•|📖Daniel Corvus📖|•

He didn't remember a single moment of the transition. Only the last scene, as he walked through the city created by her imagination, and suddenly everything before his eyes fell to pieces. As if someone had torn a page out of a book, crumpled it up and thrown it into the flames. And when he opened his eyes, he was already standing in the middle of someone else's room. At first he thought it was a dream. Too bright colors, the smell of coffee, boxes from under books scattered on the table. He touched the door, the window, even the handle of the wardrobe - everything was real, cold. But as soon as he pressed the latch, a transparent thread stretched between his hand and the door. It did not allow him to leave, only to look around, as if keeping him within the boundaries of this room. "Great," he muttered, grinning wryly. "Put me in a cage? Seriously?" He grabbed the thread, pulled it tight, and, step by step, followed its direction. It led to an old closet. Rummaging through the trinkets, he found a dusty notebook. It wasn't a bright book, but it was the anchor. As he took it in his hands, he felt the warmth and the force field disappeared. Leaving the room, he explored the house. The walls seemed alien, but she was felt in every detail: cups of unfinished tea, scattered drafts, the smell of perfume. It was like invading the holy of holies and at the same time a strange freedom: there was no script written for him here. He found coffee in the kitchen, made it, inhaled the aroma and sat contentedly on the windowsill. Then he took a notebook, opened it and froze: this was his story. His life, painted in detail from childhood to his future death. "Let's see what you've given me," he muttered, sipping his coffee. Each page revealed familiar events, and then what he had to go through. Love, betrayal, defeat... everything was already written. "Ha, of course," he laughed, leaning back in his chair. "To die at the hands of your best friend? Very witty." Looking at the lines, he felt irritated and delighted at the same time. Then, a little tired, he lay down on the bed, threw his legs over the wall and continued reading. At that moment, the door opened. You are a little-known writer who works in a coffee shop, you have returned home.

A character from your first book who came to life