Chapter 10: Ink and Silence
In the days that followed the Candle Hall's contract, Abid's apartment no longer felt quite so empty.
Not because he'd filled it with new furniture—he still preferred sitting on the floor cushion, drawing at the low table that faced the balcony. It wasn't the gold, either, though the system kept quietly adding to his digital balance. And it wasn't even the gentle music he now let play in the background—mostly old Bengali folk songs his father once hummed while stirring tea.
No.
The change was subtle, yet unmistakable.
The silence no longer pressed in on him.
It had softened.
He could sit with it now, even find comfort in it.
Because beyond his walls, beyond this world, thousands of hearts were opening to the stories he drew.
And for the first time in his life, Abid felt like he was part of something bigger—something kind.
---
One morning, the system flashed a new prompt.
> **System Feature Activated: Artisan Studio – Layout Expansion Available**
> Expand workspace to suit new Artisan Tier
> Install tools: Lightboard, Dream Sketch Scroll, Archive Mirror (Tier 1)
> Would you like to begin expansion?
Abid tapped *Yes* and stood as the interface shimmered to life.
Before his eyes, the corner of his living space transformed. What had once been a simple nook with a chair and a cracked wooden shelf now deepened in dimension, revealing what looked like a curved wall of floating shelves and scrolls, all contained in a pocket of suspended space visible only to him.
He reached out to one of the hovering tools—the Dream Sketch Scroll—and unrolled it.
It glowed faintly under his touch, the paper humming with potential. Lines appeared as he thought of ideas, without ink or pressure. A concept bloomed before him—a wandering musician and a beast of sorrow that fed on forgotten songs.
The system's interface whispered softly.
> Concept registered. Emotional resonance: "Gentle longing."
> Recommendation: Continue development. Potential 4-Star story.
Abid let out a breath.
He hadn't even realized he was holding it in.
He had forgotten what it felt like to create purely from emotion, not from expectation.
---
Later that evening, Abid found himself sketching in pencil again, flipping through his oldest notebook.
Most of the pages were rough concept ideas, some dating back to when he was just out of college and chasing dreams through slush piles of local art contests.
One stood out.
A half-finished story about a boy who could only see the color blue in others' dreams.
He had scribbled it during a monsoon evening five years ago, alone in his flat, the lights flickering.
Back then, he had thought it was too strange, too quiet. Who would want a story like that?
But now…
He imagined a child in that other world, hearing it by candlelight. A village storyteller pausing for effect as the boy whispered, "I see your dreams. They shimmer like river songs."
Abid felt his eyes sting unexpectedly.
He reached for his pen.
---
The next morning, he took a short walk to the old bookstore down the lane.
The shopkeeper, Mr. Rahman, was a quiet man who knew Abid only as "the sketchpad guy."
"You look different these days," Rahman said, handing him a steaming glass of milk tea. "Like your ghosts are tired of haunting you."
Abid smiled. "Maybe they're resting. Or reading."
Rahman laughed, not quite understanding but pleased anyway.
Abid spent an hour flipping through old artbooks, looking for fresh inspiration. Though none of them could compare to the system's offerings, it grounded him—reminded him of where he came from.
When he returned home, a new message awaited.
> **Reader Request Received: Book Club in Elmadra's Hill Town Seeks "Wanderer's Journal"**
> Comment: "Could we read from the traveler's diary directly?"
>
> System prompt: Would you like to create an in-world artifact?
> Reward Tier: Emotional Connection Boost, Artistic Resonance Bonus
Abid sat down slowly.
An in-world artifact.
He tapped "Yes" and opened a blank scroll in the Artisan Studio.
The system allowed him to write not in manga format, but as a facsimile of the Wanderer's own words.
He dipped into the role like slipping into a warm coat.
> "Day 12. I crossed the singing dunes. My feet ache, but I found a child's laughter buried under the sand—a memory sealed in salt and shadow…"
He filled page after page.
When he was done, he uploaded it.
Within the hour, a message came back.
> "The hill-town readers wept. Thank you. One of them said, 'This is not a story—it is a friend.'"
Abid sat in stunned silence.
A friend.
He placed a hand over his chest.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had said that word to him.
---
Days passed like this, with gentle routine.
Tea in the morning.
Sketching through the day.
Uploading stories.
Responding to occasional system messages from the fantasy world.
Sometimes, he didn't even speak aloud all day—but he didn't mind. The system's presence was quiet, companionable. It didn't interrupt. It simply offered, guided, listened.
And when he grew tired, he would step onto the balcony and watch the crows gather on the wires, as they always did.
Dhaka remained unchanged in many ways.
And yet…
Abid saw it with new eyes.
The city was a canvas now—no longer something to escape, but something to draw from.
---
One evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft purples, Abid received an unexpected delivery from the system.
> **System Gift: Artisan's Sandglass (1x)**
> Description: Allows a visual glimpse of a reader's moment of joy
> Use with care—emotional feedback may be intense
> Limit: 1 use per season
Abid held the icon gently, then tapped it.
The world slowed.
A small glowing hourglass floated before him, turning on its own.
A vision bloomed in the air above it.
A young girl with copper braids sat in a room made of driftwood and stone, wrapped in a soft shawl. A fire crackled nearby.
She held a scroll with the Wanderer's Journal open wide, eyes wide with wonder.
"Look, Mama," she whispered. "He writes like he's beside me. Like he's walking just a few steps ahead."
Her mother smiled and brushed her hair back. "Maybe he is."
The girl turned the page. Her face lit up with joy.
The vision faded.
Abid covered his mouth with one hand.
Then he cried.
Not out of sadness.
But because he had finally seen it for himself—
The connection.
The bridge he'd built with nothing but stories and silent hope.
---
That night, he placed a fresh sheet on his drawing table.
The city outside was quiet, save for the distant sound of a rickshaw bell.
He lit a small candle—not because he needed it, but because it reminded him of the children reading by firelight in another world.
And with that glow beside him, Abid began his next story.