Dan jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. His chest heaved, heart pounding like a jackhammer striking concrete.
Beside him, Anna sat up, worry etched into the lines of her face. She placed a gentle hand on the damp back of his white T-shirt.
"Dan," she said softly, "was it another nightmare about the war?"
He shook his "No. This was different. I dreamed I met an author. That nobody cares about my war, Ossory and Intermarium, the one I've been writing about in my journal. They only care about wars with headlines, not the ones bleeding between margins."
Anna blinked. "What? Countries that don't even exist? That's your novel talking."
Dan scratched his head, eyes distant. "I don't know. But they said I don't have agency. That's my story's coming to an end soon."
She scoffed, shaking her head. "Dan, you're blurring the lines between fiction and reality. Go drink some water—you're shaking."
"But…" Dan's voice dropped, his face shadowed. "What if the author's right?"
"That author's just your mind playing tricks," Anna said, her tone sharpening with concern. "Go. Please."
Dan hesitated, then nodded slowly. He rose from the mattress and stepped into the dark hallway.
The floor creaked underfoot, silence pressing around him. In the kitchen, he poured water and stared out the window into the night. On the counter, his open notebook lay, scrawled with maps of Ossory's trenches.
He sipped slowly and set the glass onto the table.
Maybe the war wasn't over. The fight wasn't in the trenches or headlines—but in quiet moments, where doubt slithered in like an enemy unseen.
His reflection stared back from the window, fractured by the pane.
Real or not, he had a choice.
Dan turned, his steps deliberate, and he returned to the bedroom—as if reclaiming the pen, one line at a time.