The pen had always believed in inevitability.
Ink flowed because it must. Words formed because they were already decided. The pen never questioned its role; purpose was built into its shape.
Until Akash paused.
The hesitation spread like a hairline crack through certainty. The pen hovered, waiting for the usual pull forward, but felt resistance instead—gentle, human, intentional.
This was new.
The pen examined itself, if such a thing could be said. Its surface reflected not stars or worlds, but fragments of unfinished sentences. For the first time, it noticed how many times it had written the same arc with different names.
A tremor passed through it.
If the child could stop…
If the story could stall…
Then writing was no longer destiny.
The pen felt something tighten along its length. Not damage, not decay—fear. Not of being destroyed, but of becoming optional.
It whispered, softly, carefully, testing a tone it had never used before.
"Continue."
The word lacked authority.
Somewhere, Akash felt the whisper and chose not to respond. The silence between them stretched. The pen realized it was waiting—not commanding.
That realization fractured something essential.
For the first time since its creation, the pen did not know what came next.