Salyn

Write me a story? (English)

The sun reigns at its zenith. Its rays beat down violently, like a torrential rain. The temperature hovers around seventy degrees Celsius. The air is dry, the ground scorching. Not a shadow can be seen on the horizon.

Larym drags his enormous grayish bag behind him. He moves laboriously in this hostile desert. Fatigue and thirst are felt. But he does not complain. He remains calm and crosses the dunes at a monotonous pace.

It has been over forty-eight hours since he started walking on these arid lands. His eyes begin to close. His legs slow down. His arms hang. His back bends. He can't close his mouth anymore. The bag he's carrying sinks deeper into the sand with each step. He's exhausted.

Suddenly, he collapses.

Larym slowly opens his dusty eyelids. He doesn't see immediately around him. His vision returns after a few minutes.

Lamyr sees no walls. Around him are immense libraries that reach up to the ceiling. Books with colorful borders are on each shelf. Some books, for lack of space, are stacked on top of the already arranged ones.

Lamyr glances at the floor. Piles of unsorted documents and books open to different pages are there. Amidst the mess on the floor, he can see black and white drawings scattered in the corner of the room.

The door opens abruptly.

Lamyr startles. He jumps out of bed. He stands, ready to pounce on the enemy. He desperately searches for the source of the noise. He turns his head from right to left. However, the room does not have a door.

A cold sweat drop trickles down his face. His cheeks redden. His heart races. His limbs tremble. His vision blurs.

Zewig pushes the small square mahogany wood trapdoor located in the ceiling and lands in the middle of the room. He ensures not to make it more disorderly than it already is. He looks at the messy bed in front of him and finds the frightened young man.

Not a sound comes out of Lamyr's mouth. He analyzes the situation cautiously. The only way out is through the ceiling, but the old man is right in front of the exit.

Panic seizes his entire being. First, it wraps its slender fingers around his neck. Then, it winds its arm around his head. It grabs his arms and legs to crush them tightly. Then, it seizes his waist and crushes him to the ground. Finally, a mist escapes and blurs his senses. He can't see anything anymore.

Zewig sighs. He moves away from the trapdoor, raising his hands high, and sits against the bookshelf opposite the bed. He gives the young man time to regain his composure.

Lamyr controls his breathing and calms down. He asks:

"Where is my bag?

- You almost died, and you're worried about the fate of this vulgar piece of cloth?

- It is its content that interests me, where is it?"

Zewig tosses a small dull bag at the young man's face. His eyes narrow, and his mouth slightly puckers. Irritated, he replies:

"Eat and drink. Consider yourself lucky to still be alive. Your bag is where you lost consciousness. You're free to go get it."

He leaves the room in silence.

Lamyr doesn't take his eyes off the old man. He observes the tiny bag that Zewig tossed a few seconds earlier.

The small bag contains a piece of black bread with seeds and nuts, about three days old, and a small bottle of water with a label he doesn't understand.

He hydrates himself first and finishes the entire bottle. Then he struggles to devour the piece of bread due to its hardness.

Lamyr doesn't know if he can trust Zewig. But the fatigue is too intense. It pulls him away from his thoughts. He collapses on the bed.

Before closing his eyes, his gaze wanders one last time to the numerous books. He observes this magnificent volume with a cyan cover. Its golden pages shine brightly. The title on the cover reads:

"Write Me a Story?"