Chapter 4 - Unnamed

Title: The Crimson PencilThe city clock struck three in the morning. Dhrubo's desk lamp cast a dim, flickering glow over his cramped room. On the desk lay an old, pitch-black diary, but it wasn't the diary that was strange—it was the pencil in his hand. It was a deep, haunting shade of red, looking less like paint and more like dried, clotted blood.Dhrubo was a failed writer. For three years, he hadn't been able to produce a single story worth reading. But ever since he found this pencil in a dusty corner of an antique shop this evening, his hands hadn't stopped trembling. With a sudden surge of impulse, he gripped the pencil and wrote on the blank white page: "At exactly 3:15 AM, someone will knock on my door."He glanced at the wall clock. 3:10 AM. Five minutes left. His heart hammered against his ribs. Was this just a desperate man's madness? To test it further, he added: "The visitor will be carrying a blue envelope."Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. 3:14 AM... 56 seconds... 57... 58... 59...'Knock... Knock... Knock...'A cold shiver ran down Dhrubo's spine. Exactly 3:15 AM! He walked toward the door, his legs feeling like lead. He turned the knob with a shaky hand and swung the door open. The corridor was empty. Silent. But as he looked down, his breath hitched.At his feet lay a bright blue envelope.Dhrubo grabbed the envelope and retreated into his room, locking the door behind him. Inside was a piece of parchment. In jagged, red lettering, it read: "Whatever you write shall become your reality. But beware—for every sentence written, a memory must be sacrificed."Dhrubo's head spun. Was he dreaming? To prove it, he picked up the pencil to write again. But a terrifying realization hit him—he couldn't remember his mother's face. He knew he had a mother, but her features were a blurred void in his mind. As he touched the pencil to the paper, words appeared on their own: 'One sentence finished. One memory gone.'He was in a death trap. If he wrote for wealth, he might lose his childhood. If he wrote for fame, he might forget his own name. But the desperation of poverty was a monster of its own.Dhrubo gripped the crimson pencil. His eyes turned wild. He wrote: "By tomorrow morning, my wardrobe will be overflowing with diamonds and gold."The moment he finished, his childhood evaporated. He no longer knew where he grew up or who his father was. But he didn't stop. The pencil was like a drug, a cursed ecstasy. He kept writing... and writing... and writing...He failed to notice the tiny inscription on the very last page of the diary: "On the day your final memory fades, this pencil shall claim your life and seek a new master."As the first light of dawn touched the window, Dhrubo sat amidst a room full of gold, staring at the diary with empty, hollow eyes. He was the richest man in the world, but he no longer knew who he was