The typing of a keyboard was the only thing that could be heard in the dimly lit room of the 4th floor, second door to the right. It was the middle of the night in that small city off the north of Milan, one of the so-called "Capital of fashion". It was quite ironic that the city center itself was chock full of people that looked straight out of a fashion magazine, and yet the neighboring cities and even districts were so full of people that could barely afford a car, some even a decent meal. The man typing on the keyboard was one of such people, they weren't hard to find after all.

The old man was clearly beyond his 40's, visible by his barely controlled beard, his tired look, and morbidly obese body, borderline overweight. If his cheap and stained red pajama pants, half destroyed 10 years old t-shirt and grey hoodie jacket were anything to go by, then this man clearly has not been sleeping much these last few days. This was clear with not only his appearance but also by the foul stench of sweat and other liquids, which origins are better remain unknown to the reader.

Despite his clear state of borderline poverty, displayed by his cheap and barren apartment, was broken by the computer in which he was operating at that moment. It was a high-end gaming PC, with a cutting edge co-processing quantum CPU built with the best, and sometimes uselessly overpriced, components that one would usually find online or highly specialized stores. A rash expense the man always regretted going through but never tried to get rid of. Because of this and many other very poor decisions, the man behind the screen did not have the best quality of life. This, however, did not stopped him from pursuing a rather unusual and probably unreachable goal of documenting, or rather creating, a handy journal for, in his opinion, the most complex multiverse ever created, spanning thousands upon thousands of highly detailed pages of lore, compendiums, and guides explaining everything, from the simplest of animal forms to the most sophisticated and complex formulas for magical, and non, calculations.

Needless to say that this endeavor took him decades of his life, countless sacrifices and many broken promises to even come close to complete. Every day he would sit at his computer and type endless streams of vain and preposterous words that only served to elongated his labor. This, however, wasn't like the other day. This... was the day he was eagerly waiting for. That was the day he would finish this cursed journal. He could feel his fingers tremble more and more at each key he typed, at each space placed, at each sentence finished, his excitement was growing at each passing second and at each paragraph finished. He didn't even bother checking for any errors, that's one of the many functions of the custom-built A.I. he programmed, check and automatically correct any syntax, grammar and various other mistakes common to a rushed and maddening typing.

(A.N.: A role which you can perform down in the comments if you can. Plz... I need it)

It was already late in the evening and the sun was just starting to fall under the horizon when the sound of typing stopped abruptly, unusual at this time of the day for that little apartment. The man was staring at the screen with bloodshot eyes, hands just above the keyboard trembling of excitement and frustration. On the screen, a page containing an almost perfect and endless wave of words and phrases except for the last one. An unfinished phrase capitalized by that blinking bar, which was almost mocking that old man for his inability to finishing his task.

One last phrase was the only thing missing in this otherwise grueling task. One phrase, one like many he wrote before, one last input and everything was over. It should have been easy, it should have been effortless... And yet, he couldn't do it. Nothing came up to his mind. A writer's block, one like he and all of the other writers before and after him have experienced many, countless, infinite times before, especially in the last phrase of a novel, a chapter, or even an essay. It was an almost universal law for how common it was. Still frustrating, regardless of the number of times it happened.

The man was simply staring at the screen for what seemed like an eternity but really it was only a minute or so before he mentally sent that particular phrase to go fuck itself. He then seemed to wipe his face from a non-existing bead of sweat and leaning on his chair before leaving out a tired sigh. He was too old for stressing out over such small stuff. His gaze flies over his chaotic desk full of empty plastic wrappings, empty cigarette packs, and plugs which even he doesn't even remember the use for. His eyes then fall to the three objects that accompanied him through the last few days, an impressive feat considering his usual behavior. A white brandless lighter, a glass full to the brim of buds of cigarette and a pack with only one tobacco pleasure cancer left.

The man looks at these three items for a few seconds before leaving out a tired sigh and grabbing the last cigarette from the pack and the lighter, usually smoking one outside in the balcony while waiting for his apartment to get some fresh air gets rid of his blocks. While getting up from his chair with a pained groan, he looks at his computer and says, in a rather raspy and deep voice, to his A.I. assistant:

"Metti un alarme per domani, dalle 6 alle 7 del mattino con un intervallo di 5 minute ciascuno"

Translation: "Set an alarm for tomorrow, from 6 to 7 am with an interval of 5 minutes each"

The computer almost seemed to be on the bring of overheat itself before the previously silent speakers begin to be brought back to life with an androgynous voice:

"Certamente signore. Come vuole che le etichetti?"

