I stare at the sky. Velvet bck, it stretches above, swallowing everything. There wasn't a siar to be seen. Only the moon hangs there. Bright. Cold. Alone. Her light spilling over the park like frost on gss. She feels distant. Just an outsider. Watg. Silent. Below, the streets buzzed.

  As a gentle breeze stirs the sparse leaves nearby, the cool air carries a faint hint of winter dampness. With Santa Cuses walking here and there. Their red suits glowing ureetlights and fake smiles pstered across their faces. It all felt hollow, like pstic ed around a broken gift.

  My stomach s at the trast between her quiet glow and the chaotioise below. All this fake happiness feels… like illusion. Like watg puppets dan frayed strings. Or am I the broken one? Maybe I’ve never set my feet on the ground.

  Or maybe I just hate Christmas. It’s not about gifts or family or any of that crap. It’s about the masks people retending everything is okay when deep down, we’re all broken in our own ways. Some of us just hide it better than others.

  And here I am. Staring at the moon. Feeling like her. Fotten. Overlooked. Lonely.

  The food I ate earlier sits heavy in my stomach, stale and tasteless, like reheated leftovers from yesterday. I know it too well. Too well. Like her, I feel out of pce. Watg from the sidelines while everyone else moves on with their lives, pretending everything is fine.

  “You’re not the only one who feels invisible,” I say. Talking to myself—or maybe to her. It sounds stupid. But for a moment, it makes me feel less alone. Less like the odd o.

  “Don’t worry,” I say again, quieter this time. My voice cracks slightly. “You’re not alone.”

  It sounds hollow. Even to me. Still, saying it makes the weight in my chest feel a little lighter, if only slightly.

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

  Then I see him. From a distance, like a mispced puzzle piece. Cssic clothing—a leather coat, waistcoat, cravat. Antique. Expensive. He walks with a e, slow but deliberate. Each step echoes on the pavement, sharp and rhythmic, like a clock tig backward. What straaste.

  He looks like a Victorian-era cospyer. Or even a time traveller. It’s a wild thought, yet I ’t help paring his crisp, antique outfit to my own cheap, sed-hand hand-me-downs: threadbare sweaters and worn-out jeans that feel rough against my skin. At least he didn’t mistake a velvet curtain for a waistcoat.

  But something about him feels… off. Not the clothes. Not the e. But the way he moves: purposeful, calcuted. Then I notice he is staring at me, unblinking, his gaze as cold and precise as a draft cutting through the night. I feel a prick of unease, as if he has been searg for me all along.

  He approaches slowly. Measured. Unhurried. Closer. And closer. Until I see his face clearly. Middle-aged. Sharp features. A top hat perched atop his head, looking like a relic dragged straight out of history books. His eyes loto mine. Pierg through the fog in my mind with an iy that sends a shiver down my spine.

  The enter feels wrong, strange. Like meeting a ghost or a figure pulled straight from a history book. Unreal, yet undeniably real.

  At st, he stands beside me. “Good evening,” he says, his voice soft and smooth with a warmth remi of spiced cocoa. The tone is almost hypnotic.

  Had I done something...? I freeze, my heart thumping iill night air, w if I’ve somehow irritated him. But I don’t think so.

  Trying to keep my voice steady. I manage a simple, polite, “Good evening.”

  After my greeting, he offers a slight smile. A tiny bend at the ers of his mouth. And asks, “ I sit o you?” His tone is warm and inviting, as if he already knows the answer.

  Weird. This park is empty and barrey as the night sky above. There are plenty of other empty seats scattered around. But for some reason, he wants to sit o me? Don’t tell me he’s a freak? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the thick coat.

  My mind is already full—too full. And now there’s this stranger in old-fashioned clothes. Who is he? What does he want? Before I figure it out or say anything, he just sits down. Right o me. I catch the faint, worn smell of leather from his coat as he settles in. And he smiles again, faintly.

