《Droplets of Anatolia》


 Erras House by the Water

    Erra lived in an old house by the river. Moss crept over the stones, and no one in the village could remember a time when the house wasn¡¯t there.


    Erra used to say one of her great-great-great-grandmothers had built it with her own hands, and the villagers always believed her.


    The stranger didn¡¯t. He was a city man, too modern for old tales. He laughed in Erra¡¯s face when she explained that the house stood so close to the water because they served the spirits of the river.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    He laughed even harder when she told him that offerings kept them safe. Then he pulled out his phone, recording her as he made her repeat the story. ¡°Make sure to like and subscribe!¡± he mocked, but the villagers offered no likes. No one subscribed.


    By dawn, the stranger and his phone had vanished.


    Later, Erra called Hasan and his sons to help push the stranger¡¯s car into the river. The harvest that year was exceptionally bountiful.

 Loneliness

    The Captain and his brother sat side by side on the deck chairs, watching the horizon until dawn began to break.


    As always, his brother spoke of better days, spinning memories from the past like threads of gold.


    They spoke of their father, their home, and the magnificent woman they had both loved.


    By silent agreement, they never once glanced at the ruined city sprawled along the coastline behind them.


    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.Nor did they speak of the loved ones buried there.


    When the first light of morning touched the sea, the Captain¡¯s young assistant arrived in his small boat, tying it neatly to the side.


    As he unloaded supplies for breakfast, the boy asked,


    ¡°Captain, don¡¯t you get lonely out here, all by yourself?¡±


    The Captain glanced at the empty deck.


    ¡°No,¡± he said softly. ¡°I¡¯m never lonely.¡±

 The Watchmaker

    Until the young ¨¦migr¨¦ arrived, the Watchmaker was the most respected man in town.


    His skill in repairing timepieces was unmatched, his reputation extending to cities far beyond the sleepy borders of the town. People would wait for weeks, sometimes months, just to have their treasured watches restored by his hands.


    And then the ¨¦migr¨¦ came and ruined everything.


    Late one night, the Watchmaker slipped into his tiny workshop. In the dim light, he saw the young ¨¦migr¨¦ hunched over a workbench, meticulously repairing a silver watch.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Jealousy clawed at him. He watched those steady hands, so sure, so unbothered, and felt his own fists tighten.


    As the knife plunged into the ¨¦migr¨¦¡¯s back, the Watchmaker convinced himself this wasn¡¯t his fault.


    The young man had it coming.


    The next morning, the town awoke to tragedy: the young ¨¦migr¨¦ had been killed while working on a gift for the Watchmaker himself.


    The entire town mourned.

 The Burdened Stone

    On their final morning in the village, just before they left, Kutan¡¯s mother placed a dark green, round stone in his hand.


    ¡°This will protect you where we¡¯re going,¡± she said, but her voice trembled, betraying the lie beneath her words.


    Kutan clutched the stone tightly.


    They walked for days, leaving behind the only home he¡¯d ever known. As the familiar sights disappeared, a heavy silence descended, and the cold seeped into their bones.


    Each day, the villagers grew quieter. The laughter that had once filled their evenings was gone, replaced by an uneasy hush. Their steps slowed, their breaths became shallow, and Kutan felt the weight of the stone in his pocket grow heavier with every mile.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Finally, they stopped in a shadowed valley between two barren hills.


    Kutan¡¯s mother leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. ¡°This is the place,¡± she whispered.


    Kutan didn¡¯t hesitate. He hurled the stone into the depths of the valley, where it struck the ground with a resounding echo that seemed to ripple through the earth.


    The tribe settled there, building their new village in the shadow of the hills. But the echo of the stone¡¯s fall never truly faded.


    It lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the home they had lost. And for the rest of his life, Kutan couldn¡¯t escape the feeling that the stone had cursed them, that it had rooted them in the wrong place.


    When he died, alone and weary, Kutan swore he could still hear it¡ªthe sound of the stone, whispering in the dark.

