I did not create this world to be worshipped.
I wrote it... because no one else dared to remember it.
Because silence was swallowing the echoes.
For what use is a forgotten world?
What use is the sky, if no one looks up?
What use is time, if no one fears its loss?
So I wrote —
Not with hands, but with will.
Not with ink, but with wounds.
With the ink that bleeds from time's torn skin,
I unfolded the pages the world had abandoned.
I painted the fractured sky.
The scorched earth.
And the souls trapped between two destinies —
One written.
One chosen.
I shaped heroes with shining swords.
Traitors cloaked in borrowed smiles.
Kings with crowns that fed upon their own flesh.
Each, given a place.
Each, given a role.
For a perfect story...
is a story that ends.
Yet always —
from the fissures between the lines I did not write —
something emerges.
A blot.
A shadow that drinks the light.
A voice that refuses to wait for a name.
It comes unbidden.
Nameless.
Unborn.
Unending.
A hunger — not for meaning,
but for existence.
Even in a world that denies it.
I did not name it.
I did not create it.
It is not a character. Not fate.
It is the guilt that refuses to be forgotten.
It slips into the scene,
steals lines that are not its own,
whispers another story in the midst of the act —
and the act... begins to crack.
My characters forget who they are.
The scene dissolves the structure.
The end —
refuses to arrive.
For while he writes,
I am only a shadow.
A writer without a story.
And the last page —
it will not be mine to write.
Perhaps it has already been written —
in blood.
In vengeance.
Or perhaps... not yet.
Because now,
the pen is in his hands.