Three Short Novels
Eternal Threads of the Heart
The Silent Coven
Fragments of a Shattered Soul

The Edition of the Works of Kanza Imran Mughal
General Editor: Kanza Imran Mughal

Editorial Board:

• Samia [GIFT University, Gujranwala]

Published so far:

Eternal Threads of the Heart, edited by Kanza Imran Mughal

Three Short Novels: Eternal Threads of the Heart; The Silent Coven; Fragments of a Shattered Soul, edited by Kanza Imran Mughal    

 

KANZA IMRAN MUGHAL
Three Short Novels
Eternal Threads of the Heart
The Silent Coven
Fragments of a Shattered Soul
Edited by Kanza Imran Mughal

GIFT University Press, Gujranwala
2025

Edinburgh University Press style notes:

• Typeset in Times New Roman
• Printed and bound in Pakistan

ISBN 978-969-9999-001-0 (hardback)
ISBN 978-969-9999-002-7 (PDF)
ISBN 978-969-9999-003-4 (epub)

The right of Kanza Imran Mughal to be identified as author of the editorial matter has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Novel 1: Eternal Threads of the Heart:

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Eternal Threads of the Heart

By Kanza Imran Mughal

The rain had begun to fall gently over the quiet streets of Gujranwala, casting a silver sheen on the cobblestones. Aaliya hurried under her umbrella, clutching her worn leather notebook to her chest. She always carried it—filled with scribbled poems, unfinished stories, and thoughts too fragile to share with anyone.

At the corner café, she slipped inside, shaking off the rain. The smell of brewed coffee and warm pastries enveloped her.

“Seat’s all yours,” said a deep, calm voice. Aaliya looked up and saw a young man with a gentle smile and eyes that seemed to reflect the storm outside.

“Thanks,” she murmured, choosing a quiet table by the window.

He watched her for a moment, then approached. “I’m Arman,” he said, extending a hand.

“Aaliya,” she replied, hesitating before shaking it.

“You write?” he asked, noticing the notebook.

“Yes… sometimes,” she admitted.

Arman’s eyes lit up. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the notebook. Hesitant but curious, she handed it to him.

As he flipped through the pages, he read softly, almost to himself:
"Love is not the fire that consumes, but the thread that binds us across storms."

“That’s beautiful,” he said, looking at her. “Do you believe in threads?”

She smiled faintly. “I believe some connections are meant to last… even if unseen.”

And in that moment, amidst the gentle hum of rain and the warmth of the café, two souls began their quiet intertwining.

Weeks passed. Aaliya and Arman met almost every day at the café. They shared stories, laughter, and dreams. But both carried invisible scars. Aaliya’s heart had been broken before, and Arman had lost someone he loved deeply.

One afternoon, sitting by the rain-streaked window, Arman said, “Do you think people truly heal, or do they just learn to live with the absence?”

Aaliya thought for a moment. “I think healing is like stitching a thread through a tear in fabric. It doesn’t erase the hole, but it makes it stronger.”

He nodded. “I like that… it gives hope.”

Aaliya closed her notebook after writing a new poem:
"If I could trace the path of your soul, I’d follow it blindly, through storm and sun, through the threads of eternity."

Arman read it over her shoulder. “This… this is us, isn’t it?”

Aaliya looked up, eyes glistening. “I never knew love could feel like this. Safe… and terrifying at the same time.”

He reached for her hand. “I don’t want to live in fear anymore. I want to live with you.”

And in that quiet café, with the rain outside echoing their hearts, love wove its eternal thread.

Years later, Aaliya and Arman sat in the same café. The rain fell gently, as always. Their hands intertwined, their hearts bound by threads that time, distance, and sorrow could never sever.

"Some connections are invisible, yet indestructible. Some threads, once woven, last forever."

—Kanza Imran Mughal

 

The Silent Coven

By Kanza Imran Mughal

The village of Daryaabad had always feared the old forest at its edge. Locals whispered of shadows that moved on their own and voices that called your name in the dead of night.

Rania, a young schoolteacher with a curious spirit, often dismissed such stories—until the night she stumbled into the woods searching for her lost cat.

A cold wind brushed her face, carrying with it a faint chant. “Who’s there?” she called, clutching the lantern.

From the darkness, a soft, melodic voice replied, “We are the watchers… the silent ones.”

