shakir hamid
Bio
A passionate writer sharing well-researched true stories, real-life events, and thought-provoking content. My work focuses on clarity, depth, and storytelling that keeps readers informed and engaged.
Stories (199)
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Bad to the Bone A Psychopathic Killer with No Remorse. AI-Generated.
They called him Eli Cross — a name whispered in the hallways of every police department across the East Coast. No fingerprints. No DNA. Just the echo of his work — methodical, clean, precise.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Criminal
The Man Who Spoke to the Night. AI-Generated.
They said he only came out after midnight. In a city that never slept, Noctis Varen was the quiet pulse between the ticking hours — a man of silence, a shadow among neon lights. He ran a small photography shop near the harbor, open from dusk till dawn. Most people thought it strange, but he said the world only shows its truth at night.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
The Café That Waited for Her. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 8:05, Adrian unlocked the doors of Café del Mare, a small seaside coffee shop in Lisbon that smelled like cinnamon and saltwater. He wasn’t the kind of man people remembered — quiet, polite, always writing in a notebook between customers.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Confessions
When the Train Stopped at Verona Station. AI-Generated.
The night train from Milan to Venice was running forty minutes late. Rain pressed against the glass like a restless ghost, and every light outside smeared into a trembling reflection. The air inside smelled of wet wool and coffee.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Humans
The Train I Almost Missed. AI-Generated.
The 7:45 train was late again — just like it always was on Mondays. The platform was crowded with tired faces and the smell of burnt coffee. Everyone looked impatient, as if being late was the greatest tragedy of their day.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
The Coffee Cup. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 7:10, Elias Mwangi opened the doors to his tiny café on River Street in Nairobi. The brass bell above the door jingled softly, echoing through the narrow shop that smelled of roasted beans, cinnamon, and rain-soaked wood.
By shakir hamid4 months ago in Fiction
