I stared at the sky. There wasn''t a single star to be seen. Only the moon hung there. Bright. Cold. Alone. She wasn’t part of the noise below. Just an outsider. Watching. Silent. Below, the streets buzzed. With Santa Clauses walking here and there. Fake smiles everywhere. It all felt hollow, like plastic wrapped around a broken gift.


    The contrast between her silent glow and the chaotic noise below made me sick. All this fake happiness felt… like illusion. like watching puppets dance on frayed strings. Or was I the broken one? Maybe I have never set my feet on the ground.


    Or maybe I just hated Christmas. It wasn’t about gifts or family or any of that crap. It was about the masks people wore. Pretending everything was okay when deep down, we were all broken in our own ways. Some of us just hid it better than others.


    And here I was. Staring at the moon. Feeling like her. Forgotten. Overlooked.


    Lonely. The food that I ate every day. I knew it well. Too well. Like her, I felt out of place. Watching from the sidelines. Everyone else moving on with their lives. Pretending everything was fine.


    “You’re not the only one who feels invisible.” I said. Talking to myself—or maybe to her. It sounded stupid. But it made me feel less alone for a moment. Less like the odd one out.


    “Don’t worry.” I said again. Quieter this time. “You’re not alone.”


    My voice sounded hollow, even to me. But somehow, saying it made my chest feel lighter. A little better. Not much, though. But I wasn’t sure if I was talking to her—or to myself.


    My mind was still a storm. Like the Pacific Ocean—vast, untamable. Waves crashing against invisible shores. Too big. Too fierce. Too deep. Alone. Always alone. No amount of time or meditation could calm this sea inside me. Some days, I wonder if anything ever will.


    Then I saw him. From a distance, like a misplaced puzzle piece. Classic clothing—a leather coat, waistcoat, cravat. Antique. Expensive. He walked with a cane, slow but deliberate. Each step echoed on the pavement like a clock ticking backward. What a strange taste.


    He looks more like a Victorian-era cosplayer. Or even a time traveller. Yeah, that''s a wild guess. Why should I care about other people''s looks? My own clothes are cheap—second-hand hand-me-downs from my father. Threadbare sweaters and worn-out jeans. What right do I have to judge someone else’s outfit? At least he didn’t mistake a velvet curtain for a waistcoat.


    But something about him felt… off. Not the clothes. Not the cane. It was the way he moved. Purposeful. Calculating. And then I realized—he was looking at me. Staring, really. Unblinking. As if he’d been searching for me all along.


    He approached slowly. Measured. Unhurried. Closer. And closer. Until I could see his face. Middle-aged. Sharp features. A top hat, perched like a relic from another century.


    His eyes locked onto mine. Piercing through the fog in my brain.


    It felt wrong. Strange. Like a ghost. Like a figure dragged straight out of history books.


    Unreal. Yet undeniably real.


    Finally, he stood beside me. “Good evening,” he said. His voice was soft, smooth—like melting chocolate. It sounded irresistible. Hypnotic, even.


    I froze. Surprised. Did I do something that irritate him? No, I don’t think so.


    So, I replied, “Good evening.” Polite. Simple.


    But in rather, after hearing what I said. He smiled. Not a big smile—just a tiny bend at the corners of his mouth. Then he asked, “Can I sit next to you?” His tone was warm, inviting. Like he already knew the answer.


    Weird. This park was empty and barren. It was empty as the night sky above. There were plenty of other empty seats. But for some reason he wanted to sit next to me? Don''t tell me he is a freak? The thought sent a shiver down my spine.


    My mind was already full—too full. And now there’s this stranger in old-fashioned clothes. Who is he? What does he want? Before I could figure it out or say anything, he just sat down. Right next to me. Close enough that I could smell the faint scent of leather from his coat. He smiled again, faintly.


    “Your mind must feel heavy,” he said suddenly. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “So heavy that only the dark night can calm you.”


    I froze. Confused. Yeah, totally confused. My mouth moved before my brain caught up “Sorry? Do you... know me?"”


    Just in case. If he turned out to be someone from my past.


    But right now? Only Jason still kept in touch. The rest—gone. Just like dust. Carried away by the wind. Scattered. Forgotten. And honestly? I never cared much for them either. So, nothing lost.


    He smirked. Unfazed. “You may not know me. But I know you well enough, Mr. Ryan.”


    That stopped me cold. My body tensed. Heart pounding. Who the hell is this guy?


    “Don’t worry,” he added. Grinning like a hyena. “I just want to talk for a moment.”


    His words seemed meant to calm me down. But they didn’t. Instead, my mind screamed. What does he want? It’s not like I owe anyone. No unpaid debts. Nothing. Well, except Jason—but even then, he gave me more money.


    So, I asked, “What do you want from me?” At least I’ll try asking first. Better safe than sorry, right?


    “Aren’t you tired of this world?” He replied. Stroking the cane, he held. It was shaped like a wolf made by silver? Aluminum? Expensive, whatever it was.


