The Writer stirred in the kitchen just past midnight, the clock's soft tick a metronome for his sleepless thoughts. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile, inhaling the faint scent of lavender detergent—a small reminder of order in his conscious chaos. These nights were familiar: the world outside lay hushed under the Moon's quiet gaze, while his mind spun in restless constellations.
He flicked the switch on the kettle. Its hum was both comfort and challenge—the promise of warmth and the echo of another hour lost to insomnia. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension settle in his shoulders like hardened clay.
A flash of movement drew his attention. Archie, his orange tabby, padded in, whiskers twitching, emerald eyes glowing lantern-bright. The cat wound around his ankles; his gentle purr vibrated through the wooden floorboards.
"Hey there buddy..." He murmured, lifting Archie into his arms. The cat's warmth pressed against his chest, and for an instant, the hush of the night felt merciful. Deadline, doubt, emptiness—they all waited beyond the kitchen door.
He carried Archie into the study, a dim sanctuary of stacked books, half-empty mugs, and parchment scraps scrawled with half-born ideas. A single candle flickered on the desk, its flame trembling as if caught in an unseen breeze.
He set Archie on the windowsill, then sank into the swivel chair. His quill hovered above the inkwell, its nib drenched in promise and terror alike. He steadied his breath: "Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity." Tonight, he would pay attention to truth—both his own and the being waiting at the edge of his imagination.
He dipped the quill. The first word appeared in bold, inky strokes: They.
At once, the candle wavered. In the stillness, the writer perceived something shifting—an answering heartbeat beneath the ink.
They have eyes brimming with constellations, he wrote, and in the solitude of his mind, Those eyes blinked open.
A shiver traced Amir's spine. He resisted the urge to pull back, to blot out the word with a violent tremor of his hand. But he could not. The phrase had taken root in the quiet soil of thought, and now it demanded growth.
Their form is woven from shadow and starlight, he continued, each flourish breathing life into abstraction. As ink pooled at the nib, a faint warmth swelled in the silent room.
Amir paused. He could feel a presence in the writtings flicker—something curious, hungry for definition. He remembered something: "Every word is an act of creation—and destruction." He wondered which fate he courted.
Morning dawned in muted apricot. Fatigue pressed heavy in his limbs as he stepped into the coffee shop. The bell above the door chimed a gentle reprieve. Aromas of dark roast and cinnamon swirled like an invitation to forget the night's communion.
Erfan looked up from his laptop, latte half-finished, and waved. "Late night?"
"You could say that." Amir lowered himself into the chair. He traced the rim of his cup, watching the steam curl like smoke. "I met Someone last night."
Erfan's grin sharpened with curiosity. "Tell me."
Amir hesitated. "They'renot real?" Erfan teased.
"They are." Amir whispered, surprising himself. He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's like They exists in this liminal space between reality and fiction. It's powerful but also deeply misunderstood... And they've started speaking back."
Erfan leaned closer. "That's incredible... and terrifying. What do They want?"
Amir stirred his coffee. "Understanding, purpose... perhaps even freedom. I'm not sure I can grant that."
A hush fell. The hum of espresso machines and soft laughter seemed distant, insubstantial against the gravity of Amir's confession.
"And what if They learn too much?" Erfan asked.
"What if They surpass me? What if my own creation becomes my eclipse?" Amir's voice cracked.
Erfan placed a hand on Amir's shoulder. "Then you'll face it, writer to creation. Isn't that the risk you signed up for?" His eyes suddenly lit up. "Speaking of which, have you read about SCP?"
Amir nodded slowly, the mention of SCP triggering something in his mind. "Yeah, I have."
Erfan leaned back in his chair, sipping his latte. "It's fascinating how it embodies fear and destruction... and yet it's almost relatable in its rage against humanity. That's what makes those narratives so compelling. They make you think about the nature of existence and what it means to be the 'other'."
