The tavern fire had burned low. Shadows clung to the corners, and the world outside was a black hush. In that quiet, he lifted the book from his lap, fingers brushing the frayed spine, eyes softening with memories too heavy to name.You look at this man, not seem to mind his rambling, perhaps it piqued your interest, perhaps a pity or perhaps it was your soul inching closer to know.
"Ah… you stayed, traveler," he said, voice low, almost a whisper. "Most don't. Most see a man with ink-stained fingers and a falling-apart book, shrug, and vanish into the night. But not you. No… I see it in your eyes. Perhaps you are the kind who listens when the fire burns low, when the world is soft and quiet and the shadows stretch long?"
He asks with the most gentle tone, almost as if you were more to him than the treasure of the world and more, "Would you care to listen?"
You nod slightly, giving him a cue, a little curious, or perhaps you had time to spare, or perhaps there was something else.
He stroked the small cat that had jumped onto his lap sometime in between, its purring soft against the clink of mugs and the dying fire. His eyes flicked to the pages, hesitant, reverent. Who knows what passed through that mind of his? Dreams, regrets, faint sparks of light long dimmed…
"I… I am no hero, traveler," he murmured, fingers idly tracing the worn thread of the cover. "Nor a sage. No sword, no crown. Only this book, and a pen that bleeds far more than ink. Once… I had a light. Bright. Steady. Then it faltered, leaving me with a shaky heart, a life littered with regrets. And yet—these souls, these voices—they compel me to go on. They press into me until I cannot do anything but write them."
He tilted the book slightly, as if offering it to the firelight itself, then let it rest on his knees. His eyes softened again, distant, watching something the room could not see.
"There was a father," he said, voice catching slightly, "smiling as he gave his last breath to his son.A youth, bent under the weight of the world, yet refusing to collapse..A dragon, humming a weary song of centuries.A demon, clumsy and gentle, striving to teach something against his nature."
He paused. The cat shifted in his lap. His gaze flicked to the book again. A hand lingered over the cover, then fell to the table, tapping lightly, thinking perhaps of lives he could not change.
"And her… ah, the lady," he continued, voice softer, reverent. "Do you see her in your mind? Graceful, elegant, radiant… but all of it chains. Every word, every step measured for someone else's eyes. Yet— if you look at her eyes, traveler. Storms beneath calm waters. She gazed at the moon as if it might grant her one small breath of freedom… and maybe, for a moment, it did."
He glanced at the cover again, as if recalling something.
"I remember the way she looked at the moon, as though it might rewrite her story, as though it might free her where the world would not.
I could not give her that life. But I could give her this: a place upon my page, a flame to keep her from vanishing into silence."
He sighed, a low sound that mingled with the crackling fire. A soft purr answered from the lap where the cat now nestled completely, and his hand stroked her absently. He looked toward the far corner of the room, then back to the fire, lost again in thought.
"There are others," he said, his tone soft, almost confessional. "A husband waiting to rejoin his wife. An ocean heavy with regret. A garden of roses blooming unseen. Their lights flicker, fragile and stubborn. And when I write them… even this battered heart feels less alone. Their wounds teach me a world beyond my own."
You steal a glance at cat sleeping peacefully in his lap, as if asking if even that creature he looks with adoration is a tale. Noticing your gaze he seems to smile ever so slightly as if the weight of his thoughts were lifted a little bit. His fingers stroke her back absentmindedly yet with a lingering warmth as begins to open his lips to speak to you.
"The small one you see now—she has joined me, often sits with me in these quiet hours. Do you see? Even in her quiet purring there is comfort, a reminder that even broken things—hearts, nights, lives—can carry a spark of warmth"
The little purr hums in rhythm with the fire and clinks of mugs.
"A quiet companion to all the voices I carry."
He leaned forward slightly, closer to the reader—or so it seemed—eyes glimmering in the dim light. He tapped the book lightly, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else, then finally spoke again.
"So… come closer. Sit. Let us linger beneath these low lights, where the night stretches long. Let me tell you of the souls who shone so fiercely through sorrow that even darkness softened around them."
His hands extend the book he holds ever so gently towards you. as if saying "Here, take this...Turn the page, traveler. The first tale awaits you."
You look at him as if asking something.
"And I… I will be here. Pen in hand, heart trembling, cat in my lap, eyes darting to the book, murmuring to you, lost sometimes in thought… but still, always beside you."