The tavern murmured with warmth and chatter. Laughter spilled through smoke and stew. Tankards clinked. Boots scraped wooden floors. And yet, in the corner beneath a cracked stained-glass window, Silas sat still—alone again, but not the same as before.
He'd been given a room upstairs by the adventurers who found him, who now laughed and told stories nearby. They had names—Auren the swordsman, Mira the flame-caster, Vekk who never spoke—and they had no idea what he was. Not yet. Not even he did.
So Silas had slipped away after the food, after the smiles. He sat at the edge of things, fingers around a plain quill and a sheet of parchment he'd borrowed from Mira's pack.
The quill had no ink.
And yet—he felt something. Faint, like breath behind his shoulder. Like a shadow he couldn't outrun. He pressed the invisible tip to the page.
Nothing.
He tried again. He focused—not with muscle, not with thought, but with memory. Pain. Longing. That ache in his chest that had followed him from the other world.
Still nothing.
He closed his eyes. He asked the question—not aloud, but into the silence within.
"Are you there?"
And something stirred.
A single word appeared on the page in faint shimmer, like moonlight drawn in thread.
"Yes."
Silas's breath caught. He stared. The ink faded, but he could still feel it.
He whispered, trembling now, "What are you?"
A pause. Then:
"I am what you made when you suffered alone. I am the answer you begged for."
Silas clutched the page, heart pounding. "Then… are you God?"
"No."
"Are you magic?"
"No."
"Then what am I?"
The answer did not come. The parchment remained blank.
Silas sat back in his chair, the wood creaking. The tavern noise continued, but it all felt miles away. Something deep within him stirred—not fear, not joy, but the slow dread of understanding too much, too soon.
He wrote again. "Can I use you?"
"You already have."
"Can I use you… to survive?"
"Yes."
He hesitated.
He was hungry. The adventurers had paid for his meal, but how long could he keep relying on strangers?
He thought of coin. Gold, shining and heavy. A pouch full.
He focused, trying not to imagine riches, but instead need. Just enough. A story where he had just enough.
He touched the quill to the parchment and wrote: "And so Silas reached into his pocket and found a small pouch of coins—enough for a warm bed, a hot meal, and a few days of peace."
He stopped.
His fingers trembled as he reached into his pocket.
Something clinked.
He pulled out a pouch.
He opened it.
Inside—silver, copper, and a few pieces of gold.
He laughed. Just once, quietly. Then he cried. Not loudly, not messily—just a single stream of tears down his cheeks. Relief. Guilt. Wonder.
He closed the pouch, held it to his chest. The paper shimmered faintly once more. Then went still.
⸻
That night, back in the room the adventurers had rented, Silas stared at the ceiling. The city outside buzzed with cheer and trade, lights dancing like stars fallen to earth.
He asked more questions to the ink. Some were answered. Others were not.
"How big is this world?"
"As far as you can walk—and then farther still."
"Is this place real?"
"As real as anything written."
"What am I now?"
"That depends on what you choose to write next."
He wanted to ask more. About the sky. About the strange floating symbols he had seen in his dream the night before—symbols that reminded him of the forgotten language he used to draw as a boy, before life became too dark for stories.
But he stopped himself. For now.
Instead, he curled up under the rough linen sheets and whispered, "Thank you."
The ink did not respond.
But it didn't have to.
⸻
And somewhere far beyond the city of bright cobblestones, beyond the corner of the tavern and the page upon which fate was quietly rewriting itself, I watched.
I am the Narrator.
Not of a fairy tale. Not of a legend yet sung. I do not narrate what should be, only what dares to become.
This boy—Silas—he is not yet the answer to the world's questions. But he is asking the right ones. He is learning the language of ink, not as a weapon, not as a prophecy, but as a truth.
And truth, once written, does not forget.