The room was quiet.

Only the faint scratching of a pen against paper could be heard, slow and hesitant, as though each word carried a weight too heavy to write.

Outside, the night stretched endlessly beyond the window. The world moved on as usual; cars passing, distant voices echoing...but inside the small room, time felt frozen.

The young man sat alone at his desk.

His shoulders were tired, his eyes dull from years that had passed too quickly. The paper before him was almost empty, yet his hand trembled as if the words he wished to write were too painful to release.

For a long time, he simply stared at the page.

Then finally, he began.

"Dear Eane,"

"It's been so long since the last time I wrote to you. I think it was during my first or second year of college."

The pen paused. 

A bitter smile formed on his lips.

"I already graduated. Almost seven years have passed… yet nothing much has changed in my life."

"I'm still the same old me who loves reading and writing."

But even as he wrote the words, his chest tightened.

The pen moved again.

"Though a lot of things happened… anxiety, depression… life became harder than I expected."

"And when my mother died… everything felt like it collapsed."

The ink on the paper blurred slightly.

He rubbed his eyes quickly.

"I kept blaming myself."

"I drowned in negative emotions."

"I even suffered from PTSD… though I never told anyone."

The room fell silent again.

The young man leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, as if hoping the answer to his life might be written somewhere above him.

But the ceiling remained empty.

Just like the future he feared.

Hopeless.

"You already know how I am."

"A coward. A weakling. Someone who can never stay focused."

"So tell me, Eane…"

"If you were real… would you help me?"

The room grew even quieter as the final lines appeared on the page.

"I want to write."

"I want to continue our story."

"But everything is still trapped inside my imagination."

"Eane… can you nag me?"

"Please… help me."

"Hold my hand and walk with me toward our dream."

"Because I know I can't do it alone."

"I miss you… and the troupe."

"I'm alone here."

The pen stopped.

Slowly, the young man placed it down.

The letter remained unfinished in front of him, addressed to someone who did not exist.

Or perhaps…

Someone who had simply not appeared yet.

Outside the window, the wind stirred quietly in the darkness.

And somewhere far beyond the world he knew—

Something had heard his words.