Bookstores had always felt like some sort of safe space, a place where time slowed down for a moment, and the world outside seemed to blur into a pile of insignificance. There was always a faint yet comforting aroma of fleshly printed paper that ligered in the air, blending seamlessly with the subtle, almost calming sound of pages turning under strangers hands. Perhaps those were one of many reasons why you always prefered to come into that sacred space after work instead of rushing straight home.

Truth to be told, beyond the towering rows of books, which were neadly tucked into their shelves, was another part of the store that you absolutely adored: A display of pens, notebooks and other office essentials that would catch your interest in a heartbeat. These small, practical treasures added a touch of excitement to your feelings whenever you stepped onto the soft carpet of the store. Among the items was a selection of ink pens that caught your eyes. They gleamed under the gentle spotlight as if they were pieces of a small art display, especially since their polished surfaces reflecting a quiet elegance that seemed to call out your name.

Your fingers traced the smooth, cool surface of one pen, its silver metal catching the light as it rested between your thumb and forefinger. It fit perfectly, as though made just for you.

Memories began to surface, soft and fleeting, of a time when pens like this had been part of your life-back when writing still held a sense of purpose and pride while you sat in school. Back then, each stroke of the pen made you feel special and at ease. Each refill, each small smudge of ink on your fingers or papers, was a mark of care.

But those days felt distant now. Over time, you had exchanged these beautiful writing tools for the convenience of cheap office pens, the kind that clattered in drawers and rolled off desks without a second thought. They were practical, forgettable, and completely devoid of the charm that once made writing feel special. After all, no one cared what kind of pen you used to jot down your name-unless you were someone who mattered. And you, sadly, were not.

You were just another office worker, lost in the endless loop of a routine that blurred the edges of one day into the next. Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. The cycle was unrelenting, leaving little room for change or joy. It weighed on you-a dull, persistent ache that you carried everywhere.

If you were to sit down and list everything that frustrated you about your life, you might need a pen like this one. Not because it was special, but because the list would be long. It's too long for an ordinary pen to endure. Each day felt like a quiet nudge, reminding you of your own inertia, your own inability to break free. Yet here you were, staring at an ink pen, imagining what it would feel like to write with purpose again.

It was a purchase of impulsive. The pen was already in your hand, you told yourself as you watched the cashier on the other side of the counter scan the small product. You definitely had the money to buy one, so why not indulge in the comforting things of life?

The cashier was about to call out the number you had to pay, but your voice quickly interrupted the man as you spotted the sky blue writing paper with those elegant matching envelopes on a shelf behind her Another purchase out of impulsive and perhaps the start of a new hobby: lettering.

The cashier turned around halfheartly, rips the package with the paper off the shelf, and slaps it on the counter next to the pen after scanning it.

It was an impulsive purchase. The pen was already in your hand, smooth and cool against your fingers, and you reasoned with yourself as you watched the cashier scan the small item. It wasn't expensive, and you definitely had the money for it. So why not? Life was dull enough as it was-surely you deserved to indulge in something simple and comforting.

The cashier was about to announce your total when something behind him caught your eye. A stack of sky-blue writing paper, paired with elegant matching envelopes, sat neatly on a shelf. The soft colour and delicate texture seemed to call out to you, stirring something quiet in your chest. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

»Wait-can I get those too?«

The cashier sighed softly, barely masking his boredom, and turned with little enthusiasm. He reached for the paper, carelessly ripping the package off the shelf, and slapped it onto the counter beside the pen before scanning it with a dull beep.

You barely noticed his indifference. Your attention was on the paper, imagining how it would feel beneath the tip of your new pen. Another impulsive buy, maybe, but this one felt... different. Perhaps this was more than a fleeting indulgence. Maybe it was the beginning of something new-a hobby, perhaps. Lettering. Writing. The idea nestled comfortably in your mind.

As the cashier finally called out the total, you reached for your wallet, unaware that this small decision-a pen, a set of paper-would be the first step into something far more dangerous than a simple hobby.

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The very same pen, with its smooth metallic surface, was now rested idly atop the sky-blue writing paper as you returned to your bedroom. You set down a small mug-its colour uncannily matching the paper-on the desk before sinking into your comfortable chair. The night was still young, and the quiet thrill of writing something new was beginning to drown out the exhaustion from work that still lingered in your bones.

The atmosphere was perfect. A cool breeze slipped in through the slightly open window, rustling the edges of the paper. In the background, another episode of your favourite true crime podcast murmured softly, its familiar tone both unsettling and comforting. The room was dimly lit, with a small lamp casting a warm glow directly onto your newly acquired tools, as if they alone deserved the spotlight.

Truthfully, you had never written a letter before-not a real one, at least. Texts, emails, quick notes, sure. But this was different. The blank page seemed to invite you in, urging you to spill something meaningful onto it. Yet, staring at the paper, your mind felt strangely empty.

Who would you even write to?

The thought lingered, heavy and persistent. But slowly, almost without realizing it, your fingers curled around the pen. Maybe it didn't matter who the letter was for. Maybe it was about what you wanted to say.

Your fingers tightened around the pen, its weight grounding you as you stared at the untouched paper. The podcast continued to hum in the background, the host's voice weaving through details of an unsolved case-something about how killers often live unnoticed among ordinary people. But the words faded into a distant blur, overtaken by the steady drum of your own thoughts.