Her heart pounded. “Watchers of what? Who are you?”

The wind carried only laughter, high-pitched and hollow. Shadows twisted among the trees. Rania realized she was not alone.

At the center of the woods, Rania discovered a circle of hooded figures around a fire. Candles flickered in the darkness, casting eerie shapes on their cloaks.

One stepped forward. “You shouldn’t be here, child,” the figure said, voice deep and unnerving.

“I—I was looking for my cat. I didn’t mean to intrude,” Rania stammered.

A second figure whispered, “Curiosity is dangerous. The coven does not forgive the curious.”

Rania felt the weight of the forest press upon her. The figures moved in a synchronized rhythm, chanting in a language she could not understand.

"Magic is not a gift—it is a choice, and some choices bind the soul forever."

The eldest of the coven raised a staff, and the flames of the fire danced unnaturally. “The girl must see the truth,” he said.

A spectral vision appeared in the smoke—Rania saw herself, older, trapped in a shadowy cage. Her own voice echoed from the vision: “Leave, or be consumed.”

Rania fell to her knees. “I don’t want this… I don’t belong here!”

The eldest stepped closer, eyes glowing. “Once curiosity awakens the path, it cannot be undone. You must choose—join us, or be forgotten.”

Her mind raced. The cat, the forest, the strange whispers—all threads leading her to this terrifying moment.

Summoning courage, Rania grabbed the nearest cloak and ran. The forest seemed to shift around her, branches twisting like skeletal hands. Behind her, laughter and chanting rose in a chorus that chilled her blood.

She stumbled into a clearing and the moonlight fell on her face. She gasped, seeing her cat dart out of the shadows, unharmed.

"Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed—but the human heart can still choose its own path."

Rania never spoke of that night again, but sometimes, in the quiet of her room, she could hear the whisper of the silent coven calling her name.

Years later, travelers reported strange lights in the Daryaabad forest. Some claimed to hear chanting in a forgotten tongue. But Rania, now older and wiser, only whispered:

“Curiosity is a flame. Respect it, or it will consume you.”

And in the wind through the trees, the coven’s silence remained, eternal and watchful.

—Kanza Imran Mughal

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Fragments of a Shattered Soul

By Kanza Imran Mughal

Ayaan sat on the edge of the old wooden bridge, staring at the river below. The water flowed silently, indifferent to the pain he carried in his chest. Every glance at the horizon reminded him of her—Mara—the one who had left without a word.

He whispered into the wind, “Why did you go? Was our love not enough?”

The breeze offered no answer. Only the ripples below mirrored the broken pieces of his heart.

"Sometimes the loudest screams are silent, echoing only inside the soul."

He walked the streets of their old town, each corner a reminder of laughter now gone. He remembered her smile, soft as dawn, and her voice that once filled his world with warmth.

At the café where they had first met, he asked the barista, almost in a daze, “Have you seen her?”

“She hasn’t been here in months,” she replied gently. “But people leave, don’t they? Life moves on.”

Ayaan nodded, bitterly. “Some people… never leave, even when they walk away.”

Back in his apartment, Ayaan pulled out a stack of letters he had written but never sent. Each page was filled with words he could never voice aloud.

"I am haunted by your absence. My days are fragments, and every night I search for a piece of you in dreams that refuse to hold you."

He read them aloud to the empty room, letting his tears fall freely. For the first time, he allowed himself to mourn—not just her, but the version of himself that had believed love could last forever.

One evening, at the park where they had shared their first kiss, Ayaan found a message scribbled on a bench: “I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you. —M”

He sat there, heart pounding. “Was it worth the silence? Could we have saved us?” he asked aloud.

No one answered. Yet he felt a strange peace wash over him. Some wounds, he realized, would never fully heal—but forgiveness could still mend a part of the shattered soul.

"Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means finding the courage to live with what remains."

Years later, Ayaan walked along the same bridge. The river still flowed, indifferent and eternal. He carried Mara’s memory as a quiet companion—not a tormentor, but a reminder of love’s fragility.

And in the fragments of his soul, he discovered a truth he had once feared: even broken hearts can learn to beat again.

"We are all collections of fragments. And sometimes, the broken pieces make the heart more resilient than it ever was whole."

—Kanza Imran Mughal