The attic

The wind howled and fluttered in the torn curtains in front of the open skylight in the attic room. Lit only by a single sparse candle, that room gave a kind of cozy-spooky atmosphere. The fluttering of the small flame and the sound of the howling wind blended together and gave a joking vibe to the room. The deafening roar of the highway turned into a distant hum carried in by the cool November wind. Far away from the road, from the outside world. At a small desk in dark wood at the back of the room sat a hunched figure, deeply concentrated with a worn-out old quill, in his worn-out right hand. The small desk was bombarded with sheets of paper close together with neat, beautiful words. It was a sight in itself, how my right hand ran across the paper, as if it were racing against itself. Sometimes it stopped in doubt about the next word or phrase before it started again with the rhythmic melody. Write, write, stop, write, write, write, stop. In a never-ending race. Almost as if the hand moved by itself. The ideas bubbled so much across the page that the author splashed the ink on all sides, often over the already full pages, but it didn't bother her.

Ink stains were everywhere. On both fingers, clothes and sheets, but despite everything, she was happy. Unaffected by everything around her, she sat there in the deepest concentration. In a world of its own of cold, ink and the sound of the noise outside. It was like a distant, low music in the background. The only thing she heard was the calm rhythm of the quill, which touched the paper and came back up. The author crossed out and wrote again. Inside her head, she was far away into the world of words. She shaped it piece by piece, picking out each word with care. Everyone had a place in history. Inside the unique world of words. If one was first in, it was difficult to get out again. Each step brought with it new words, new paths, a new story. Every time you read it, you discover something new and special. You discovered a story

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Outside, in the orange-glowing twilight, the humming noise of the worn-out car engines sounded as people raced along the increasingly less busy streets, hoping to reach home before darkness fell. Their exhausted faces lit up at the thought of the delicious, hot dinner that awaited them at the end of the road. Suddenly, the regular engine sound was interrupted by the screeching screech of brakes scraping against the slippery asphalt, sending gravel and pebbles flying in all directions. The smoke rose as the red car spun around and around itself along the highway. The young driver's terrified face lit up in a brief, quick flash in the glow of the blinding beam from the headlights. His quivering hands clung desperately to the spinning steering wheel, the knuckles of his clenched fists were white from the grip, but he held on. Vain. The steering wheel continued to spin around and around as the driver tried unsuccessfully to gain control of the colliding car.

At that terrible, decisive moment, his arms slackened, lost his strength and strength in them, and gave up. The car accelerated wildly around the narrow road, leaving behind a long, black line of tire marks from the wheels. Faster and faster before it suddenly stopped. Just as suddenly as it had come. Suddenly, the night was as quiet as before, and it was again a quiet and calm twilight evening. Nothing but the crushed car wreck reminded me of the accident that had just happened. The shrill sirens from the police cars cut through the night, but too late. The chapped lips of the driver formed in a low whisper. A final word. A damp and gloomy darkness settled overnight.