Chapter 12: A Quiet Shop in a Loud World
The old alley that led to Abid's apartment twisted like a stubborn line in an unfinished drawing.
Cracked bricks, tangled electric wires, and posters half-torn by rain layered the walls in chaotic memory. Dhaka was always noisy—honking buses, hawkers shouting prices, life pressing in from every corner. But this morning, it all felt distant.
Abid had woken early.
Not for work. Not for a system task.
He just… wanted to walk.
He hadn't done that in a while—walked for no reason at all.
Wearing a soft, loose panjabi and sandals worn thin at the heel, he stepped out just after Fajr prayers, when the city's breath was still light. The morning haze wrapped the streets in a grey calm, and only a few roadside stalls had begun preparing their pots for breakfast.
He didn't bring his phone.
Only a small sketchpad tucked into the side of his cloth bag, and the brush he'd received as a system reward—just in case.
It felt good.
The streets, usually bustling with pressure and expectation, now gave him space. A chance to exist without deadlines, without the glow of a status screen. Just the sound of his footsteps and the occasional greeting from an old shopkeeper setting up for the day.
As he passed a little stationery store he used to visit as a teen, he stopped.
The shutters were still half-down, but the old sign above it remained: "Kalaam & Sons – Art Supplies & Paper"
He remembered that name. The one place that always had black ink when others were sold out. The place his father had taken him once, years ago, just before Eid. Back when Abid had insisted on getting "real" drawing pens, not just ballpoints.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside.
The air smelled of paper, dust, and ink—the perfume of creation.
Behind the counter sat an elderly man hunched over a ledger, muttering to himself in Urdu.
He looked up, eyes narrowing, then widening.
"Abid beta? Is that you?"
Abid blinked, surprised. "Uncle Kalaam? You remember me?"
The man chuckled. "How could I forget the boy who used to come begging for extra sketch paper and promised to return the next day with full pages?" He smiled gently. "You always did. That's what made you different."
Abid couldn't help the grin. It felt like stepping into an old panel of his life—faded, yes, but still full of detail.
They talked.
About life, the neighborhood, how things had changed. Uncle Kalaam spoke of his sons moving abroad, the slow death of paper art in an age of screens, and how fewer kids now came to buy pencils. "Everyone wants to draw with apps these days," he said with a sigh.
"I still draw by hand," Abid offered quietly.
The old man looked at him again, more closely this time.
"You're that Abid, aren't you? The one people keep whispering about. Something about… selling books in another place?"
Abid froze.
He hadn't told anyone here. Not explicitly. And yet…
[Alert: Passive Reputation System Activated in Local Realm]
\[Current Status: Mysterious Creator – Tier 1]
\[Perks: Local vendors may recognize you. Discounts available in small shops.]
\[Warning: Fame Threshold 7% Reached. Public curiosity will rise.]
Abid raised an eyebrow. "Even here…?"
\[System Message: Word of mouth travels faster than spells. You've sold 1,200 manga volumes in the other world.]
"Is it true?" Kalaam asked, half-whispering. "They say you send stories to another place. Not just online. Another world."
Abid hesitated.
How could he explain?
He looked at the rows of old sketchpads, the forgotten jars of India ink drying out behind the counter, the shelf of untouched calligraphy brushes. The store hadn't changed, but the world outside had sprinted ahead.
"Let's just say," Abid replied softly, "I've found readers who appreciate ink the way it's meant to be appreciated."
Kalaam chuckled, eyes twinkling. "That's all I needed to hear."
He stood, dusted off a box from the shelf, and slid it across the counter. "For you. The last stock of handmade parchment we imported from Kashmir. You always liked texture."
Abid touched the paper reverently.
It was smooth but alive—each sheet had its own tiny imperfections. A dream waiting to be drawn.
He bowed slightly. "Thank you."
"No payment," Kalaam said firmly. "You paid long ago—with loyalty."
As Abid stepped out, he heard the man call after him.
"Don't stop! This world needs stories more than it knows."
---
Back in his apartment, sunlight was starting to pierce the curtains.
He placed the parchment carefully on his desk, opened his notebook, and scrawled a quick idea:
"Story: A girl who can see memories etched in paper. Her village stores emotion in scrolls instead of speech."
[System Notification: "Fullmetal Alchemist" has reached 300 sales. Top Genre Ranking: 2nd in Fantasy.]
[Reader Reviews Available. Would you like to view? Y/N]
Abid hesitated.
This time, he pressed **Y**.
The system screen changed, presenting rows of comments written in a script he recognized as "Common Tongue" from the other world. They had been auto-translated:
> "What is this strange, aching feeling I get from reading this? Is this the meaning of loss?"
> "The armored brother made my son cry. He now wants to be a knight who protects his sister."
> "Is this story truth or fiction? If fiction, then the creator is a high mage of emotion."
Abid's chest tightened.
It wasn't just that they were reading. They were feeling.
He scrolled further and saw something else:
[Top Commenter: "Lina, Apprentice Librarian – Golden Oak Archive"]
> "If this tale was forged from pain, then may its creator know: your pain is not in vain."
Abid closed his eyes.
He had no idea who this Lina was. But somehow, across worlds, she had reached out and touched something in him.
[System Message: Emotional Feedback Received. System Growth: +1%]
[Unlocked Feature: "Message Across Worlds" – Send one note to a reader per week. Limited by system level.]
Would he?
Could he?
He opened the feature and saw a simple box. Just 200 characters.
After thinking for a long moment, he typed:
"To Lina – Thank you for reading. Your words mean more than gold. Keep turning pages, and I'll keep drawing."
[Message Sent.]
He leaned back in his chair, arms loose, head resting against the wooden backrest.
Outside, the city roared to life again.
But inside, a quiet shopkeeper, a girl in a magical library, and an artist with ink-stained hands were part of a story only they knew.