Hasnain Shah
Bio
"I write about the little things that shape our big moments—stories that inspire, spark curiosity, and sometimes just make you smile. If you’re here, you probably love words as much as I do—so welcome, and let’s explore together."
Stories (76)
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The Planet That Dreamed of Humans
🌍 The Planet That Dreamed of Humans By Hasnain Shah For four billion years, I had been silent. Silent as oceans churned and cooled, silent as mountains rose and crumbled back into dust. My core burned with quiet purpose, my skies swirled with storms of light and color. I was alive in the way all worlds are alive — through motion, gravity, and the gentle pulse of magma beneath my crust. But I was not aware. Not until they arrived.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
The People We Almost Loved
The People We Almost Loved By [Hasnain Shah] You never think much about the ones you almost loved. Not at first. They blur into the digital fog — faces you swiped left or right on, messages that fizzled into nothing, names that sounded perfect until silence took them.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
Books That Healed Me
Books That Healed Me By Hasnain Shah There are moments in life when words are the only medicine that works. Not the words spoken by friends who mean well, not even the words I whisper to myself in the mirror—but the quiet, printed words that wait patiently between two covers, ready to catch you when you fall.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in BookClub
The Archivist of Forgotten Dreams
The Archivist of Forgotten Dreams By Hasnain Shah In Somnus City, dreams were currency. They shimmered like mist inside thin glass vials—blue for joy, silver for memory, crimson for desire. People lined up at dawn to sell what they no longer wanted to feel, trading nightmares for sleep and heartbreak for rent money. The city was built on the quiet hum of forgetfulness.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
Midnight at the Lost-and-Found
Midnight at the Lost-and-Found By Hasnain Shah The train station wasn’t on any map. It appeared only at midnight — quiet and half-lit, as though it had been plucked from some forgotten dream and placed delicately between one day and the next.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
The Memory Broker
The Memory Broker By Hasnain Shah The first thing I remember selling was my mother’s laugh. It was soft, golden, like sunlight on rippling water. A collector offered me 800 credits for it — a fortune at the time. I told myself I didn’t need it anymore; I still had the memory of her hands, the way she stirred coffee, the way she hummed “Fly Me to the Moon.” I figured one memory wouldn’t hurt.
By Hasnain Shah4 months ago in Fiction