 The Jump

    I don¡¯t know how I ended up here, but I¡¯m standing at the edge of the cliff.


    My right toe hovers over nothing, just a breath away from the drop.


    I don¡¯t want to jump.


    But I think I will.


    There¡¯s a name for this, I remember reading about it once¡ªthose thoughts you can¡¯t shake, the ones that whisper harm, even when you don¡¯t mean to listen.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    When did I study psychology? Did I ever? The memory feels borrowed, like it belongs to someone else.


    I look down, expecting to see waves crashing against jagged rocks. But there¡¯s no ocean.


    Far below, there¡¯s only blurred, grey earth¡ªsilent and endless. And in the emptiness between, I hear them.


    Spirits, calling my name.


    Their voices rise, soft and steady, promising relief. They want to save me¡ªfrom the weight of staying, the ache of surviving.


    So I do the only thing that makes sense.


    I leap.


    Like a stone, I fall into their waiting arms.

 The Red Spider

    For decades, the Red Spider had been a guide, a symbol, and a warning.


    Amara¡¯s shamanhood had begun with its arrival. Long ago, when she was a young woman full of questions and doubts, the Red Spider had come to her in a dream. Back then, it was vibrant and bold, its legs like threads of fire, weaving a web that connected her to the spirits.


    In those early days, Amara was terrified. The call to shamanhood was not a gift¡ªit was a burden. It meant isolation, carrying the grief of others, speaking to ancestors who offered cryptic wisdom but no comfort. Yet, as the seasons passed, she learned to listen, to interpret, to guide.


    The tribe turned to her for everything: blessings for harvests, protection from sickness, answers to the questions that haunted their dreams. She became the bridge between the living and the dead, her voice an echo of the spirits themselves.


    But now, the Red Spider had returned.


    For four nights in a row, Amara dreamed of it. This time, it was older, its colors faded, its movements slower but no less deliberate. She understood its message immediately.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    It was time.


    At dawn, she walked to the stream. The water was cold, but she welcomed it, scrubbing away the weariness of a lifetime spent in service. She dressed in the ceremonial robes she had worn for countless rituals, their patterns worn but still vibrant.


    She combed her hair until it shone, each stroke a quiet farewell to the woman she had been. Then, she sat at the entrance of her tent, watching the sun rise one last time.


    On the fifth night, the Red Spider appeared.


    It crawled silently into her tent, its legs delicate but purposeful. Amara rose without hesitation. She had carried the tribe¡¯s burdens for years, guided them through storms and famine, comforted them in times of despair. Now, her task was complete.


    She followed the spider into the forest, its glowing body leading her deeper than she had ever ventured before. The trees seemed to bow as she passed, their branches heavy with the weight of her journey.


    Throughout the summer, the tribe heard the faint rhythm of drums coming from the woods. They whispered among themselves, wondering if the spirits had taken her or if she had simply become one of them.


    As the weeks turned to months, even the drums faded into silence.


    But in the stillness, the tribe felt her presence¡ªan unseen force that lingered in the wind, in the rustle of leaves, in the crackle of firelight. Amara was gone, yet she was everywhere, her wisdom woven into the fabric of their lives.


    The Red Spider had not just taken her; it had completed her story.

 The Abandoned

    At dawn, her mother led Maral deep into the forest.


    Far from where the tribe had made their camp, far enough that no one would hear her cries.


    Maral knew this wasn¡¯t a game.


    The shaman had said she was cursed.


    They didn¡¯t want the little girl in the tribe anymore.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Her mother wept as she walked away, but Maral chased after her.


    She couldn¡¯t keep up.


    Terrified of what was to come, she waited as darkness fell.


    That¡¯s when Azmit came down from the trees, the one who owned the restless spirits.


    He had no face¡ªjust empty hollows where eyes should be.


    Azmit took his beloved daughter Maral¡¯s hand.


