The talking fish is back. He was happily doing rounds in his bucket. I was pretending that I didn't see him. But he saw me for sure. Because he started talking the moment I entered the bathroom. I was avoiding him as my partner thinks that I am talking to my mistress in the bathroom. She will never believe me if I tell her about the fish. She has never seen him even though we share the same roof. I can hear her footsteps stop by the bathroom door. I don't blame her, no one would believe such a fishy story.
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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