The Fallen Scribe

Title: The Unseen Ghost 

The library was a tomb, and he was its ghost.  

He came at the same time every day, claimed the same corner, and draped himself in the same ash-gray hoodie. The students around him blurred into a sea of noise—laughter, debates, the clatter of coffee cups—but he existed in a silence so thick it muffled his pulse.  

“Send the notes?”  

The texts came like clockwork. He complied, always. No greetings, no thanks. Just a PDF dropped into the void. It was easier this way. Safer.  

His dorm room was a museum of neglect: a half-packed box of childhood trophies gathering dust, a desk littered with scribbled reminders to “try harder,” and a cracked mirror reflecting a face he barely recognized. Dark circles. Slumped shoulders. Eyes that had forgotten how to hold light.  

He’d stopped attending club meetings months ago. The first few were bearable—awkward small talk, forced smiles—but the pity in their stares when he lingered too long at the snack table, the way conversations stalled when he sat alone… it was easier to stop going.  

One night, he found himself in the campus chapel, drawn by the promise of stillness. A girl with a violin played a mournful tune in the corner. For a moment, he let himself imagine: What if he stayed? What if he asked her name? 

But the moment passed. He left before the song ended.  

Years later, he still wears the hoodie. Still sends notes without reply. Still sits in the library, tracing cracks in the table until they blur into the lines on his palms.  

He’s stopped wondering if anyone knows his name.  

When the diploma arrives, he tucks it into a drawer, unopened.  

The world moves on. So does he.  

No epiphany. No closure. Just a boy who learned to breathe underwater—and forgot he was drowning.