    Together, they began the journey back to the tribe.


    This time, the shaman had been right.


    God help them all.

 Ejderha

    One evening, as the valley grew dim with twilight, a beggar approached the tribe.


    The tribe had just arrived after a long and fruitful journey. Their animals were strong and well-fed, their wagons brimming with goods. Their songs of triumph echoed through the valley.


    But they were greedy. Their hearts were as hardened as the iron tools they carried.


    When the beggar humbly asked for a morsel of bread, they mocked him. When he begged for shelter, they drove him away with curses and threats.


    The shaman, sensing danger, warned them. His voice quivered as he pleaded, but no one listened. The tribe laughed and carried on with their feasting.


    Before the beggar left, he stood at the edge of their camp, his shadow long against the dying light. He raised a hand and cursed them in a voice that chilled the air.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    That night, under the cover of darkness, the Ejderha came.


    It was a massive, ancient beast, its scales the color of the earth after a storm, its breath carrying the scent of ash and decay. Its wings didn¡¯t flap like those of a bird¡ªthey groaned like the bending of ancient trees. When it roared, the sound shook the valley and turned the tribe¡¯s triumphant songs into screams of terror.


    The Ejderha swept into their camp, its glowing eyes searching for its prey. It took seven children, its claws delicate but unyielding as it carried them into the shadows.


    The tribe was left broken. The wails of the mothers filled the valley, their sorrow as deep as the earth itself. Fathers stood silent, their faces etched with grief and guilt.


    Year after year, the Ejderha returned. Seven children each time¡ªsometimes sons, sometimes daughters.


    The tribe, desperate to end the curse, searched for the beggar in every corner of the land. Through forests, across rivers, over mountains, they looked. They called his name, begged for forgiveness.


    But the beggar was nowhere to be found.


    And the Ejderha never stopped coming.

 Chloe at the Fairground

    Chloe hadn¡¯t wanted to come to the fairground in the first place. She never really did.


    The place was too crowded, too loud, too full of people, none of whom she knew. But he insisted. ¡°We only have weekends now,¡± he reminded her, a little too brightly. ¡°Let¡¯s make the most of it.¡±


    Chloe went along with it. She knew her father needed this more than she did.


    They rode the Ferris wheel, the bumper cars, all the things she thought he would like. He even shot at the targets, laughing when he missed. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Then, in the midst of lights and noise, his hand slipped out of hers.


    She wasn¡¯t surprised. Not really. They barely spent time together anymore, and somewhere deep down, she¡¯d always expected him to let go. Still, her heart beat faster, a little bird trapped in her chest. She searched everywhere, her small voice lost in the blaring music and the blur of strangers. She asked for help, but no one seemed to see her.


    Hours passed, or maybe it was just a few minutes¡ªtime didn¡¯t feel real here. And then, standing alone in the swirl of lights, Chloe suddenly understood: it wasn¡¯t her father who was missing.


    It was her.

 The Red Hag

    Tamay was sulking by the water¡¯s edge when the old woman approached her.


    ¡°Why so sad, my pretty girl?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have a baby brother,¡± Tamay muttered.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want a brother?¡±


    Tamay shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± Then she added, ¡°I wish he would just disappear.¡±


    The old woman laughed, a strange, raspy sound that made Tamay¡¯s skin crawl.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Then we must get rid of him for you.¡±


    Something about the way the woman said it made Tamay uneasy. She was ugly, and she smelled awful, like damp earth and something rotting.


    Tamay knew she had made a mistake. Without another word, she turned and ran.


    But as she fled, the woman¡¯s laughter followed her, echoing in the trees.


    The baby was born the next day. And that night, the Red Hag came.


    The Red Hag was a foul spirit, known to prey on newborns and their mothers, slipping into homes under the cover of darkness. It was said she fed on their lungs, leaving nothing but silence and grief in her wake.


    She came for Tamay¡¯s family, just as the old woman had promised. The Red Hag devoured both the baby and the mother.


    Tamay¡¯s father wept for days.


    And Tamay never spoke again.

 Brother

    Ah, how could we have known, child? How could we have known?


    Even on the day of the funeral, he¡¯d told his mother.


    ¡°My twin is calling me,¡± he said.


    ¡°He¡¯s lonely down there, all alone in the earth,¡± he said.


    We thought it was just his grief.


    ¡°He misses his brother,¡± we told ourselves.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Then he stopped eating, stopped drinking. His face grew pale and hollow, thin as a spoon.


    One morning, we woke to the sound of his mother¡¯s screams. His bed was empty.


    We found him at the cemetery.


    He had dug up his brother¡¯s fresh grave with his bare hands,


    wrapped himself around the shrouded body,


    and left his last breath there, in the dirt.


    We buried them together, side by side.


    And sealed the grave again.

 The Rite of Adolescence

    When Devin turned fourteen, they left her in the forest.


    They handed her a small flask of water and a knife¡ªnothing more.


    ¡°Walk until you find what you¡¯re looking for,¡± her mother had said.


    ¡°What am I looking for?¡± Devin had asked.


    Her mother didn¡¯t answer.


    Devin walked for hours, her steps crunching over fallen leaves, her breath sharp in the cold air.


    When fatigue overtook her, she collapsed under an ancient oak and drifted into a restless sleep.


    In her dreams, her grandfather, the old Shaman, appeared before her.


    ¡°You¡¯re afraid,¡± he said, his voice low and steady.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she whispered, her chest tight.


    ¡°Good. Fear is your teacher. It prepares you to grow.¡±


    When Devin awoke, the forest was shrouded in mist.


    The world around her felt alive in a way it hadn¡¯t before. She could hear whispers carried on the breeze, voices calling her name from the shadows.


    Shapes began to form in the fog¡ªdark faces and shifting bodies that moved like smoke but felt solid.


    They circled her slowly, their presence both threatening and familiar. Devin¡¯s hand tightened on the knife, but she didn¡¯t raise it.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The figures whispered things she couldn¡¯t fully understand: fragments of stories, warnings, promises. Their voices sank into her skin like cold rain.


    One of them stepped out of the mist, moving closer.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Devin asked, her voice trembling.


    The figure stopped, and the mist fell away to reveal a woman impossibly old. Her hair was white as bone, her skin lined with the weight of ages.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Devin repeated.


    The woman¡¯s hollow eyes met hers. ¡°I am you,¡± she said, her voice quiet but certain.


    ¡°I am what you become after a thousand mistakes and a thousand lessons.¡±


    Devin felt the air shift. The woman¡¯s eyes were like mirrors, and in them, Devin saw herself¡ªher life unfolding in flashes.


    She saw her failures, her triumphs, the moments she would fall and the times she would rise again. She saw love and loss, anger and peace. It was all there, stretching endlessly into the distance.


    The old woman raised a hand, her fingers trembling. ¡°Step forward,¡± she said.


    Devin hesitated. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because to grow, you must embrace what you will become. Even the parts that frighten you.¡±


    With trembling steps, Devin moved closer. As she reached for the old woman¡¯s hand, the mist around them began to spin, faster and faster, until it swallowed them both whole.


    When Devin awoke again, the forest was still and bright with morning light.


    The flask of water lay untouched beside her. The knife rested at her side, forgotten.


    But in her chest, where fear had once taken root, there was now something else: a seed of strength.


    She rose, dusted the leaves from her clothes, and began the long walk back.


    She didn¡¯t need her mother to tell her what she¡¯d been looking for. Devin knew.


    Herself.

 Cem’s Friend

    The woman woke in the dead of night, jolted from sleep by an eerie sense of unease.


    ¡°There are noises coming from Cem¡¯s room again,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Just ignore it,¡± her husband mumbled, barely stirring.


