The cursor blinked.
A white void. An empty digital page in a silent gallery.
The weight of "-D"s gaze felt physical. A pressure on the back of my skull.
Write the next chapter.
Not my story. A story. Here. Now.
Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. I closed my eyes for a second. Not to think of a plot. To find the cold fire.
It was there. Banked. Smoldering.
I opened my eyes. My fingers settled on the keys.
I didn't write about Chronos. I wrote about the silence.
Title: The Sculptor of Echoes
The man sold his voice to the devil for the perfect silence. I typed, the mechanical keys loud in the hushed room. Not a silence of absence, but of potential. A silence he could carve into sound.
A few gallery visitors drifted past, glanced at the odd boy typing furiously at an art installation. They moved on, uninterested.
I didn't see them. I saw the story.