    Can he read minds? No. I’m alone in this deserted park. Anyone could draw that conclusion. But that doesn’t explain how he knows my name. Wait—is he some kind of spy? Government agent? Nah, no one from the CIA dresses like they’re auditioning for a steampunk movie.


    But why is he looking for me? Who is this guy?


    If this were an F1 race, my thoughts would’ve lapped Lewis Hamilton by now. My mind racing. Spinning. Searching for answers. What does he want?


    At that moment, he seemed to sense my doubts.


    “For a writer,” he said, sharp gaze piercing through me, “you’re quite the overthinker.”


    My body tensed. Ready to jump. Hearing my name was one thing. But knowing I’m a writer? That’s different story. Oddly too specific. There’s only one explanation—he’s been digging into my life. Watching. Waiting. Until now.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    But why? What’s his goal?


    “I don’t know you. What do you want?” I replied. Preparing my feet. Ready to run if things got weird.


    “I have an offer.” He replied. Then he took something out of his pocket. “Which might be what you''ve been looking for.”


    It was a black box. Expensive-looking. Gold carvings etched into its surface. Intricate. Not too big—about the size of my fist.


    Because I was confused, I immediately asked “What is that box? You gave it to me?” He seemed to hold back laughter. Then placed the box on the bench. Right between us.


    “Don’t you hate this world?” he said, chuckling softly. “I can show you a new world. A place where you truly belong.” His words twisted like riddles. Encrypted. Unreadable.


    I didn’t understand. So, I asked, “What do you mean? A new world?”


    “It would be easier to explain if you looked at the night sky. What can you see?” He tilted his head upward, staring at the stars—or lack thereof.


    I already knew the answer. Before he arrived, I’d stared at the same sky. Empty. Useless.


    “Nothing,” I said. “Just the moon. And maybe some clouds.”


    “Wrong,” he replied. Annoyingly smug. “There are stars there. You just can’t see them.”


    I didn’t get it. Why was he talking in circles? Why not just say what he meant? His clothes were strange enough. Now his words too?


    “The stars are useless,” I shot back. Pointing at the sky. “What’s the point of having stars if you can’t see them?”


    But he smiled. Like he’d won some invisible argument. “Because you’re looking at it wrong. It’s not the stars’ fault you can’t see them.” Then he pointed at the ground. “Maybe you’re in the wrong place.”


    “So, what does that have to do with me?” I asked. Confused. Frustrated. He wasn’t explaining anything. Just throwing more riddles my way.


    He tilted his head. Mocking me now. “Why are you so stupid? Aren’t you a writer? Or have you been pretending all this time?”


    Yeah, okay. Fine. If I were great, I’d already be published. Famous. Whatever. But still—calling someone stupid to their face? That’s just cruel. Even if he’s right.


    “Are you here just to insult me?” I replied. Trying to stay calm. Civilized. Yeah, at least I''m a civilized idiot.


    “No,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re a star in the wrong place. Your light can’t shine here. But I can take you somewhere else. Somewhere brighter.”


    Then he slowly pointed to the sky. “Brighter than the moon. Brighter than the sun.”


    What does he mean? Move out of town? It doesn’t make sense. None of it.


    “I still don’t get it. Are you trying to sell me something?” His attitude screamed salesman. The type who sells high hopes with sweet words. Making people hallucinate before buying crap they don’t need.


    “Not quite,” he replied. Standing up slowly. “I offer you a choice. You are the chosen one. It’s up to you.” He gestured toward the black box on the bench. “Take it if you want. Free. No fees. No strings attached.”


    I stayed quiet. Processing. What is happening? Who is this guy? Finally, I asked, “Why are you doing all this?”


    He paused. Half-turned, already walking away. Smiled mysteriously.


    “Because you’re special. Though I think you’d disagree.”


    Then he walked off. But halfway through, he stopped again. Turned his head slightly.


    “One more thing,” he said. “Your dream isn’t dead. Or lost. It’s still there. Inside you.”


    And then he was gone. Just like that. A bit anticlimactic


    That’s how I ended up alone again. In this empty park. With a mysterious box. No idea what’s inside. Today felt scripted. Like someone wrote it just to mess with me.


    Jason showed up out of nowhere in the morning. Dragging up old problems I wanted buried. Then came the stranger. With antique clothes. Weird words. I couldn’t decipher. And now this box.


    Maybe this is my unlucky day. Another one. Just like before. I want to forget it.


    The night was getting late. So, I decided to go home. The streets weren’t as crowded as earlier, but people still passed by. Laughing. Smiling. Looking happy. Like they’d had a great day. Well, maybe I should pretend too. Pretend everything’s fine. For now. Because I brought the box. The strange box from the strange person. To be honest, it''s more because it just looks expensive.


