong and capable, but he was plagued by a deep sense of restlessness. He wanted to build something that would last something that would define his life but the sheer scale of his dreams often paralyzed him.
By Asghar ali awanabout a month ago in Motivation
