The sky was a dark shade of purple. The clouds seemed to carry some sort of omen. Aryan sat in his old study, staring at his laptop screen. He was a freelance writer, but for the past three months, not a single word had escaped his pen. This is what writers probably call 'Writer's Block.'
Suddenly, the sound of the doorbell snapped him out of his trance. Who could it be at this hour? Upon opening the door, he found a medium-sized wooden box lying on the floor. There was no one around. Aryan brought the box inside. There was no sender's name on it, only a note that read— "The final page of your story begins here."
He was stunned when he opened the box. Inside was an ancient-looking fountain pen and a stack of strangely coarse paper. As he picked up the pen, a cold shiver ran down Aryan's spine. It felt as if the pen was merging with his hand.That night, Aryan couldn't restrain himself. He began to write on the paper. He wrote about a fictional character named 'Nil,' who had become trapped in an abandoned library in the city. Aryan wrote in his description— "When Nil stood before the old mirror tucked away in the corner of the library, he saw his own reflection staring back at him with a cruel, mocking smile."
The moment he finished writing, the lights in Aryan's room flickered intensely and then went out. Outside, there was a violent crash of thunder. Aryan's heart began to race. He tried to convince himself it was just his imagination. But the next morning, as he opened the newspaper, his hands and feet went cold with dread.
The headline read— "Mysterious Death of a Youth in the City's Old Library. According to witnesses, he was found dead in front of a mirror, with a strange, diabolical smile on his face."
Aryan sat there, paralyzed. Exactly what he had written had come to pass, word for word. Had he not found an ordinary pen after all? Was this some cursed, magical pen that turns imagination into reality? Aryan spent the entire day pacing around his room. The image of the dead youth from the newspaper kept flashing before his eyes. Had he unknowingly become a murderer? No, that couldn't be. He decided he would use the power of this pen for good. He sat down with the pen and that strange, coarse paper.
He wrote— "The little girl lying in the city hospital's Intensive Care Unit (ICU), whose survival the doctors had given up on, suddenly opened her eyes. She recovered and reached out for her mother's hand."
Aryan waited, holding his breath. Within moments, breaking news appeared on the television scroll— "A Miracle in Medical Science! A near-dead child suddenly recovers."
Aryan breathed a sigh of relief. This meant he could change the world if he wanted to. He became intoxicated by this newfound power. Over the next few days, he began changing the fates of people one after another. But there was one thing he failed to notice—every time he wrote something good, the ancient pen seemed to leak something dark red instead of ink. And the color of the paper was slowly turning pale, like human skin. One week later. Aryan stood before the mirror and recoiled in shock at his own reflection. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks had hollowed out. It was as if he had aged ten years in just seven days.
That night, he decided he wouldn't write anything more. But as soon as the clock struck midnight, his hand began to tremble. A sharp, piercing pain began to stab at his brain. It felt as if the pen was speaking to him. An ethereal voice whispered— "Finish the story, Aryan. Balance must be maintained. If you give life to someone, someone else must give their life in return."
Aryan cried out in agony as he picked up the pen. His hand was no longer under his control. The pen began to race across the paper. But this time, he wasn't writing what he wanted. The pen forced him to write— "The door to Aryan's room opened on its own. Someone began approaching him from the darkness of the corridor—someone with no face, only a pair of glowing eyes."
Aryan tried desperately to throw the pen away, but it was stuck to his fingers like glue. Blood began to seep from his fingertips into the pen. He realized then—this pen does not run on ink; it runs on the blood of the writer.
He wrote— "That shadow figure is now standing right behind Aryan. Its icy breath is brushing against his neck."
The temperature in Aryan's room plummeted to sub-zero. He didn't have the courage to look back in fear. But in the large mirror on his wall, he saw it—a pitch-black silhouette standing behind him. That figure also held a pen, and its other hand was reaching toward Aryan's throat.
Aryan tried one last time to write something on the paper. He tried to write— "Aryan survived."
But no more ink came from the pen. Instead, the pen pierced through his skin and sank into his bone. In bright red blood, the final sentence was carved onto the paper:
"When the creator of a story tries to break its chains, the story itself devours him. From today, Aryan is no longer a writer; he shall be merely a character on this cursed paper."
The next morning, the police were baffled while searching Aryan's room. The door was locked from the inside, but there was no one there. Only an old piece of paper lay on the table. On it was a story written in Aryan's hand, and on the final page was a lifelike sketch of Aryan. The image showed Aryan screaming as a dark shadow dragged him behind a veil of darkness.
Aryan realized he had fallen into a terrifying trap. Every time he altered someone's fate, the universe extracted a heavy price from him. That night, he stood before the mirror and looked at his reflection. The Aryan in the mirror seemed more alive than he was himself. The reflection smiled without even moving its lips.
That very afternoon, Aryan noticed the walls of his room seemed to be closing in. The furniture was shifting in strange ways. He tried to turn on his favorite laptop, but the screen was covered in distorted red scribbles— "Give me blood, give me a story." The ancient pen in Aryan's hand had now completely merged with his skin. He tried to tear the pen away, but it felt as if his very flesh would be ripped apart. He collapsed onto the floor in unbearable agony. It felt as if he were no longer human; he was transforming into a living pen.