  “Your mind must feel heavy,” he says suddenly. His voice drops lower, quieter. Almost blending into the rustle of leaves overhead. “So heavy that only the dark night calm you.”

  I freeze. fused. Yeah, totally fused. My mouth moves before my brain catches up. “Sorry? Do you... know me?”

  Just in case. If he turns out to be someone I knew from my past.

  Right now, only Jason still keeps in touch; the rest are gone, like dust carried away by the wind. Scattered and fotten. Holy? I never cared much for them anyway, so nothing’s lost.

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

  That stops me cold. My body tenses. Heart pounding, each beat thudding against my ribs like a drum. Who the hell is this guy?

  “Don’t worry,” he adds, grinning like a hyena. His teeth glint faintly uhe moonlight. “I just want to talk for a moment.”

  His words seem meant to calm me down. But they don’t. Instead, my mind screams. 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 before I paid him back.

  So, I ask, “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 replies, stroking the e he holds. It’s shaped like a wolf, made of silver—or maybe aluminium? It looks expensive, whatever it is. The metal feels cool and smooth as his fingers glide over it.

  he read minds? No. I’m alone in this deserted park. Anyone could draw that clusion. But that doesn’t expin how he knows my name. Wait—is he some kind of spy? Gover 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 pped Lewis Hamilton by now. My mind races. Spins. Searches for answers. What does he want?

  At that moment, he seems to sense my doubts.

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

  My body tenses. Ready to jump. Knowing my name was ohing. But knowing I’m a writer? That’s a different story. Oddly too specific. There’s only one expnation—he’s been digging into my life. Watg. Waiting. Until now.

  But why? What’s his goal?

  “I don’t know you. What do you want?” I reply, preparing my feet. Ready to run if things get weird.

  “I have an offer,” he replies. Theakes something out of his pocket. “Which might be what you’ve been looking for.”

  It’s a bck box. Expensive-looking. Gold carviched into its surface, intricate and delicate. Not too big—about the size of my fist. The edges catch the dim light, shimmering faintly.

  Because I’m fused, I immediately ask, “What is that box? You give it to me?”

  He seems to hold back ughter, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. Then he pces the box on the bench. Right between us. The wood creaks slightly us weight.

  “Don’t you hate this world?” He says, chug softly. “I show you a new world. A pce where you truly belong.” His words e out as twisted riddles. Encrypted and unreadable.

  I ’t make sense of them, so I ask, “What do you mean? A new world?” My voice trembles slightly in the quiet.

  “It would be easier to expin if you look at the night sky. What do you see?”He tilts his head upward, fixated oars—or the ck thereof. I recall that before he arrived, I stared at that same sky: empty, useless.

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

  “Wrong,” He replies, his tone annoyingly smug. “There are stars there. You just ’t see them.”

  I don’t get it. Why does he talk in circles? Why not just say what he means? His clothes are strange enough. Now his words, too? The night air feels charged, as if a storm is about to break.

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

  But he smiles as if he’s won some invisible argument. “Because you’re looking at it wrong. It’s not the stars’ fault you ’t see them.” Then he points down at the ground. “Maybe you’re in the wrong pce.”

  “So, what does that have to do with me?” I ask, frustration creeping into my tone. My pulse beats in my ears as I demand an expnation.

  He tilts his head, mog me now. “Why are you so stupid? Aren’t you a writer? Or have you beeending all this time?”

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

  “Are you here just to insult me?” I reply, trying to stay calm. Civilized. Yeah, at least I’m a civilized idiot.

  “No,” he says, pointing at me. “You’re a star in the wrong pce. Yht ’t shine here. But I take you somewhere else. Somewhere brighter.”

  Then he slowly points 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 y to sell me something?” His attitude screams salesman. The type who sells high hopes with sweet words. Making people halluate before buying crap they don’t need.

  “Not quite,” he replies, standing up slowly. “I offer you a choice. You are the chose’s up to you.” He gestures toward the bck box on the bench. “Take it if you want. Free. No fees. Ns attached.”