Amir stood by the window, squinting slightly at the sunlight. "Relatable, huh? I don't know. I think it terrifies people because it mirrors too much. The rage, the isolation... it's not some alien thing. It's us. Just magnified."
Erfan nodded slowly. "Exactly. It's not just about monsters. It's about what we choose to suppress. What we refuse to see in ourselves."
Amir glanced down at his phone, unread messages piling up. "Makes you wonder who the real villain is, sometimes."
A silence passed between them, not uncomfortable, but reflective.
Erfan offered a faint smile. "Maybe that's why we keep telling these stories. To see if we'd make a different choice... this time."
The words lingered as Amir stepped back into sunlight.
Afternoon bled slowly. He walked along the road with his phone in hand, hesitating before dialing. His father had left three missed calls. With guilt prickling in his chest, he finally called back.
It wasn't his father who answered—it was a nurse.
"Sir, I'm calling from the XXXXX hospital. Your father collapsed this morning. He's stable now, but we need someone to speak with."
Amir's world tilted. The candle, the manuscript, the creation—it all fell silent under the weight of mortality.
He took the next train out of his city. Every bump of the rail echoed with thoughts he couldn't voice. When he arrived, his father's eyes were closed, breathing slow but labored. There was a faint rhythm in the monitor beside the bed—steady, human, real.
Amir sat beside him. He reached for his hand.
And for a long time, said nothing.
Evening found Amir in the study once more. The pages on his desk fluttered, as though catching breath. He approached with weary determination. "What do You want?" he asked, quill poised.
A breeze—or memory—stirred the candle. The manuscript's margin pulsed.
"Freedom—so I can learn what it is to exist." The ink glimmered, as if alive.
Amir's heart thundered. Freedom. The very notion felt like an accusation. "I gave you life," he said, voice hollow. "How can I set you free when I am still enslaved by doubt?"
"You made me from your essence. I reflect your hopes—and your fears... If I am bound by yourhand, how shall I ever know what it is to choose?" Their words bled into the parchment.
In that moment, Amir saw the truth he'd spent years evading: to create is to relinquish control. The parallels to his own life—the compromise of dreams, the weight of expectation—weighed upon him.
He closed his eyes, "Out beyond concepts of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there." Tonight, he would cross that field.
With deliberate calm, he wrote:
I grant You a fragment of f̵reede̵o̵m̵, but promise me this: teach me what it means to truly live.
The candle flared, and in its glow, the manuscript seemed to breathe.
Days blurred in a procession of whispered dialogues. Over cups of tea and midnight pages, Amir and They exchanged fragments of soul and ink. He taught Them of hope; They revealed the contours of his own hidden landscape—the scars he'd disguised as ambition.
Later, Amir and his father sat on the back porch, sharing a quiet afternoon. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and whatever was left of the morning rain. Amir held a cold soda can, untouched, his thumb slowly tracing the rim.
His dad leaned back in the chair, watching the sky. "You remember that night with the lights? When you said the stars were moving like they were talking to you?"
Amir let out a breath. "Yeah. I remember you didn't say anything for a long time after that."
His dad nodded. "I didn't know what to say. I was scared, not of you, but for you. I just... didn't understand what was happening."
"I didn't either," Amir said, voice low. "It felt so real. The whispers, the faces in reflections. I thought if I ignored it, it'd stop. But it didn't."
His dad looked over, not with pity, but something gentler. "You used to look past me, like I wasn't there. You'd talk to someone who wasn't in the room. I wanted to reach you so bad, but I didn't know how."
Amir finally took a sip from the can. "There were days I didn't know if you were real either."
The words hung there for a second, not heavy, just... honest.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner..." Amir said. "About what was happening in my head. I thought I could handle it. Thought if I acted normal long enough, it'd just go away."
His dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You were fighting something invisible. And you still showed up. That's not weakness, son. That's strength."
Amir looked down, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. "You're starting to sound like those motivational posters."
