Ch1,Here's a unique short story in English for you:
The Boy Who Collected Sunsets
In a quiet village between two forgotten mountains, there lived a boy named Arin who believed sunsets were alive.
Every evening, while others hurried home before dark, Arin climbed the tallest hill with a small glass jar in his hand. When the sky turned orange and pink, he would open the jar and whisper, "Stay."
No one knew what he was doing. They thought he was strange. But Arin wasn't collecting light — he was collecting moments.
You see, Arin had discovered something unusual when he was seven. On the day his mother passed away, the sky had exploded into colors so bright it felt like the world was trying to paint over his sadness. As the sun disappeared, he felt a strange warmth in his chest — not happiness, but comfort.
That day, he opened an empty jar and held it toward the sky. When he closed it, the jar glowed faintly.
Since then, whenever he felt afraid, lonely, or unsure, he opened one of his jars. A soft golden light would spill out, wrapping around him like a memory that refused to fade.
Years passed. His room filled with shelves of glowing jars — crimson sunsets from stormy evenings, soft lavender ones from winter skies, fiery gold from summer days.
Then one year, the village suffered a terrible drought. Crops failed. Hope faded. People stopped smiling.
Arin, now older, carried his jars to the village square at night. One by one, he opened them.
Light poured into the darkness.
The square shimmered in pink and gold. Children gasped. Elders wiped silent tears. For a moment, everyone felt warmth again — not from the sun, but from something deeper.
The next morning, clouds gathered for the first time in months.
It rained.
From that day on, whenever someone felt hopeless, they would say, "Find your sunset."
And Arin?
He no longer collected them.
He had learned that sunsets were never meant to be kept.
They were meant to be shared. jannat Islam