He was a night writer, a man who lit a candle, inspired by its glow and hypnotic movements. His mind unlocked forgotten moments as the wax slowly crept down the sides, forming a small pool at the base of the light that guided him.
He embraced the quiet of the streets, allowing the rhythm of his keystrokes to be the only sound he heard. The small flame drew him in, and his eyes squinted not from fatigue, but from a desperate desire to somehow climb into it and join its dance.
In a one-bedroom apartment with no electricity or heat, he continued as a night writer, searching for stories. He was a man on a mission to be heard, not seen. He stayed there until daylight broke, filled with hope that a story had emerged. As he ventured outside through the alley door, he rummaged through a dumpster for scraps. "So much waste," he said aloud, blending into the morning crowds as just another forgotten soul with a story to tell.
Years passed, and he spotted his book in the window display of a bookstore. It had climbed to number one worldwide, adorned with a candle on the cover and a story depicting the life of someone who never stopped believing that someday he would be consumed by the flame and truly become a night writer.
— Mike, 2025
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