Shadows of the Past - By A.B.M. Fathima Ashfa

Written By: A.B.M.Fathima Ashfa

Category: Short Story ( Fictional )

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, A.B.M. Fathima Ashfa presents "Shadows of the Past," an evocative short story that delves into the complexities of memory and longing. Fathima Ashfa's narrative invites readers into the world of Mary, where the rhythmic dance of rain and the haunting whispers of the past converge. As Mary navigates her inner turmoil, the story unfolds in a tapestry of nostalgia and anticipation, weaving a delicate balance between hope and reality. This piece is a testament to the power of fiction to capture the essence of human emotion and introspection.

About the Work

"Shadows of the Past" offers a poignant exploration of memory and the way our past intertwines with our present. The mood is one of introspective melancholy, as Mary grapples with the shadows of her past and the haunting echoes of a love once cherished. Through vivid imagery and a narrative that seamlessly blends reality with dream-like sequences, Fathima Ashfa crafts a story rich in emotional depth and narrative intrigue. The work is a delicate balance of longing and introspection, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of dreams and the enduring power of memory.

Shadows of the Past

Original Submission by A.B.M.Fathima Ashfa

Shadows of the Past

By

Fathima Ashfa

The rain tapped rhythmically against the window, a gentle lullaby that both soothed and unsettled Mary. She huddled in the corner of her bedroom, the shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders as a chill crept into the air. Water droplets glided down the glass, distorting the world outside—much like her own swirling thoughts. Her fingers nervously traced the edges of an envelope, its weight heavy with longing.

“Dear Mary, You are my eternal dream...” She read the letter again, her heart clenching at the familiar words. The ink felt alive, pulsating with memories. Each time she reached the last line—“I’ll wait for you at Matara Beach Park at 5:00 p.m.”—a quiet desperation swelled within her, echoing in the recesses of her mind.

After a moment's hesitation, she picked up a pen and added a small note: “I’ll be there.” Her heart danced with an unfamiliar rhythm. Sliding the letter back into the envelope, she opened her locker, gently placing the letter inside and double-checked that the locker was secure. As she closed the door with a soft click, a shiver skittered down her spine; a shadowy figure stirred in her periphery, observing her every move. Spinning around, she found herself face-to-face with nothingness—or perhaps, her own conscience staring back.

With a heavy heart, Mary rested her head on the table, surrendering to the hypnotic sound of rain. Each drop seemed to whisper Isa’s name, a lullaby of lost promises.

---

The railway station burst alive with sounds: the rhythmic chugging of trains, the shouts of vendors hawking their wares, the impatient murmurs of travelers rushing to and fro. A cacophony of life and movement, each person focused on their own destination. Mary stood there, clutching the letter, the cold metal of her change pressing against her palm.

“Next train to Matara will arrive in ten minutes!” a voice boomed over the speakers. Mary's heart leaped as she navigated through the throngs, the echoing commotion wrapping around her like a blanket, bringing warmth against the chill of uncertainty.

Finding a green bench in a secluded corner, she nestled in, keeping her eyes on the flow of the crowd. Her gaze caught a little girl in a pink and white frock, pleading with her mother for a Barbie doll. “Please, Ammi! Just one!” the girl whimpered, her bottom lip quivering. The mother shook her head, “We’ll ask your dad,” she said, a hint of regret in her voice. The girl’s face crumpled, and Mary’s heart ached for her innocence.

Her mind drifted back to her birthday, to the meticulously crafted doll that Isa had gifted her. It had long, flowing hair, shimmering blue eyes, and a dress made of lace that glimmered in the sunlight. She had cherished it, bringing it everywhere—her constant companion, a vessel for dreams and secrets shared under starlit skies.

But the shadowy figure lingered, creeping back into her thoughts, its presence unsettling.

Gazing about, she turned her focus toward the ticket counter adorned with bright signs and a steady stream of passengers. Behind the counter stood a frazzled clerk, ringing up tickets while the aroma of cooked snacks wafted from a nearby food stall. Her eyes lingered on a silver whistle hanging from the station master’s pocket; it caught the light, reflecting memories.

Isa would often mimic the sound of that whistle whenever he wanted to catch her attention, a playful signature in their conversations.

