The morning sky slowly woke up, but the light that descended to the ground felt strange because it was not sunlight, but golden rays coming from the direction of the mountain, like the pages of an open book in the sky.
Harith sat alone on the edge of the cliff, holding a small branch.
The world was silent...too silent, like the world was holding its breath.
Since the night he had promised Lyria, he had not been able to sleep at all. Something was spinning in his mind, like a sentence that was not yet finished being written.
"Every world I write... must have a writer. But if this world writes itself... who is holding the pen now?"
He stared at the ground in front of him. The ground was soft, dusty, and empty.
For the first time since he arrived, Harith felt the urge to write something.
Not in a book, not in the air but directly on the world itself.
His hand moved slowly.
The branch touched the ground and formed letter by letter
H-A-R-I-T-H.
As the last letter was written, the world fell silent.
The falling leaves stopped in midair.
The river froze in its flow.
The birds' voices disappeared.
And from the sky, a soft sound echoed like paper being flipped.
"You just wrote something that shouldn't exist."
Harith flinched. The voice was Arven. But this time it wasn't a whisper.
The voice came directly from all around him, echoing from the rocks, trees, and air.
"What do you mean?"
"Your name... is not part of this script."
The ground beneath the writing began to crack, emitting a blinding white light.
The letter H melted like liquid ink and the earth trembled subtly.
Harith tried to erase his writing, but it was too late... the symbol had come to life.
Suddenly, light engulfed him.
He saw strange flashes like scenes from another world... a writing desk, a coffee cup, an open novel titled The Song of Two Stars and a pair of hands holding a pen.
The hands were his. But older. More tired.
"I… the writer?"
"You are the writer. But this world is no longer yours."
The sky began to spin like a vortex of ink.
The shadow of a giant writing appeared in the sky, a line of half-burnt verse.
"To name oneself is to defy the world."
Lyria suddenly came running from afar, screaming her name.
"Harith! What are you doing?! This world…this world"
He didn't have time to finish his sentence. The ground beneath them shook violently and the light from the writing swallowed everything.
When the light faded, Harith found that they were standing in the same place but the atmosphere was different.
The sky was not blue, but silver.
The trees around were no longer green, but like old faded paintings.
And on the far horizon, stood a city that had once collapsed, now whole again.
"We… moved?" Lyria whispered.
"Not moved." Harith stared at the dusty ground. "We… retreated."
He looked up at the sky and between the clouds, he saw a giant sheet of paper floating slowly as if the world was being flipped to the previous page.
"Arven," he said firmly. "If this world can turn back, that means time can also be rewritten."
"Be careful, writer. This world is not just a book. It is alive.
When you write something, the world will ask who dares to write a name on it?"
Harith knelt down, trying to calm his pounding heart.
He stared at the ground, the writing was gone. But its traces remained.
And from the dust, a small white flower emerged, the only one growing in that gray world.
Lyria approached, touching the flower slowly.
"Beautiful… like your name."
"That's the problem."
"Why?"
"Because every time I try to do something beautiful here, the world starts to collapse."
He looked at the sky and for a moment, he saw something behind the clouds... an eye, large and silent, as if the world was aware of who challenged it.
Lyria held her hand tightly.
"Don't be afraid. If the world is angry because you wrote your own name, let me say it for you."
"Lyria"
"HARITH!"
The sky rumbled.
And this time, the world didn't stop but retreated completely.
The river water flowed upwards.
The birds flew backwards.
And at Harith's feet, the dust swirled to form the pages of a giant book that opened on its own.
Each page showed a different version of the world…the one that burned, the one that hadn't happened yet and another… a world where he never existed.
"You see that?"
"Yes," Harith whispered, his eyes widening. "This world… is trying to fix me."
Lyria looked at him, not understanding.
"What do you mean?"
"This world doesn't need me, Lyria. But every time I touch it, it changes.
It's like I'm… ink falling on finished paper."
A long silence filled the space.
They stood in a world that was half real, half dream.
The wind blew softly, carrying Arven's voice once more
"Each world can only write one name on its page, Harith.
And you have just challenged a pen greater than yourself."
The light erased everything and before everything disappeared, Harith managed to whisper something into Lyria's ear
"If I disappear later, look for this white flower. It is the symbol of the world I created for you."
---
When he woke up again, the world had returned to color but this time it was different.
Lyria was by his side, but her face was different.
Her eyes looked at him blankly, as if she had seen him for the first time.
"Who are you?" she asked softly.
Harith only smiled bitterly.
In his hand, the white flower had dried up and on the ground below,
the faint letter H still shone.
---
"The world may turn around, but every name that has ever been written will leave a scar."