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

  He pauses. Half-turns, already walking away. Smiles mysteriously.

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

  Then he walks off. But halfway through, he stops again. Turns his head slightly.

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

  And then he’s gone. Just like that. A bit anticlimactic. The sound of his e tapping against the pavement fades into the distance. All that remains is the soft buzz of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves in the cold night air.

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

  Jason shows up out of his m, his voice rough as he drags up old problems, I wanted buried. Then es the stranger in antique clothes. His words odd and undecipherable, leavih nothing but this box.

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

  As the night grows te, I decide to go home. The streets aren’t as crowded as earlier. Yet I still pass people ughing and smiling. The sound of their voices mingled with the soft rustle of the wind through the trees.

  Maybe I should also fake it. Pretend everything's fine. I carry the box with me. Because it just looks expensive. As I felt its cool, smooth surface beh my fiips. A faint st of polished metal mingled with the damp air.

  I haven’t ope yet, but who knows, maybe it’s jewelry? A watch? Anything valuable. At least if I don’t , I sell it, right? But then I thought again. Expeg 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 pce… 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 , it still smells—stale food, damp fabrid a faint hint of metal stuck to the ers. It still feels wrong. That’s why I hate reality.

  I 't run away. The oppressive atmosphere s itself around me like a heavy, fining b. I'm trapped, imprisoned by my own surroundings.

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

  Turns out, Jason tried tag me days ago—a ton of messages, unanswered calls. Expins 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 tht? 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 livi. Someone who ’t do anything.

  Then I saw the business card Jason gave me. Mr. Jacky. Editor at NexusPage. I remember NexusPage. It’s a fgressively expanding its market. Novels, ics—they’re everywhere now. It seems to me that this scale is a lot bigger than I had imagined. I run my fingers over the glossy surface of the card. The embossed writing catches the dim light from the messy desk before me.

  I used to write on KingsRoad. At least until three months ago. Back then, I barely scraped by, and I always felt that my work was too mediocre to ever pass editorial sele on a ptform like NexusPage. I had quit not merely from exhaustion but from the painful realization of how poor my talent for stringing words together really is. And isn’t that the ohing a writer has to be good at?

  Then I remember the stranger from earlier. He koo much about me, about my dreams. I turn toward the mysterious bck box still sitting on my bed, pick it up, and hold it in my hands. His words echo in my mind:

  “A new world.”

  “A pce where you belong.”

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

  Slowly, I open the box. Ihe surface is as luxurious as the exterior; elegant carvings lihe interior walls. Then I see it.

  A card, strange and unfamiliar. It simply says “Dream” at the top. Simple enough.

  There was a figure on it. A faceless figure floats on a backdrop of a starry night sky, with tless stars scattered in the darkness. The figure’s arms are ed around a small, soft glow that looks like delicate orbs—precious, as if it matters more than anything else. Behind the figure, two circles spin: one bright with colors that jump out like RGB lights, the other dark and muted, flickering like a dying bulb. A thick, heavy fog swirls around them, and everything feels quiet yet uling.

  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 ? Will I get a system-based progressiression to the past? Reination as the you son? Or the cssic—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-Css hunter,” “Regressed,” “You Son,” “Max-Level,” “Neancer,” “Reinated.”

  And here I was. Once poured hours into researy stories. Eveo the city library for sources. I studied Greek mythology. A Greek philosophers. All that effort… defeated by stories about protagonists with shiny SSS ranks or reinated into you sons.

  Yeah, those personality-defit 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 ower fantasies?

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

  So, I y 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 ’t shake. I set it ba the desk, its smooth surface cold under my touch.

  My mind wandered again. If I were the main character… I’d be the most b orash. Pathetic. Fettable. Even in my wildest dreams. I’d still be ara. A nameless nobody.

  And so, I slowly y eyes, hoping that tomorrow I fet all of this. The soft creaking of my bed and the distant buzz of city life are the only sounds as I drift. Burdened by a day that feels all too scripted.