Experimental Short Story Series #27
“Paper Souls”
By Faraz Parvez (pen name of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal, former faculty member, Umm Al Qura University, Makkah, KSA)
Introduction: Welcome to Another Window of Wonder
Our beloved readers, as we continue to travel the road less written in our 60-story experimental series, we now arrive at the haunting yet oddly tender realm of “Paper Souls.” A tale where memory inks itself onto bureaucracy, and the borders of the living and the dead are blurred not by mysticism—but by the rustle of paper, the scent of ink, and the ghostly stamp of unfinished stories. This is not just a short story—it is a surreal experience carved within the dry silence of forgotten files.
The Story: “Paper Souls”
In a rusting corner of the Central Bureau of Citizen Records, Section H, sat Mr. Rahmanul Haq—a man of precise pens, ironed shirts, and a gaze so flat it reflected nothing. He didn’t look out the window. He looked into files. That was his universe. And his universe behaved—until it didn’t.
It began on a humid Tuesday when a file appeared on his desk. No one placed it there. He hadn’t pulled it from the archives. Yet, there it sat—weathered, bound in green string, labeled “Citizen: Safiya Khatoon, File #00007-H.”
He opened it.
Inside were letters—not to him, but to her long-lost husband, from 1952 to 1971. Ink smudged. Paper brittle. Dates clear. Handwriting delicate. Letters that should not exist in this department, let alone on his desk.
By protocol, it was to be archived. Instead, he read.
She wrote about ration lines. Her baby’s death. A monsoon that took the roof. Hope curled around pain like jasmine around iron grills. Her last letter said, “I still believe someone is reading. Even if not you.”
That night, he dreamed of a woman walking through files, touching them like rosary beads. She looked like his grandmother. Or not.
The next day, a new file. A new set of letters. A man imprisoned without trial. His voice—calm, resigned, echoing inside paper.
Each file unearthed an unseen life. Each letter a wound carried in silence. The system had recorded nothing but names. The souls, however, had left their own archives.
Mr. Haq began to respond. Handwritten. Thoughtfully. As if speaking to them could anchor them, close their files spiritually.
He wrote back to Safiya: “Your words were not in vain. Someone read. Someone cried.”
The files multiplied. So did his replies.
He was now whispering to ghosts through paper.
Coworkers noticed the change. He smiled occasionally. Brought flowers to the office. No longer corrected others’ grammar. They thought it odd, but preferable.
One day, he didn’t show up.
On his desk lay a fresh file.
“Citizen: Rahmanul Haq. Letters enclosed.”
Inside: his replies.
Filed. Stamped. Quiet.
But in the archives of the unsaid, they rustled.
Reflection: Bureaucracy Meets the Beyond
“Paper Souls” is not a ghost story in the traditional sense. It is an experiment in empathy. It turns the cold corridors of government record-keeping into catacombs of preserved emotion. The story nudges readers to ask—how many unheard lives are buried not in graveyards but in unattended drawers, mislabeled documents, or simply in the indifference of systems?
Here, the experiment is not in structure alone but in how narrative intrudes upon routine, how grief infiltrates form, and how the unread demands to be written again.
Stay with Us, Journey with Us
This is Story #27 in our exclusive 60-part experimental short story series—each one crafted with literary innovation, emotional depth, and a touch of philosophical daring. Our aim is not just to narrate, but to experiment with the very architecture of storytelling.
Your love has carried us through this literary pilgrimage. And as promised, this collection shall one day take the shape of a beautiful eBook and a printed volume—a keepsake for those who value creative audacity.
Read. Reflect. Share. And above all, return.
Because every visit to our blog is a nod to meaningful writing.
Visit: farazparvez1.blogspot.com
Penned by: Faraz Parvez (Prof. Dr. Arshad Afzal)