    ¡°He¡¯s doing it on purpose to get attention. He wants to sleep with us.¡±


    Her husband drifted back into slumber, but the woman lay still in the dark, listening.


    From the next room came faint giggles, followed by low whispers.


    The next morning, as they sat at breakfast, she questioned her son carefully.


    ¡°Are you getting used to your room, Cem?¡± she asked.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.¡°If you want, you can sleep with us again.¡±


    But Cem shook his head, smiling.


    ¡°I like my room,¡± he said. ¡°And so does my friend.¡±


    A chill ran through her. She didn¡¯t ask anything more.


    For a few nights, she relied on sleeping pills, hoping to silence her growing unease.


    But even the pills couldn¡¯t drown out the sound of those muffled whispers, the quiet bursts of laughter seeping through the walls.


    Finally, one night, she couldn¡¯t bear it any longer.


    She crept into Cem¡¯s room, her heart pounding as she pushed the door open. The darkness seemed heavier here, thicker.


    Carefully, she reached out to touch his bed. Her fingers brushed against something cold¡ªsomething that felt like a hand.


    ¡°Cem?¡± she whispered.


    Her son¡¯s voice came from behind her, soft and calm.


    ¡°My friend doesn¡¯t like you.¡±

 The White Bus

    Seda had been waiting at the bus stop for what felt like a long time.


    She wasn¡¯t sure when she had arrived or how much time had passed. Buses came and went¡ªgreen ones, yellow ones, crowded ones with people pressed against the windows. But none of them were the one she was waiting for.


    The bench beside her filled and emptied in waves.


    An old couple sat there for a while, their hands clasped tightly, staring into nothing. Teenagers came next, laughing, their music a tinny hum escaping through their headphones. Schoolchildren with backpacks dragged their feet. Workers slumped against the signpost, their faces lined with exhaustion.


    Seda watched it all unfold like a play, distant and unreal.


    The sun had been shining when she first sat down. Warm air brushed against her bare arms, the kind of heavy heat that clings to the end of summer.


    But then the light shifted. She couldn¡¯t say exactly when. The golden warmth drained from the sky, replaced by something pale and colorless. Clouds rolled in, thick and silent.


    When the snow began to fall, Seda hardly noticed.


    The world around her softened under a layer of white. The bench beside her was empty now. The laughter, the hum of the music, the shuffle of footsteps¡ªall of it was gone.


    She didn¡¯t feel the cold, though she could see her breath misting faintly in the air.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    At last, a bus appeared in the distance, its headlights cutting through the falling snow. It pulled up to the stop without a sound, its wheels leaving no tracks behind.


    It was white, completely white¡ªlike the snow, like the sky.


    The doors hissed open, and the driver leaned toward her. He was an older man, his uniform crisp, his smile warm.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he said gently.


    Seda hesitated. ¡°This isn¡¯t my bus.¡±


    The driver¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. ¡°Everyone says that at first,¡± he said.


    ¡°But they¡¯re always wrong.¡±


    Seda turned her head and looked through the bus¡¯s fogged-up windows.


    Faces peered back at her¡ªcalm, expectant faces.


    And then she saw them. Her father sat near the front, his hat perched at the same angle he used to wear it. Further back, her grandmother smiled faintly, her hands resting in her lap the way they always had when she told stories by the fire.


    Seda¡¯s heart tightened.


    The driver watched her patiently, as though he had all the time in the world.


    Seda rose from the bench, her movements slow and uncertain. She climbed the steps of the bus and stood there for a moment, her fingers trailing along the edge of the door.


    She looked back once. The stop was empty, the bench covered in a thin layer of snow. The world seemed frozen, silent.


    With a sigh, Seda moved deeper into the bus. She slid into an empty seat and looked out the window.


    The driver closed the doors, and the bus pulled away, its wheels gliding soundlessly over the snow.


    Seda didn¡¯t see where they were headed. It didn¡¯t seem to matter.


    This had been her bus all along.