Translation: "Certainly sir. How do you want me to label them?"

This was one of the many aforementioned functions of the assistant A.I. that the old man built into it. An alarm for when he was too lazy to set them on his phone himself.

The man thinks for a moment about the label he should give this alarm before smiling a bit and saying, with a bit of cockiness:

"In nocte consilium"

Translation: "Tomorrow is a new day"

 The speakers remain silent for a moment before the A.I. quips in with a clearly confused tone:

"Ma quello è il motto del college di Birkbeck, signore"

TL: "But that's Birkbeck college's motto, sir"

The man keeps a strained smile as he retorts through his teeth:

"'Sta zitto, è figo"

TL: "Shut up, it's cool"

The A.I. seems to calculate something before saying in a calm tone:

"Certamente, etichetta assegnata. 'Sveglia mattutina' è la nuova etichetta"

TL: "Certainly, label assigned. 'Morning alarm' is the new label"

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The man's look shift from a cocky to an annoyed face. He really regretted programming in it a 'sarcasm' function. The man can't help but sigh and turn to go and walk through his barren apartment to his balcony in his bedroom, which was just a couple of rooms away from his studio.

When he arrives, the man opens up the door which leads to the balcony and stopped for a moment to close his eyes and feel the air breeze around him while the last rays of the vermilion sunset gently warm his slightly cold and sweaty body covered in light clothing. No matter how much one loves staying indoors, a fresh breath of air and a good view always bring out a smile or an inspiration. After remaining in that position for a few seconds, the man opens up his eyes and looks at his surroundings.

The view was nothing short of beautiful, even for such a depressing and dull city. His balcony was in one of the very few lucky positions of being able to take a good look at the horizon, a very rare view in many European cities. There were two apartment complexes that blocked his lateral view but guaranteed an amazing frontal view. In front of him, a sea of greatly different houses and villas that gave a rainbow of captivating patterns of shadows and colors tinged by the red-orange setting sun. The sky guaranteed a tidal wave of orange-hued clouds chaotically spread in the sky, which gave both an overwhelming and yet fulfilling sensation. Then, there's the sky itself. Man, what there's to say if not amazing? It was this beautiful blend of blue, yellow, orange and red that seemed to suck you in its infinity.

The man seemed almost captivated by this view, unable or unwilling to move from that spot and just take in as much of it as possible. He forgot just how beautiful Nature can be at times. He, like many others, took it all for granted and never stopped to look around him to admire it. Sure, it makes him look like a hipster or even a nature freak... But hey, beauty is beauty regardless of your background, especially nature. There used to be a time when he was a boy-scout and these kinds of sights were a pretty common, almost daily. occurrence, maybe that's why stopped charming him at a certain point. 

The man sighed and shakes his head to get rid of his musings. If left unchecked, he could go on for hours lost in his own thoughts, something he can't really do now, of all times. Maybe later after he gets an inspiration for that last damn phrase. He got up to his balcony, put the cigarette in his mouth and lights it up before taking a drag out of it.

Now that he was looking at the world around him with a cigarette in his mouth and a clearer head, he saw that the beauty around him was only a disillusioned dream. The houses and villas weren't a rainbow of captivating patterns of colors and shadows and a huge variety of sizes, they were just the same regular grey colored houses with a few tinges of color created by a combination of cars reflecting their colors in those houses, light angles and a too many other variables to truly list. This was just a once in a while freaky optical illusion created by confusion, tiredness, and chance. In a couple of hours, it would be even more obvious. It was still pretty though, he gotta give credit for that. The clouds and the sky though, they weren't so lucky. They weren't some kind of poetic mumbo jumbo, they were just the product of airplanes, air currents, and too much creativity. Besides, this wasn't his first beautiful sky, he was sure it wouldn't be his last.

He takes another drag of his cigarette and thinks, heavily. About his reason to go on, about his life and about the decisions he made so far. Why? Why all of this? Why continue? Why not stop and just get his shit straight? Why not forget about this cursed journal? Well, he questioned himself like that a lot, especially about all of those showed and many more. He was always so close to quitting, especially during more grueling times, and he almost did it. At last, he always came back, almost like a loyal little dog.

