A man sat hunched over a laptop with his fingers smashed at the keys in a frantic, almost desperate pace.
Reol stood nearby and watched him silently with an empty expression, as if even observation had begun to bore him.
Apparently this man was the Author... The very being who made him.
For reasons Reol no longer bothered to question, he always returned to this cramped room whenever a chapter ended.
At first, confusion had consumed him. He had tried to speak, to demand answers. But it didn't take long to realize the truth.
He had no presence here.
His words never reached the man's ears. His steps made no sound. His existence was the same weight as dust floating in stale air. A ghost... yet even ghosts can be known while Reol cannot.
Eventually, with nothing else to do, he stayed. And in staying, he learned... The answer sat right in front of him.
On the laptop screen, lines of text filled the page. It was his story, where his life rendered into paragraphs and his suffering were compressed into chapters.
Every scene he remembered and every loss he carried was being typed out again and again in perfect detail.
That's how he learned the truth.
Then by doing that, Reol recognize a routine that followed.
"SCREW YOU ALL!" The author suddenly shouted, slamming his hand against the desk, causing for the cup of coffee beside him to spill down.
"There he goes again…" Reol muttered under his breath.
This tantrum was predictable, something that exist on the so called routine.
It's always like this, every time Reol visits in this place, he always see this same author scream out his despair and depression.
He leaned closer drifting over the glowing screen. A conversation scrolled there, between the author and someone else. It was the editor.
[ Editor: Author-Nim, your book's performance has declined significantly this month. If this continues, we may have to terminate your exclusive contract. ]
Reol couldn't understand whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. But as he turned around his head and stared to the author, he figured out that it might be the former one.
"What the hell are you talking about?!" the author yelled at the screen. "Give me a few more days! I'll hook the readers again! just give me time!" he frantically typed.
Reol merely scoffed.
So this was the Creator.
The so-called God who created him.
Pathetic.
Once, Reol had imagined his creator as something absolute almighty presence beyond doubt. A being so flawless, powerful and distant, a being whose will shaped worlds without hesitation. That was how gods were supposed to be. That was how the scriptures described them.
But this… this was nothing like the God written in the Bible.
This god was hunched over a desk, with his shoulders sagging, and eyes dulled by sleepless nights. A shameful figure, an unloved deity who couldn't even bear to look at his own reflection. A god who spent his days staring at a flickering screen, forcing words into existence for a story he clearly did not cherish.
Reol watched him and felt something in his chest.
It was too familiar.
Just like his creator, the novel itself was unloved. Readers called it boring. Predictable piece of trash. And Reol could not even argue against them. After all… even he— the main character, find it tedious.
The author wasn't rewarded for his suffering either. He was poorly paid, constantly threatened, trapped in a cycle of creating something he never enjoyed making.
Reol understood that feeling all too well.
So why was he trying so hard?
Perhaps the author feared becoming irrelevant. Perhaps stopping meant admitting failure. Or perhaps like Reol himself, he simply didn't know how to exist without being written forward.
Reol exhaled slowly.
Alas…
How could a creation ever hope to understand the thoughts of a god who was just as lost?
Especially when that god looked less like a divine ruler and more like a human desperately clinging to the only thing that still acknowledged his existence.
No... Even the humans he knew wasn't that pitiful as Him.
And yet…
Reol could not bring himself to hate him.
Because despite everything, this pathetic god had given him something.
A world.
A past.
A shape to exist in.
Even if the sky was fake.
Even if the birds sang only because they were told to.
Even if the wind brushed his skin solely because someone had written it so.
They were still his experiences.
It was an artificial, yes— but experienced something that almost feels like real nonetheless. Reol had lived them as though they were meant for him alone. He had laughed beneath that false sky. He had mourned beneath it too.
And the cruel truth was this...
The author was the only real thing that world had ever possessed.
Which meant that if the author disappeared…
So would everything else.
That was why Reol felt pity.
Pity... the kind reserved for something fragile, something that could break and take everything with it.
It is definitely should not be something to be said to a deity.
"Wouldn't it be nicer," Reol murmured quietly "if you just stopped writing?"
The words were meaningless. He knew that. The author could not hear him. So Reol allowed himself a small, humorless chuckle.
Then—
The author suddenly spoke.
"You're right…" He paused. "I should really just give up writing."
The chuckle died in Reol's throat.
For the first time since gaining awareness, his thoughts went silent as his eyes immediately turned around to where the author was.