The Eternal Doom

Chapter 2, Silence of Immortals

In the silent immortal world, Mr. Walter Albert was sitting on a chair, running his pen, filling up the blank page with the words with the concealed depth of anguishes. The stack of blank pages was still lying on the table, highlighting the spilling light of the candle dribbling its wax from both sides, as if saying, "I can't any more listen to this silence, revealing your words to me," where corners of the room were concealed in the semi-darkness, with the shadow of the moon hung long over the immortal world, entering through old dark wooden panels of the window, and the profound silence performing its favorite play of salutation to the immortal world, where death finally lay down to sleep.

After a long fellowship with pen and pages, Mr. Walter put the pen over the filled page, and, rising up, beckoned towards the window, where he found the spilling shadow of the sky over the hazy place outside the window, where the sluggish path was fading in the arranged mist at a distance. The twisted vines of the woods were hit by the dull light of the night sky. The immortal world seemed to have its fearless sleep from nightmares of death. After pondering deeply, he opened the one panel of an old Victorian window, and let the whispers of the night usher inside. "Do you still remember me? Or have my wrinkles faded me? Can you bring me the world I left here? Can you raise what I have buried here as memories, seventy years

before?" Mr. Walter whispered, in a tone of great anguish, but all he got was the shrilling silence in the wind. Instead of replying, he stands there, seeming to gaze, as if waiting for a reply. "No, you can't!" he choked out finally, with a bitter smile on his impassive face, "you left me to live with the dead memories. I have been keeping this window open for you, oh Asriel the fallen angel, but every single day I close it with disappointment, knowing you won't come again; and if some day GOD made you land on this world again then honor me to be the first among all who might wish to see you." Or perhaps you wish to see one of us again. Reference to Mr. Walter Albert. He is a man of honor and dignity, which determines his personality. He stands among the legends as an international author all around the world: a writer who painted his world into reality on the blank canvasses. But he never introduced himself as a painter, nor as a writer, as he always says "How can man become the writer, when he himself is the unrevealed story of GOD? the story which Lord narrates to his angels, about the mortals he ever loved, who sleeps to walk in another world they call a dream." His words seem to mark the whole world. He is an old person of seventy-five years; the lines on his face describe the long journey of his life. His hazy eyes are slightly faded underneath his aging skin, but the fine cut of his face still can be seen easily, with the freshness his youth still possesses over him, which makes him look like a handsome gentleman, though his old age doesn't lie. The man who has left his wealthy world, and is now living in a ninety-year-old house in Ashland, the place where he once left his adolescent world in the swirling mist; the place where the sluggish paths rolled down through falling hills carved by GOD.

In the deep midnight, there comes the sound of knocking over the door of the house, disrupting Mr. Walter Albert from filling up the blank pages with the world of his soul. He rises, his feet beckoned towards the unexpected knock at the door. Walking through the fleeting silence, and the wooden floor slick with

the shimmering light of the moon hidden somewhere beyond the misty sand of the crimson sky, he slams the door open, and the silver light falls inside as if it only fogged over the door; but no: there was someone else, standing in the shadow of the silver light like a silhouette.