#originalfiction

The rain had started to slow down.

The boy was still there.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting.

Time felt different that night.

A few minutes could feel like hours.

He looked at the road again.

Still nothing.

He looked down at the bundle beside him.

The baby was sleeping.

That was good.

At least one of them was.

The boy reached out and gently touched the blanket.

He didn't really understand what was happening.

He was too young to understand.

He only knew that things were different.

The place was quiet.

Too quiet.

He kept expecting to hear a familiar voice.

A door opening.

Someone calling his name.

Anything.

Nothing came.

He looked at the baby again.

For a moment, he wondered if the baby understood.

Probably not.

Maybe that was better.

The boy pulled the blanket closer around him.

Then he whispered something.

So quietly that even he could barely hear it.

"I won't leave you."

He didn't know why he said it.

Maybe because someone had to say it.

Maybe because he needed to hear it himself.

He sat there for a little longer.

The night continued around them.

And somewhere between the rain and the silence...

something inside the boy began to change.

He just didn't know what to call it yet.

—

Some promises are made before we understand what they will cost.

The footsteps were getting closer.

The boy stopped moving.

He listened.

One.

Two.

Three.

Slow steps against the wet pavement.

He looked toward the road.

A figure appeared through the rain.

The boy couldn't see the face.

Only the outline.

The figure stopped a few steps away from him.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The boy tightened his arms around the bundle.

The figure looked at him.

Then at the baby.

"Are you alone?"

The boy didn't answer.

The figure waited.

"I asked you something."

Still nothing.

The boy looked down at the bundle.

The baby was asleep.

He didn't want to wake him.

The figure sighed.

"Where are your parents?"

The boy finally looked up.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Maybe he didn't know what to say.

Or maybe he knew exactly what to say and didn't want to say it.

The figure crouched down.

"You can't stay here."

The boy's eyes moved toward the road again.

"Someone's coming."

The figure looked behind him.

"Who?"

The boy didn't answer.

He just kept staring into the rain.

The figure stood back up.

"Come with me."

The boy looked down at the baby.

Then back at the stranger.

He didn't move.

The figure waited for a few seconds.

Then turned around.

"Fine."

A few steps.

Then another.

The boy watched the stranger disappear into the rain.

He stayed where he was.

For a while.

Then he looked at the bundle beside him.

The baby was still asleep.

The boy carefully pulled the blanket closer.

And whispered,

"We'll be okay."

He didn't know if it was true.

But that didn't matter.

Someone had to believe it.

—

Sometimes the first person who offers you a hand isn't the person you should trust.

The rain hadn't stopped.

The boy pulled his knees closer to himself and looked down at the bundle beside him.

For a while, it didn't move.

Then he heard it.

A small sound.

Almost nothing.

He immediately turned toward it.

The blanket moved again.

The boy leaned closer.

"It's okay."

His voice was quiet.

He looked around before saying it again.

"It's okay."

He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

The little bundle moved once more.

A tiny hand appeared from underneath the blanket.

The boy quickly pulled the blanket back over it.

"You'll get cold."

He paused.

Then looked down at himself.

His clothes were already soaked.

He almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he took off what little he could and used it to cover the bundle better.

The rain continued to fall around them.

Cars passed somewhere in the distance.

None of them stopped.

The boy watched every set of headlights until they disappeared.

Then he looked back down.

The baby was quiet again.

He reached out and gently touched the blanket.

Still there.

Still breathing.

For some reason, that was enough.

He leaned against the wall behind him and closed his eyes.

Just for a moment.

He was tired.

But he didn't sleep.

Not yet.

He kept listening.

To the rain.

To the distant traffic.

To the small breathing beside him.

And somewhere between one drop of rain and the next...

he heard footsteps.

The boy opened his eyes.

Some nights change everything.

You just don't know it while you're living them.

—

I don't remember when the story really began.

Sometimes I think it was that night.

Maybe it was earlier.

Maybe much earlier.

But if I had to choose one moment...

I'd choose the rain.

It was late.

The streets were almost empty, and somewhere in the distance, a light kept flickering through the rain.

A boy was sitting on the ground.

He wasn't crying.

He was just looking at the road.

Waiting.

I don't know what he was waiting for.

Maybe someone.

Maybe an answer.

Maybe he didn't even know.

Beside him was a small bundle wrapped in a blanket.

Something moved underneath it.

The boy looked down.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then he pulled the blanket a little closer.

And waited again.

That's all I remember.

Or maybe...

that's all I'm supposed to remember for now.

The story begins with a night.

But not every beginning tells you what comes next.

—

People say writers create stories.

I'm not sure I believe that anymore.

I think some stories already exist.

Not on paper.

Not in books.

Just... somewhere.

Waiting.

Waiting for someone to notice them.

Sometimes it's just a random thought.

One that doesn't even make sense at first.

You ignore it.

You move on.

Days pass.

Weeks pass.

Months pass.

But somehow...

it comes back.

Not louder.

Just... more often.

It starts showing up in places it shouldn't.

In conversations.

In dreams.

In the silence between two thoughts.

And one day you realize something strange.

You haven't been thinking about the story.

The story has been thinking about you.

Maybe that's how every story begins.

Not with an author.

But with a question that refuses to leave.

I don't know if Echo of Pure White Darkness is a story I created.

Or one that found me years ago and simply waited until I was ready to listen.

I'm still trying to figure that out.

Maybe I always will.

"Some stories aren't written.

They're remembered."

—

The status for the next chapter of The Heavenly Spinners is now up!

Want to stay updated? Subscribe!

I don't know if anyone will ever read this.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe years from now someone will randomly come across this blog while scrolling through Tumblr at 2 a.m.

If that's you...

Hi.

This blog wasn't created because I think I'm a great writer.

It wasn't created because I have a masterpiece ready.

It exists because there's a story that has been living inside my head for years, and if I don't start writing it somewhere, I think it'll stay there forever.

The story is called Echo of Pure White Darkness.

No... it's not about darkness.

At least not the darkness you're probably thinking of.

I've always found it strange that people associate darkness with black.

What if darkness wasn't black?

What if darkness was white?

Imagine a room.

Everything is white.

The walls.

The floor.

The ceiling.

Your clothes.

The light.

You can't tell where one thing ends and another begins.

Nothing is hidden.

Yet somehow... everything feels empty.

That thought stayed with me.

And slowly, without me realizing it, it became the foundation of an entire world.

This blog isn't going to spoil the story.

It's more like opening the door just enough for you to see that there's something on the other side.

Sometimes I'll write about the characters.

Sometimes about the world.

Sometimes I'll probably disappear for weeks because life gets in the way.

And sometimes I'll write about a random thought that has absolutely nothing to do with the story but somehow ends up becoming part of it later.

I don't know where this journey is going.

I don't know if this story will ever become a novel.

Or a comic.

Or an animation.

Or maybe it'll just remain here, as scattered pages on a Tumblr blog.

But every story has to begin somewhere.

I guess...

He Conned His Way Into a Secret Society. Then Every Name Came With a Price.

Join me for insight into my creative process. I’ve drawn inspiration from my storytelling toolkit and shaped it into a potential narrative.

An irreverent con artist slips inside a secret society where stolen identities are traded like currency. Membership opens every door in the city, but the deeper he enters, the less certain he is that any name can get him back out.