Chapter 18: The Book with No Title
He stretched, his joints cracking faintly, and ambled to the kitchen corner to put the kettle on. There was no need to rush. He had nowhere he had to be but here. That thought used to feel heavy—empty, even—but lately it carried a kind of peace.
Today felt like a good day to begin something new.
[System Notification: Rest Level – Optimal. Suggestion: Begin Creative Project (Original). Bonus active: "Morning Clarity" – +10% to Inspiration Efficiency.]
Abid smiled. He still wasn't quite used to the system's mood-matching recommendations. It was like having a mentor who knew when to speak softly and when to simply let you breathe.
He poured his tea into a chipped porcelain cup, the one with the faded koi fish painted near the rim. Then he sat by the window, a small sketchbook balanced on his knee, and stared out at the waking world.
Dhaka was never silent, but this hour—just past sunrise—offered something close. A few delivery trucks rumbled in the distance, and birds flitted between tangled wires overhead. The scent of damp earth lingered from the previous night's rain.
He flipped open the sketchbook. The pages were blank. Untouched.
This wasn't for a client or even for the other world. This was for him.
He picked up a pencil and wrote, in tiny letters on the first page:
"The Book with No Title."
He didn't know why, but the phrase had followed him in his dreams. It wasn't meant to be mysterious. Just… open. A vessel. A place for wandering thoughts and quiet sketches. He drew a bench beneath a tree. An old man sitting with a cat on his shoulder. A teacup floating in midair.
It wasn't a story yet. But it would be.
*
Later that afternoon, he returned to his desk, where his tablet hummed quietly with recent uploads. The screen displayed an updated stats page from the system.
[Realm Distribution Report:
"Lantern Girl and the Forgotten Cat" – 47 Readers
Top Reactions: "Soothing," "Lonely but kind," "I felt seen."
Reader Review Excerpt (translated):
"This story reminded me of walking home through the fog after my mother's passing. It made the world feel soft again."]
[Reward Unlocked: "Memory Ink" – A new brush setting that adjusts line weight based on emotional tone.]
Abid blinked, moved by the feedback. He read the review three more times before closing the report. His fingers hovered over the tablet, hesitant.
It felt… humbling. To know his quiet stories—little fragments of feeling—could reach across worlds.
He tapped into the system's World Interface tab, where messages from the bookseller sometimes came through.
There was one waiting.
[Message from Elderwin's Book Nook:
Dearest Scribe Abid,
I hope the rain has visited your side of the veil as softly as it has ours. The townsfolk have taken to gathering around lanterns in the evening to read your works aloud. A girl named Remna has started drawing her own versions of the "Cat of the Fog."
Also, there's been a request: some villagers wonder if you could write something about "food." Not feasts or magic banquets—just the feeling of eating a warm meal after a cold day. They say such a story would make winter easier.
Warm regards,
Kairon, the Book Nook Keeper]
Abid stared at the message, a slow warmth spreading in his chest.
"Something about food, huh?"
It was such a simple request. But it was also one of the most human.
He opened a new file and typed a working title:
"Soup at the Edge of the Forest."
He imagined a little tavern at the border of a snow-covered woodland. A traveler with frozen fingers and an aching heart. A silent cook who served them something steaming, with no questions asked.
[System Prompt: Project Initialized – "Soup at the Edge of the Forest." Writing Bonus Active: "Human Comfort"]
He let the ideas simmer, like the very soup he was imagining. He would begin drafting tomorrow. Today, he wanted to explore something else.
*
As dusk approached, he wandered down to the riverside walkway. The air was cooler now, touched with the promise of another rain. Children laughed in the distance, their paper boats dancing along the currents of a narrow canal.
Abid took a seat on an old stone bench, opening his sketchbook again.
This time, he wasn't trying to draw a character or a scene. He simply let his pencil move. A series of hands—old and young, clasping, reaching, letting go. A window with light spilling out into a snowy street. A page turning slowly in a well-worn book.
[System Passive: "Stream of Mind" engaged. Memory-fragments stored.]
He hadn't felt this open in years. As if the paper understood what he couldn't say aloud.
When he returned home, night had already wrapped itself around the city. He switched on the lamp, brewed a second cup of tea, and sat at his desk—not to work, but to reread a few of his old stories. The early ones. From long before the system. Before the second world.
Some were clumsy. Others wandered too much. But all of them carried something real.
A small light.
A reaching hand.
And now, a doorway.
[System Notification: "Milestone Reached – 10 Original Works Delivered Across Worlds."
Reward: "Pocket Library" Feature Unlocked – You may now curate a personal shelf in the other realm's bookstores.]
Abid leaned back in his chair, eyes closing for a moment.
A personal shelf.
The thought filled him with an unexpected emotion—something between gratitude and disbelief. All he'd wanted was to not disappear. To not be forgotten among the noise and the silence.
And now, in some quiet corner of another world, a shelf bore his name.
Not in lights.
But in ink.
*
That night, before sleep, he added one final note to "The Book with No Title."
A tiny sketch of a small wooden sign.
It read: Stories Welcome Here.
Then he closed the book, turned out the light, and let the wind carry him into sleep.