The question stared him down. He took shelter in a mumble. Things were not that simple. The question probed and provoked. He tried his best to avoid it. It hurt him like hell. He didn't want to be confronted. His mumbling could no longer shield him. He cleared his throat and let the words flow. Each word and each sentence battered the question. Finally, it gave up and left the room. He sat alone in the darkness like a tiger licking its wounds. He could hear the question whimpering in the next room. He didn't like it. It was way too late by then, for anything to be done.
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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