    I haven''t opened it yet but who knows, maybe it''s jewellery? A watch? Anything that''s valuable. At least if I don''t need it, I can sell it, right? But then I thought again. Expecting too much feels dangerous. So, I stopped. Didn’t want to think about it anymore.


    When I arrived at my apartment, reality hit me. Hard. This place... Full of mess. Smells like a dumpster. Yes, maybe that''s true. Because this is like a dump. And I’m the trash. No matter how much I clean, it still smells. Still feels wrong. That''s why I hate reality.


    Because I can''t run away from it. It feels like being imprisoned.


    I changed clothes. Cleaned up some trash. Swept the room. Not because I cared. Just… something to do. Then I remembered Jason’s money. The $250 he gave me. I had to plan my expenses. Be smart about it. Now, with his money, I bought new mobile data. Checked my phone.


    Turns out, Jason tried contacting me days ago. A ton of messages. Unanswered calls. Explains why he was so angry when he showed up. Ohh... looks like he just proposed to his girlfriend? He looks happy. Seeing it makes me... happy? He’s my friend. Since forever. But our fates are different.


    Now he has a good career. His life is better than mine. Even a partner. Maybe they’ll get married soon. Then have his own family. I should be happy too, right? I should be happy for him, right? Even if it feels like a lie.


    Yeah… I envy him. Is that normal? Being jealous of your friend? The one who’s always there for you? Who helps without hesitation? Even though I’m trash. This thought makes me feel worse than trash.


    Maybe that’s why he pitied me. Why he gave me money. His life is smooth. Perfect. While mine? Crappy. Broken. He must feel burdened. Having a friend like me. A living weight. Someone who can’t do anything.


    Then I saw the business card Jason gave me. Mr. Jacky. Editor at NexusPage. I remember NexusPage is a new platform that is aggressively expanding its market. Novels, comics—they’re everywhere now. It seems like this scale is much bigger than I imagined.


    I used to write on KingsRoad. Until three months ago. Well, if I don''t do too well on KingsRoad. Even there, I wasn’t great. Barely scraping by. How could my work pass editorial selection on a platform like NexusPage? My decision to quit wasn’t just because I was tired. It was worse than that. I realized how bad my talent for putting words together was. And isn’t that the one thing a writer has to be good at?


    But then… I remembered the stranger. The one from earlier. He knew too much. About me. About my dreams. I turned toward the mysterious black box. Still sitting on my bed where I left it. Picked it up. Held it in my hands. His words came back to me.


    “A new world.”


    “A place where you belong.”


    It sounded tempting. Too tempting. If this could free me from the chains of this shitty reality… I’d do anything.


    Slowly, I opened the box. Inside matched the outside—luxurious. Elegant carvings lined the interior. Then I saw it. A card. Strange. Unfamiliar.


    The card said “Dream” at the top. Simple enough.


    There was a figure on it. No face. Just… floating. In some starry night sky. Stars everywhere. Too many to count. Beautiful. Surprisingly so. Its arms were wrapped around something. A glow. Small. Soft. Like orbs. Precious. Like it mattered more than anything else.


    Behind it, two circles spun. Big ones. One was bright—colours jumping out like RGB lights. The other? Dark. Muted. Flickering like a dying bulb. Fog swirled around them. Thick. Heavy. Everything felt… wrong. Quiet but unsettling.


    I stared at it too long. My chest tightened. What the hell is this supposed to mean? Some kind of fancy tarot card? But if I looked closer—it did look expensive. High-quality. Not cheap junk.


    Dream card. In the hands of a failed dreamer. How poetic. Feels like a third-rate novel plot. What happened next? Will I get a system-based progression? Regression to the past? Reincarnation as the youngest son? Or the classic—transported to another world?


    I’ve read too many brainrot tropes. Power fantasies, all of them. Stories where the main character is nothing but a mannequin. Their only "personality" is being OP.


    Ahh… This reminds me of the jargon. “SSS-Class hunter,” “Regressed,” “Youngest Son,” “Max-Level,” “Necromancer,” “Reincarnated.”


    And here I was. Once poured hours into research for my stories. Even went to the city library for sources. I studied Greek mythology. Ancient Greek philosophers. All that effort… defeated by stories about protagonists with shiny SSS ranks or reincarnated into youngest son.


    Yeah, those personality-deficient protagonists. Beating my story. My attempt at creating a more “human” main character. Sometimes it makes me wonder. Is it me? Am I the problem as a writer? Or are readers really like this? Do they just want power fantasies?


    Thoughts like these made me stop writing. Different views. Different perspectives. My head hurts thinking about it.


    So, I lay back down on the bed. The strange card still in my hand. Looked at it again. Yeah, there’s something… off about it. A weird feeling. I put it back on the desk.


    My mind wandered again. If I were the main character… I’d be the most boring one. Trash. Pathetic. Forgettable. Even in my wildest dreams. I’d still be an extra. A nameless nobody.


    And so, I slowly close my eyes. Hoping. Tomorrow I can forget all of this.