He never thought he will take that path again. He could feel the chill crawl up his spine at the mere thought of the last time he went that way. He thought about his best friend who frequented that path. One day his friend went down this way and never came back. That's the day he took the path looking for him. That's the day he saw his friend stepping in to the void from the precipice. That's the day he realised why his friend used to love this path. That's the day he knew that one day he will also be walking down the same path looking for that same precipice.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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