Literary Fiction

Nadia’s fingers trembled as she traced the jagged cracks in the old stone wall. Dust and debris clung to her skin, a gritty reminder of all that had been lost. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Beneath the acrid smell of smoke, a faint hint of olives lingered—a ghost of what once was. Five years. Had it really been that long since she’d fled her beloved Aleppo? The city of her childhood now lay in ruins, its ancient streets and vibrant markets reduced to rubble. Yet here she stood, drawn back by an inexplicable pull she couldn’t quite name. ...

Zara’s fingers traced the embossed lettering on the leather-bound cover, savoring the tactile sensation as she carefully placed the book on the returns cart. The library was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the climate control system and the occasional rustle of pages. She glanced at her watch—an antique timepiece inherited from her grandmother—and noted it was nearly closing time. As she made her way through the stacks, straightening a misplaced volume here and there, Zara couldn’t help but feel a twinge of melancholy. The library, once a bustling hub of activity, now stood as a silent sentinel to a bygone era. Most patrons these days preferred the convenience of digital downloads and virtual reality reading rooms. But for Zara, nothing could replace the weight of a real book in her hands, the subtle scent of paper and ink, the satisfying crack of a fresh spine. ...

Mira’s rental car crawled up the winding mountain road, each turn revealing another breathtaking vista of snow-capped peaks and plunging valleys. She should have felt awe, wonder, maybe even a spark of joy at the majestic landscape. Instead, a dull emptiness gnawed at her core, as it had for months now. The quaint town of Everdale came into view, a cluster of rustic buildings nestled in a high alpine meadow. Mira pulled into the gravel lot of the Pinewood Lodge, cut the engine, and sat motionless for several long moments. With a deep sigh, she finally gathered her resolve and stepped out into the crisp mountain air. ...

Ava Chen stood at the edge of the construction site, her eyes fixed on the skeletal framework of steel and glass that stretched towards the sky. The wind whipped her hair, carrying with it the scent of concrete and possibility. This was her vision taking shape, her dream materializing one floor at a time. “Impressive, isn’t it?” A familiar voice cut through her reverie. Ava turned to see Dominic Reeves approaching, his silver hair tousled by the breeze. Her mentor’s presence still commanded respect, even as a part of her bristled at his sudden appearance. ...

Ava’s fingers trailed along the spines of the books, savoring the tactile sensation of worn leather and crisp paper. The familiar scent of aging pages enveloped her as she moved through the stacks, a comforting ritual she’d performed countless times over her years as head librarian. But today, a bittersweet undercurrent tainted the experience. Her gaze drifted to the notice posted near the circulation desk, its stark digital display a jarring contrast to the analog surroundings: ...

The wind-whipped spray stung Mira’s eyes as she peered through binoculars at the churning gray sea. No sign of the tagged fish she’d been tracking for weeks. She lowered the lenses with a sigh, her data sheets fluttering in the gale. “Anything?” called Dr. Reeves from the research vessel’s cabin. Mira shook her head, salt-crusted hair whipping across her face. “Nothing. They should be migrating through this channel by now.” ...

The steady tick-tock of dozens of clocks filled the small workshop, a symphony of time keeping perfect rhythm. Emilia Frost’s nimble fingers worked with practiced precision as she adjusted the delicate gears of a pocket watch. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she barely registered the chiming of the hour. “Emilia?” Her father’s weak voice called from the adjacent room. “Is that you, my dear?” Hastily, Emilia set down her tools and hurried to Theodore Frost’s bedside. The once-renowned clockmaker was a shadow of his former self, his skin sallow and his frame gaunt beneath the bedcovers. ...

Mira Chen stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, willing inspiration to strike. The sleek lines of her latest building design refused to coalesce, remaining stubbornly fragmented in her mind. She sighed, pushing back from her desk and rubbing her temples. The muffled sounds of the architecture firm drifted through her office door - phones ringing, printers whirring, the low murmur of voices discussing projects far more exciting than hers. Mira’s gaze drifted to the window, where fat raindrops streaked down the glass, mirroring her mood. ...

Amira squinted against the harsh sunlight, her eyes scanning the shimmering horizon. The desert stretched endlessly before her, a sea of golden sand dunes rippling in the scorching heat. She adjusted her hijab, tucking a stray lock of dark hair beneath the fabric as sweat beaded on her brow. “Any sign of them?” Khalid’s gruff voice called from behind her. Amira shook her head, not bothering to turn around. “Nothing yet. But they’ll come. They always do.” ...

The silk threads slipped through Mei Lin’s fingers, impossibly fine yet strong. She held the skein up to the light, marveling at how the fibers shimmered. Even after weeks in this remote Chinese village, the beauty of raw silk still captivated her. A sharp rap on the door startled her from her reverie. “Come in,” she called in Mandarin, hastily setting down the silk. The wrinkled face of Mrs. Chen, her landlady, appeared in the doorway. “Your dinner is ready, Miss Mei,” she announced. Her eyes flicked disapprovingly to the silk samples scattered across the small desk. “You work too much. Young women should enjoy life more.” ...