Why though? Why so much loyalty towards such a grueling task? Well, he couldn't quite remember either, it's been far too long. Years, decades even. Hell, he met kids that grew up, had a family and died before he could even finish the damn thing. Entire generations passed by and yet he was stuck there. Everyone he knew either forgot about him or died, including his family. His mother, father, his siblings.

Siblings.

That word somehow re-ignited in him something he forgot for a long time. A name. A person. An emotion. He wrote this for someone, someone he was close to, someone he knew but passed away. Someone, the only one that ever made him feel something other than tired. It was like a brother to him. He slowly started remembering, almost like a flood gate, the memories and the emotions were starting to re-emerge and made him remember. He puts his hands on the railing of the balcony as he starts to feel a flood of emotions and memories almost overwhelms him. He could swear that between them a single name was starting to emerge and almost slam on his head. Yes! he could remember it! He almost felt like crying for being so stupid. That person, so important for him and he forgot about it?! He felt like he could grab his head and slam it a couple of times on the wall for having such a stupid brain.

He tries to utter the name in an almost whisper, almost as if to confirm if this sensation and name were real and not some kind of twisted prank from his 40 plus years old brain.

"J-"

Destiny is a cruel thing. One moment you are in an almost emotional breakdown, the next you are plunging to a pretty tall fall. Due to his emotional disarray, the old man's brain took a couple of seconds to realize that something was going on. Before it could even take the next step to figure out what was going on...

THUNK!

SNAP!

BUUM!

Usually, unless you fall head first, a fall from the 4th floor of an apartment wouldn't kill an adult man, but that's the beauty of old European apartment complexes, especially in such small and borderline poverty state cities, isn't it? Everything is barely maintained, if ever. The old man's apartment was no exception. The railing was exquisitely rusted just at the right point for it to break apart with a simple push from a 90 odd kilos of fat and some sign of small muscles (90 kg = 198 lbs, more or less), especially if said person was going through some mid-life crisis. These apartments, however, have another very peculiar characteristic to them, most of the have man-sized metal pikes to them, usually of either iron, steel or some other crazy material that was cool at the time of the construction of the apartment. This particular apartment, for instance, had a half man-sized railing made of iron and coated with a black coating for a more aesthetic purpose rather than a 'keep out' type of approach.

Did this information help our dear old man? Eh, not really. He did fell on this thing with his throat, which stopped a lot of his momentum, which in turn transferred itself from his whole body to only his legs. This, in turn, shoots them forward, snapped his spine in half, made the railing pass through his throat fully and penetrated his ass. Wanna hear the best part? Well, aside from making him look like a pig on a stake, this allowed him to stay alive and let his brain catch on what was going on. Or at least it did for the few seconds it had of air left in it to function.

In those few and excruciating moments of pain, the old man couldn't help but feel helpless, hopeless and regretful. He never actually got to finish that stupid journal, he never got to make amend for his decisions, he never got to say goodbye to his last few friends that gave any shits about him, which included his A.I., weirdly enough.

As his last vestiges of consciousness slipped away from his control, his last drifted towards his friends, no brother. A guy he met when he was still a naive kid in elementary school, his only true first friend. He was much older than him, in fact while the man was going to elementary school, the friend was already in high school. He was the only one that gave him any resemblance of a home, of friendship and acceptance.

"João"

These were the last thought of a man like many others. One that pursued a goal and, right when they could see the finishing line, right when he was about to touch it, someone had to tackle him with a thousand bull sized rugby players at the same time, take him in midair with a helicopter and take him to the middle of a high security prison for no reason at all.

Usually, this is how everyone's story ends, even yours. No, not with a gruesome death by the hands of some idiotic bills and oversight. Usually, everyone ends up dead, one way or another, it's inevitable, not even planets, stars, black holes, or even atoms can escape it. It's a part of life... But not this time.

This is not a tale of someone meant for some grand and vague destiny of salvation or destruction, this not a tale of a struggle spanning centuries that end up in a more messed up situation than at the start, nor this is a tale about a man's failure in life. No, this is just a tale about a man who simply gets a final life long reward from an unconventional source.

Life may favor some, but death truly is fair to everyone. 

Even towards a persistent man like our dear old man.