POCKET TELLER

 In the heart of old Lahore, where narrow alleys whispered forgotten tales and time clung to crumbling walls, stood a haveli—ancient, abandoned, and veiled in mystery. Locals spoke of it only in hushed tones, calling it "Jinn Ka Makaan". No one lived there. No one dared. They said a jinn resided within—a girl cloaked in shadows and sorrow, who had once been wronged so deeply that hatred had become her very soul. Her presence was like cold smoke—unseen but heavy, wrapping itself around any boy who dared to venture near the haveli. And if any man crossed its threshold? He would never return. After nearly a decade abroad, Dr. Shezad finally returned home. The renowned archaeologist had spent years uncovering forgotten ruins across Europe. Yet something had pulled him back to his homeland—something deeper than nostalgia, heavier than memory. He arrived in Lahore. As his train rolled into the station, the sky darkened unnaturally & sudden gust of wind howled through the plaƞ...

In the sleepy hill town of Auli, where the air smelled of pine and evenings arrived wrapped in golden mist, there stood an old government school—paint peeling from its walls, windows that refused to shut during the monsoon, and a rusty bell that sounded more tired than loud. But within those walls lived a world of laughter, secrets, scraped knees, chalk dust, and unspoken dreams. In Class 10-B, on the very last bench by the window that looked out at the hills, sat Karan and Arjun. They weren’t the toppers. They didn’t raise their hands first. They weren’t favourites in school assemblies or sports events. But everyone knew them — teachers, peons, the principal, even the chaiwala outside the gate. Because they were inseparable. And because together, they brought a kind of warmth into the classroom that no lesson ever could. They were called “The Last Benchers” — a name that stuck not as a label of laziness, but of quiet loyalty. For ten long years, through ink-stained shirts,...

The night sky over Lucknow shimmered with stars, and the city pulsed with devotion. It was Maha Shivratri, and the sound of temple bells echoed through the narrow lanes. Amid the chants, the flickering lamps, and the fragrance of incense, there was a quiet corner of the city untouched by celebration — the gates of Noor Sadan, an old orphanage nestled between moss-covered walls and memories. Inside, a girl named Meher, all of ten years old, stood by the entrance, watching the world celebrate. She had lived here for as long as she could remember. A child with no past, no photograph, no surname. But she had something more powerful — strength in her silence, and kindness in her eyes. That night, as the city danced in devotion, something else arrived at Noor Sadan. A car had crashed on the highway outside Lucknow. The only survivor… was a newborn baby boy. His parents — lost to the accident — were from a different land, a different faith, a different language altogether. No one ...