Cold nights of winter
The cold winter night wrapped itself tightly around my small
study room.Rain lashed against the windows with an
unrelenting ferocity, a rhythmic yet chaotic symphony that
filled the emptiness of the house. It felt as though the world outside was
drowning in its own sorrow, while inside, the silence was so profound
that it pressed against my chest.The dim light of my lamp flickered
as I leaned over the cluttered study table, lost in thought. Shadows
danced on the walls, creating fleeting, ghostly shapes that vanished
just as quickly as they appeared. Then, without warning, the power
went out, plunging the room into darkness.I sighed, fumbling to light a
candle. As its flame sputtered to life, a faint glow pushed back against
the oppressive dark, casting a warm, golden halo across the room. My
eyes roamed the space, looking for something—anything—to distract
me. That’s when I noticed it: an old, dusty file tucked away in the
corner of the shelf.Its cover was a rich, worn brown, the paper edges
yellowed with age. The title caught my eye: *Bright Darkness*. My
fingers trembled slightly as I picked it up, brushing away years of dust.
The file was one of Khizra Khan’s lesser-known works, a name that
held an air of mystery in literary circles.Though not as celebrated as her
more popular writings, something about this obscure piece intrigued
me. The pages inside were fragile, whispering faintly as I turned them.
And then, as I read, my eyelids grew heavy, the words melting into a
blur. Before I knew it, I had drifted into a dream.
