Tsk. Murphy looked at the blinking cursor like it had personally insulted him.
"In the land of myths and legends, a boy…" he muttered aloud as he typed. Then, he scowled.
Delete
"Once upon a time, a boy picked up a sword–" Too corny.
Delete.
He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. "God, I sound like a twelve-year-old trying to write Game of Thrones fanfiction."
He leaned back in his chair, letting it creak under his weight. The screen's harsh white light washed over his cluttered desk – half-drunk coffee, open worldbuilding notebooks, and a stack of fantasy paperbacks bookmarked with sticky notes and defeat.
Murphy had built an entire world.
A unique magic system, seven major religions, many, oh many sentient species, a complex economic system and gods, so many of them. He even studied tectonics and geography to make the best and most realistic looking fantasy map ever.
But he couldn't write a single damn sentence.
"Maybe writing isn't for me after all…" he whispered. "Maybe I'm just… a guy who's good at making lore spreadsheets."
He stared at the blank document. The cursor blinked.
Mocking him.
"Fine." he snapped, typing one more attempt.
"There was a boy who lived under a staircase…"
He stopped.
"Wait, that's literally just Harry Potter!"
Delete.
He slammed the laptop shut.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, a soft hum of his desktop fan, the faint drip from the kitchen sink, and the old pipes groaning in the walls.
Murphy sighed, head dropping onto his crossed arms on the desk.
"Maybe writing is really not for me?" He asked, sighing into the wood grains.
He didn't even notice the way the shadows around his room had begun to stretch.
Or the faint scent of smoke in the air.
Or how the moment his eyes fluttered shut and the silence became absolute.