The rain drops tried in vain to make love to the glass pane. The street lamp's rays flirted with them and gave them a golden hue. The breeze helped them collide into each other and languidly flow. The pane tried to stay aloof to the wet caress. Only the wood that held the pane could feel its muted tremors of ecstasy as every rain drop slid by. "Let go, let go" it whispered in the pane's ears. "How can I? When you have framed me?" was the pane's reply.
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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