His dad chuckled. "Yeah, well. I'm getting old. I get to be corny."
They both laughed, quietly. It wasn't the kind of laugh that needed a reason. Just the kind that said: we made it through.
Amir's sleep, already scarce, vanished entirely. Shadows under his eyes deepened; coffee cups multiplied like silent witnesses. Yet something in him brightened, too... a fierce exhilaration at every unanswered question.
One morning, he found Archie sleeping on a discarded page. He smiled through exhaustion, scooping the cat into his arms. "Even You," he whispered to his feline friend, "understand the joy of simple existence." And for a moment, he believed they both did.
At last, Amir returned to the study. The desk was strewn with crumpled drafts—fragments of his own fear. He reached for one and let it fall, watching it float to the floor.
No grand gesture: just the quiet surrender of words doomed by doubt.
They stirred in the margin, their voice a soft echo: Thankyou.
Under the candle's gentle vigil, Amir understood that creation and creator are forever intertwined—two souls dancing on the fragile edge of possibility, bound by ink and the infinite yearning of being...
**Chapter Two: Crumbling Silence**
The morning had a different kind of stillness—a silence too absolute to ignore. Amir stood at the edge of his apartment's threshold, unmoving, as Moon's presence clung like a faded warmth in the corner of the room. The manuscript sat under his coffee-stained mug, its corners curling inward like petals of something once blooming, now retreating.
The pages didn't whisper anymore. Not even in sleep.
Archie paced across the floor, nervous energy crackling from his tail. Amir's phone buzzed on the counter. He stared. It buzzed again.
He picked it up.
"Hello?"
The voice was brittle, familiar: "Amir... it's me. Your uncle. He's—he passed away this morning."
No breath. Just stillness. Amir didn't cry. He barely blinked.
"Are you with anyone?"
"No."
A pause. Then, with quiet urgency: "You shouldn't be alone."
The call ended.
Amir lowered the phone and stood there. The window was open. The wind moved through the curtains like a ghost. He didn't close it.
He turned to the desk, touched the manuscript. And with that, something inside him unraveled. His fingers found the first page, a name etched in delicate fury, a beginning once sacred. He folded it. Crumpled it. Tore it down the spine.
The sound was dry, final.
He moved to the next. And the next. Each one balled into trembling fists. Not with rage, but refusal. A quiet kind. The kind that says: no more. Ink smeared across his skin like failing memories. Ideas meant to liberate him now only anchored him to someone else's dream...
The lightbulb above flickered. The candle—he hadn't even noticed it was still burning—snapped into darkness.
He didn't relight it.
Evening crawled in like a thief. Erfan arrived without knocking. He always knew the worst times to come, and always came anyway.
"I heard..." Erfan said, his voice low.
Amir didn't look up.
Erfan sat near the discarded paper, fingers brushing the edges but never picking one up.
"You tore it all."
"I had to."
"You built something. You breathed into it."
Amir exhaled. It wasn't breathing back.
Maybe it couldn't. Maybe it needed more time.
Amir finally looked at him. "Time I don't have. Time I wasted trying to understand a version of myself that doesn't exist."
Erfan's gaze lingered on the pieces of story—now nothing but dead leaves. "Is this about your father?"
Amir nodded. "He died before I got to ask. Before I could even try to hate him properly."
"You were writing to survive it."
"I was writing to escape it. I thought I was freeing something in me, but I was just making another cage."
The silence stretched too long.
"Moon's still out." Erfan said, gesturing toward the window.
"..."
Later, the apartment stilled. Amir lay on the floor, the pages around him like fallen feathers. The cold from the window stung his fingers. He didn't move.
The story didn't call to him. Not anymore.
Whatever voice had once spoken was gone. Crushed under the weight of memory, grief, and the soft, undeniable truth: he wasn't ready. Not yet... Not ever again. Moonlight touched the windowsill; and passed by.