I came to realize the narrative had the uncanny tendency to unfold by itself, in case enough details were not provided for by the author. At times, that is more of a problem than I initially assumed.

It was a lesson I acquired sooner than I was prepared for it and one I shall remember as long as I live.

Secondly, I noted, with growing trepidation, that the story which was writing itself through me as its medium had quite a tendency for drama which became crystal clear the moment, I opened the door and allowed K to enter my humble abode.

His whole appearance was ragged. His ordinarily stylish copper-colored hair was rumpled, and the look on his face was one of a tortured man.

"What had occurred to you?" I inquired as I indicated towards the sofa.

"It's Rebecca," he managed to utter.

From the haunted expression on his face, it was evident that a horrible event had occurred. Furthermore, I was also burdened by the knowledge that, what had transpired, was a consequence of my actions.

"What happened?" I asked, making the utmost effort not to reveal my anxiousness.

K had trouble calming himself sufficiently to provide me with an answer. However, upon taking several deep breaths, he managed to respond.

"She's been in a terrible accident. They say she might not make it," he said, his voice breaking at the end.

Upon voicing those ominous words, he started weeping like a small child. His sobs felt like spears stabbing my heart with guilt.

Generally speaking, I never considered it suitable for men to show weakness, nevertheless, I could understand his need to do so. It was a great shock to hear that something awful has happened to the one person who means the world to you. Especially when that person was not aware of your affection.

"Can you take us there in your chariot? I am certain she would appreciate our support," I said.

"Yeah, yeah. That's a good idea," he said.

We both left the building and went towards his blue chariot.

Though I was never comfortable with those iron chariots, I never trusted them, I went willingly. I considered it my penance for what I had unwittingly set in motion.

As we journeyed towards the hospital, I had a sufficient amount of time to contemplate what could have gone amiss. It was clear that my story was to blame for what had befallen Rebecca, yet I was unsure of how that was possible.

In the tale I had created, there were no near-fatal accidents. All I had written was that a traumatic event had made K aware of the depth of his feelings towards Rebecca.

As I considered all the possibilities, I had an epiphany. It was at that moment that I realized that the story itself had taken over.

What happened was, my narrative was not precise enough, it lacked precise details. While that is understandable and forgivable in fiction, real-life was not as forgiving.

The missing pieces were filled up by the most common occurrences, in Rebecca's case, the traumatic event was a traffic accident since they are so common in this land and age.

The story was writing filler chapters, as people are calling them nowadays, which are necessary for the story to stay on track.

However, I had not taken into consideration that possibility. I did not know. How could I?

Perhaps having in mind my lack of expertise in this particular field, I should not have intervened, but I had the best of intentions. How was I to know that life is so harsh and that it could never have that cushioned effect that many stories possess?

I am talking about that feeling of comfort, of knowing that no matter what happened, it was only a book. You could put it down at any moment, and the tale would stop, or you could flip the pages back to happier moments. Nothing was fixed, nothing was permanent.

By pausing you reading you could even save your favorite characters from being devoured by a terrible beast or help lovers stay in that one perfect moment, when all is well with the world, forever.

It was my gravest error, the inability to take into consideration the discrepancies between the world of imagination and the cruel reality. Combining them was bound to create friction, which I had not accounted for.

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," I used to say, and it proved to be true.

In my attempt to prove to myself and to that wretched pen, that the powers that lay within it could be used for virtuous purposes, I had condemned a young woman to unnecessary suffering.

What gave me some semblance of comfort was the fact that, happen what may, her story would have a happy ending. At least I made sure of that.

However, it did make me wonder if she would have seen it that way if she knew the truth. For her, being on the brink of death, all alone, might have seemed a fate worse than death.

As I contemplated this, we arrived at the hospital, and I was uncertain what I was supposed to say or do. What is a fitting thing to say to make one feel better?

In my previous life, I admit, I was a self-centered man, mostly concerned with myself and achieving my everlasting fame. Thus, being faced with a broken man, such as K, I felt the need to do something, say something, yet I was incapable of finding the appropriate words.

It was ironic that a man such as myself who had invented so many words had no comforting expressions to offer to his friend.

"How are you faring, young man?" I asked, aware of how stupid that question was.

"If she is okay, I am okay. If not...I don't know man, I don't know, " he said.

Luckily, I was rescued from having to struggle with expressing sympathy, by the appearance of the doctor. It was a relief for me to be able to relinquish the comforting duties to someone who was far more qualified.

"Is she okay?" K jumped up upon noticing the doctor's approach.

"It was touch and go for a while, but she is stable now," the doctor said.

Having not mastered vernacular English at the time, I was not confident that I properly understood what the doctor was saying, yet I was positive that she was all right.

"Can I see her?" K asked.

"Are you a family member?" the doctor asked.

"No, but..." K started to say.

"Then, I am afraid not," the doctor said.

"I'll make her my family, as soon as possible," K muttered under his breath.

I am sure that he assumed that I was too old to hear him. After all, he was a victim of the prejudice that old people had problems hearing, but not this 'old man'.

Anyhow, that was how Rebecca's road to recovery began. It turned out to be a long and arduous journey full of adventures in some of which I play a significant part.