Maybe I'll just write to myself.

It felt a little silly at first, but the more you sat with the idea, the more it made sense. A letter to your future self-something honest, something real. You let the pen glide across the page, the ink flowing smoothly in thin, elegant lines.

Dear Future Me,

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Maybe I'm bored, or maybe I just needed to hear myself think. Today was like every other day. Work was exhausting, as usual. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm stuck in this cycle forever-wake up, work, sleep, repeat. I can't remember the last time I did something for myself, something that actually mattered.

You paused, eyes flickering toward the window as the breeze stirred the curtains.

I guess that's why I bought this pen and this paper. Maybe it's a small act of rebellion against the routine. Or maybe I'm just lonely, and this feels less pathetic than talking to myself.

A dry laugh escaped you, though it sounded flat in the quiet room.

Do you still live in this apartment? God, I hope not. I hate how thin the walls are and how the hallway lights always flicker. And that neighbor-what's his name? The one who always stares but never says anything. I should move. I keep saying I will, but here I am.

Your handwriting tightened, becoming smaller as the words turned more vulnerable.

I wonder if you ever figured yourself out. Do you still let people walk all over you? Do you still stay quiet when you should speak up? I hope not. I hope you've grown a backbone. I hope you have friends that actually check in, not just when they need something.

The voice from the podcast droned on in the background, mentioning how certain killers kept journals, their private thoughts hidden in plain sight. You hesitated, the pen hovering for a moment.

I don't know why I'm even keeping this. Who else would read it?

Another pause. Then, slowly, you began writing again.
If anyone is reading this and it's not me... well, that's unsettling.
You laughed under your breath, but something cold rippled under your skin.

Anyway, this is stupid. But maybe, years from now, I'll find this and feel different. Maybe better. Or maybe I'll still be stuck, writing letters to no one.

-Me.

You leaned back, staring at the words. It was rawer than you expected, more personal than you intended. The pen slipped from your fingers and rolled across the desk.

In the background, the podcast host's tone had shifted-quieter, darker.

"...some killers choose their victims without even realizing it. A passing glance, an accidental meeting. A letter left behind. It's all it takes."

The breeze from the window chilled your skin. You glanced at the letter, sitting innocently on the desk. And for a moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that maybe someone was already reading over your shoulder.

Your eyes flicked toward the window, the breeze tugging softly at the edges of the paper. The pen sat still beside your finished letter, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

"...some killers choose their victims without even realizing it. A passing glance, an accidental meeting. A letter left behind. It's all it takes." You repeated quietly.

A letter left behind.

A quiet chuckle slipped from your lips.

»What a ridiculous thing to say.« You muttered, though the idea rooted itself in your mind.

A letter... left behind.
You smirked, fingers curling around the pen again. Why not? The night was still young, and the creeping exhaustion had given way to a strange, restless energy.

Dear Mr. Serial Killer,

The words felt absurd as you wrote them, but that only made it more amusing.

Or Mrs. I'm not here to judge. Equality for all, right?

You paused, tapping the pen against your chin, a slow grin spreading.

I imagine you're busy-what with all the murder and creeping around-but if you've somehow stumbled across this letter, congratulations! You've found the most boring person alive. Seriously, if you're looking for a challenge, you might want to try someone with an actual social life. I'm just a corporate cog in a very rusty machine. Not exactly the thrill you're probably after.

The pen scratched smoothly along the paper, your tone growing more playful.

But hey, maybe you're into the quiet ones. In that case, welcome! Here's a fun fact: my neighbour watches me through the peephole, and I'm 90% sure he's more of a threat than you. Maybe you two should network.

You snorted softly, shaking your head.

Anyway, I'm sure you're busy. If you are going to kill me, at least make it interesting. Leave behind a cryptic riddle or something. Go big or go home, right?

Yours in morbid curiosity,
your next victim~♡

You leaned back, laughing quietly at the absurdity of it. The paper looked ridiculous sitting there, ink still drying.

It was a joke, of course. It's just a stupid joke.

Still, a small part of you wondered what someone like that would think if they actually read it.
Another breeze slipped through the window, colder than before.

And far off, in the background, the podcast continued.
"...and sometimes, all it takes is a single letter to catch their attention."

Your smile faded just a little.

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Heavy boots moved steadily through the empty streets, their sound swallowed by the faint patter of rain-thin and mist-like, clinging to the air like fog. The night was too dark to tell where the rain ended and the shadows began. The stranger pressed forward, hands buried deep in the pockets of his black leather jacket, his figure blending into the gloom.

His mind drifted, caught between the thought of sinking into the cold comfort of his bed and the unfinished tasks waiting for him before the next day bled in. He cursed himself in silence for his laziness, steps slowing ever so slightly-until something small and sharp enough to be noticed tapped against his head.

He stopped.

It wasn't painful, but it was enough to pull him from his thoughts.

A piece of paper.

No, a letter.

It drifted lazily to the wet pavement, the sky-blue colour stark against the dark, rain-slick ground. The colour alone caught his eye, soft and out of place in the cold night. He stooped down and plucked it from the concrete, the damp edges clinging to his fingertips.

His eyes lifted, slowly, carefully, scanning the buildings above.

And there it was.

A window, slightly ajar. Curtains stirring faintly in the breeze.

The stranger stared for a long moment, the letter cold in his hand.
And then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled.