Once Mr. Stanton decided it was time to embark on his writing journey. Having lived a long life and immersed himself in many literary treasures, he felt the urge to create something of his own.
Mr. Stanton procured a typewriter, a stack of quality writing paper, a box of pencils, a sharpener, a bunch of candles, a candlestick, and even unearthed a pen reminiscent of those Alexander Sergeevich used for “The Captain’s Daughter.” With newfound zeal, he scattered these items on his table in disarray, aiming to cultivate a “creative atmosphere.” Placing a cushion on his chair (a necessary comfort, given the lore of writers and their ailments!), he settled in, gazing at the ceiling, lost in thought.
His contemplation lasted long into the night, the day having faded away, leaving the ceiling cloaked in a dense, dark blue hue. Mr. Stanton welcomed the encroaching night with anticipation, reaching for a candle. As the warm, dim light flickered, casting elongated shadows on the carpet and gently illuminating his workspace, Mr. Stanton’s attention turned to a pristine sheet nestled in the typewriter, awaiting the birth of new masterpieces. The fledgling wordsmith resolved to craft at least the opening line.
Running his weathered fingers over the typewriter’s keys, he peered at the blank canvas, seeking inspiration within its pristine expanse. Yet, no words emerged, neither necessary nor superfluous. Mr. Stanton furrowed his brow, hoping to conjure at least a single sentence.
Mr. Stanton was far from foolish. Over the course of his life, he had devoured countless timeless works. Dante, Goethe, Voltaire, Poe, Balzac, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy—his humble abode overflowed with literary volumes. Now, ethereal images from these pages danced before his eyes, teasing and beckoning. Amidst this spectral ballet, a distinct figure materialized—a peculiar man with a piercing gaze.
The man regarded Mr. Stanton with a mixture of sadness and serenity. Startled, Mr. Stanton attempted to dismiss the phantom visitor, but the apparition spoke in a calm, clear voice.
“Good evening.”
“Hello,” Mr. Stanton replied slowly, taken aback by the sudden believability of the ethereal presence. “And who are y-you,” he stammered nervously.
“You know who I am, Mr. Stanton. I am the one you have called upon so persistently.”
“I haven’t summoned anyone,” the fledgling writer exclaimed, suspicion dawning upon him. “You!…”
“Yes, indeed, you are correct, Mr. Stanton,” the mysterious guest affirmed.
“But how…” Mr. Stanton began, bewildered.
“It’s quite simple, my dear. I exist, much like the characters you have summoned from your library,” the guest gestured towards the bookshelves. “Do not fear; you have not lost your mind. You simply struggle to accept that thoughts can materialize. I am no hallucination; I am alive, albeit not in the manner you are accustomed to.”
Mr. Stanton recoiled, grappling with the surreal encounter. Undeterred, the visitor continued:
“Do not rush to question how and where, but rather, why. In time, all will become clear to you. Please, heed my words until the end, for my time in your realm is fleeting. Everything I have to impart is already inscribed within these books,” the guest concluded with a peculiar clap of his hands. Startled, Mr. Stanton awoke. The candle had long since extinguished, yielding to the dawn’s embrace. Mr. Stanton lifted his head from the typewriter’s cold metal, surveying the room.
“It was but a dream!” he sighed in relief, only to startle as he noticed a small cap atop the stack of white paper—a delicate “M” elegantly embroidered upon it.
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