The Writer Nobody Sees

The Writer Nobody Sees

I authored novels. I write these days, but nobody sees. I am suddenly invisible to everyone. I've experienced a weird phenomenon. I'll tell you what happened.

I intended to write a very long book in January. So I moved out of my house and into a little room. I said to myself, "This is a good room for a writer." "I'll write my book here." Although it was a little room, I enjoyed it. It was incredibly silent. When I started working on my novel, I was excited. Then odd things started happening.

I remember sitting at my desk one day, pen in hand. I had the sudden realization, "I need coffee, but I don't have any." I must visit the store." I finished writing on the table and left. Upon I return, I searched for the pen. Not on the table, that is. I looked at the floor, then at my chair, and once again at the table. It was absent. "I don't understand it," my thoughts were.

There was another odd incident that night. It was dead quiet in the room where I lay in my bed. I opened my eyes abruptly. "What was that?" I pondered. And that's when I heard it: a man's voice. "Who's there?" I sobbed. Nobody was in the room, and there was no response. It was beyond my comprehension, and I felt terrified. "What can I do?" I pondered. "What was that?"

Strange things continued to happen every day after that, but I had to stay there to finish my book. It was a tiny room. Just a bed, a table, and a chair were included in it. A mirror was also present on the wall. I found the ancient mirror appealing.

And then one day I saw him, the other man, when I looked in the mirror. It was not me. I didn't have a beard, but this dude did. I closed my eyes and took another look. I looked at my face in the mirror this time. "That was not real," I believed. "I was in error. No other man was present."

That day, I took a walk instead of working on my novel. The room was not where I wanted to be. It was not what I wanted to see or hear. I returned home at night. It was really silent in the room. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, I wasn't pleased.

i tried to go to sleep, but I was unable to. "I'll be leaving tomorrow," it occurred to me. And I went to bed after that. However, there was still another odd incident: the other man approached me as he was standing by my bed.

He declared, "You will never leave here." "You will stay with me." I opened my eyes after that. I was terrified and really chilly. "I'll go now," my thought went. "I can't stay here for one more minute."

I hurriedly packed my belongings in a case. Right now, I wanted to leave. I was terrified because I could not forget the man. But what are you terrified of? I was ignorant. After putting my clothing in the case, I decided to head out of the room.

I surveyed the space and gave the mirror another glance. Then all of a sudden, I was terrified and chilled. The other man was invisible to me in the mirror. Why? as he wasn't present. However, I was unable to see my face in the mirror. No face was present. Why not?

I attempted to yell, but nothing came out. My voice was silent. The other man, the one with the beard, was then visible to me. He wasn't, however, in the mirror. He was sitting at the table holding my pen. He used my pen to write in my book.

I attempted to talk because I was furious, but I was voiceless. The other man remained silent. Grinning, he penned.

Abruptly, I heard a knock at the door and recognized a friend's voice. My friend called and said, "Are you there?" "I want to see you." That was a very wonderful time for me. "My friend will assist me," I believed.

But I was immobile. The other man approached and unlocked the door. He motioned for my friend to enter. "Please visit my room. My book is being written." When my friend entered the room, he didn't notice me. He gave the other man a smile.

I noticed that you now have a beard, my friend said. I tried to speak again and again, but I was unable. My companion was unable to see or hear me. The other man was all he saw.

That's my tale The Writer Nobody Sees

My face, my voice, my room—all of this belongs to the other man. He'll also finish my book. The other man is ignorant of the fact that I am a writer. I'm able to share my experience. I'm telling you about it, too.

It is not end of this short story The Writer Nobody Sees