“Hey, Mary!” he would shout, half-laughing, “Listen closely! If you hear that sound, it means I want to tell you something exciting!”

“Oh, really?” she would grin, her heart blooming with affection, “What if I refuse to listen?”

“Then I’ll just whistle louder!” he teased, and she would dissolve into giggles.

The shrill whistle of the station master brought her back to the present, signaling the arrival of the train to Matara. The train rolled into the station with the unmistakable chuff-chuff sound of metal on metal, puffing clouds of steam into the cool air. People surged toward the platform, a human tide moving in a choreographed chaos: some energetically boarding the train, others disembarking with bemusement—a man clutching his suitcase, a woman adjusting her child's cap, a couple scanning the crowd for familiar faces. A few looked confused, glancing around with uncertainty, as if the station itself held secrets yet to be uncovered.

Mary climbed aboard, her heart racing in time with the frantic bustle surrounding her. She found her seat and fished her ticket from her pocket, glancing up when a kind woman sat down beside her.

“Excuse me, does this train go to Matara?” the woman asked, her voice edged with uncertainty.

“Yes!" Mary nodded enthusiastically. "The station master just said it'll arrive around 4:30.”

“Thank you so much!” the woman smiled, her face lighting up with relief.

The station master, making his rounds, chimed in. “That’s correct, ladies! Safe travels!” He tipped his cap and continued on, leaving behind a shared smile.

As the train began to move, Mary nestled into her seat, excitement coursing through her veins. She gazed out the window, watching the cityscape shift as they departed. A moment later, a couple boarded nearby, sharing laughter and whispers. Mary’s heart ached with nostalgia as she caught sight of the two foreigners kissing softly, clearly lost in their own world.

Her thoughts wandered back to that almost captured moment with Isa, at the beach that sunny afternoon. They had shared shy glances, standing close, the salty air dancing around them like an unwritten song.

“Mary, I—” Isa had started, his gaze intense.

“No! Isa, wait!” She stepped back, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

"Why not? I just want—"

“Please, not now!” They had both laughed then, but her mind had been a whirlwind, caught between fear and yearning.

The shadowy figure reappeared, casting an unsettling presence that left Mary deeply troubled, her mind wrestling with the unsettling thought of whether a ghostly entity had truly taken hold of her.

In an effort to escape this disquieting sensation, Mary focused intently on the scenery outside the window, where the landscape unfolded in vibrant hues of green and gold. Just then, a faint jingle of a passing ice cream vendor’s bell struck her like a lightning bolt, igniting a cascade of memories tied to Isa.

One memory enveloped her—the spontaneous visit they had made to a bustling street market on an unexpected rainy afternoon. The rhythmic chiming of bells danced through the air as they wandered hand in hand, the smell of sweet spices and grilled snacks wrapping around them like a warm hug.

“Look, Mary! They have your favorite: chocolate fudge!” Isa had exclaimed, pointing at an old lady bustling with an assortment of colorful ice creams stacked high alongside her cart.

“I need to try the strawberry, too!” Mary giggled, her excitement bubbling over as the rain drizzled down, creating puddles around their feet.

"They say no one can resist a good ice cream on a rainy day," Isa said, winking as they approached the cart.

As they savored their ice creams—rich chocolate entwined with swirls of fudge melting against the sweetness of strawberry—Mary remembered how the old woman huffed while serving them.

“You kids,” she sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her aged hand, “Life’s so tough. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it to serve ice cream when I have nothing,” she lamented, her eyes trailing over the pathetically small amount of coins in her tin box.

“Here,” Isa had said, abruptly reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of change. “Take this, Aunty. You deserve it more than we do.”

“Oh, young man! Bless your heart!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up like sunrise. “Thank you, thank you! You’ve made this old soul smile today, you really have!”

As they walked away, the happiness of generosity hung around them, mingling with the lingering taste of ice cream coating their tongues.

“See? Ice cream tastes better with a dash of kindness,” Isa quipped, nudging her playfully.

Mary had laughed, “You’re sweet, Isa.”

In that moment, a flash of wind emanated from nowhere, and the familiar shadow invaded her thoughts once again, creeping into her mind like an unwelcome guest. Frustrated, she shook her head, attempting to dispel its influence.

“Madam!” A vendor's voice cut through her thoughts, and Mary turned to see a man with bags of mango achcharu, the bright yellow fruit glistening temptingly in the plastic.

“Freshly made mango achcharu!” he called with a persistent enthusiasm. She eyed his hand, a bandage wrapped tightly around a finger with a smudge of drying blood showing through. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, triggering a memory of her first day of puberty at school. The sharp pain had felt like a vice, pinching her stomach with relentless cruelty, the wetness she couldn’t hide clinging to her thighs.

Isa had noticed her discomfort, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Are you cold, Mary?” he had asked, offering her his jacket, a small badge with the word “Amore” glinting in the sunlight.

“I’m fine, really,” she had insisted, but he had insisted on draping his jacket around her shoulders, a tender gesture that lingered in her heart.

“How much is it?” she inquired, breaking from her thoughts.

“Just fifty rupees. Freshly made, one of a kind!”

She paid him and took a bite, the sweetness of the mango burst in her mouth, tangy and bright, eliciting a smile as memories washed over her.

“How's your cold, Mary?” Isa had asked when she returned to school.

“I'm completely fine, Isa,” she had replied, laughing lightly, caught in the warmth of his gaze.

But as she chewed, her gaze fell back to the envelope nestled in her bag. The familiar, stark whiteness screamed at her, the fingers of her memory curling around the haunting words: “I’ll wait for you.” Again, the shadow returned—the pressure building so intensely she could almost hear its pulse whispering in time with the clattering train wheels, “It’s time, wake up.”

A loud blow from the train horn broke through her thoughts, snapping the moment. The arrival announcement rumbled through the speakers, and the train rolled into the station at Matara, coming to an abrupt halt. Passengers eagerly surged toward the exit.

Clutching her bag with the letter securely inside, Mary stepped off the train and onto the platform, her surroundings buzzing with life. The salty air swept around her, mixing with the heady scent of wet sand and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. Matara Beach Park was only a short walk away. She could already taste the anticipation bubbling within her, but a whisper of doubt simmered beneath the excitement.

Would Isa be there? Had she arrived late? Fear clawed at her mind as she pondered his reaction to her letter—if he would be happy, surprised, or if he had already made another decision. The shadow loomed faintly in the periphery, whispering thoughts that haunted her since the letter had arrived.

Mary reached Matara Beach Park, the atmosphere a vibrant swirl of colors—the blue of the sea, golden sand, and brilliant green palms swaying under the overcast sky. Children laughed, families basked in the sun’s rays, and life flowed all around her.

Scanning the park for Isa, her heart plummeted when she didn’t see him. The shadows in her mind grew heavy, and tears pricked her eyes at the rush of disappointment. Was he really not there? The thought weighed heavily on her chest.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle tap on her left shoulder. She turned, heart racing. “Isa...” she gasped, but the moment turned to confusion.

A familiar tap came again, and she stood abruptly, feeling breathless. “Isa!” she shouted, excitement rising in her voice, but as she turned completely, she was met with the gentle face of her husband, confusion burning in his gaze.

The realization hit her like a wave crashing onto the beach. It was a dream—the letter merely fuel, igniting the embers of memory and possibility.

“I’ve been trying to wake you for a long time,” he said softly, his brow furrowed in concern. “What happened, Mary?”

A silence enveloped her as the pieces clicked. It had been his voice whispering to her, “It’s time, wake up.” She took a breath, the weight of the dream dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

“I’m alright,” she replied slowly, taking the glass of water he handed her. “Just a nightmare, my dear.”

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates the diverse voices and creative expressions from around the world. This prestigious event provides a platform for writers and poets to showcase their talent and share their stories with a global audience. Participants explore a wide range of themes and genres, contributing to a rich tapestry of literary art that resonates with readers from all walks of life. The competition is a testament to the enduring power of words to inspire, challenge, and connect us all.

Thank you, A.B.M. Fathima Ashfa, for sharing "Shadows of the Past" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your evocative storytelling and keen exploration of memory and longing have left a lasting impression. We appreciate your contribution to this vibrant celebration of literary art and look forward to seeing more of your creative journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.