It was clocking night and many had sat on the tavern’s balcony around the world. To drink. To forget. To be in solitude in the company of strangers. It was a time for laughter, for idle talk, for dreamers that unraveled their ideas under the influence of cheap drink. And yet, like any respectable balcony, there was one place — a darker, quieter corner — where only those burdened with unanswerable questions, or too conscious of their own dilemmas, found themselves. Not for the comfort, but necessity. There, even the old innkeeper, whose hands had poured a thousand cups for a thousand bespoke ideas, rarely cast his gaze.

  In that corner sat a man, half-consumed by a flickering dance of shadow and his hair, gazing at a bottle of wine cradled in his hand like some loose companion, watching the dim candlelight trembling upon the green-glass surface, breaking into a spectral reflection flashing on the blood-red liquid. His iris, small and unfocused, wavered between reality and the dark illusions he conjured in his mind, as if staring at himself while tracing the rim of the bottle with a hesitant finger.

  His eyes, vivid green orbs that seemed to pierce through the gloom with the restless glint between lucidity and madness. To others, sharp, calculating, perhaps even cruel. But to himself, there were merely two treacherous pools in which his own soul wavered — two betrayers revealing too much and nothing at all.

  He poured the wine into a cup. Slowly. Methodically. As in the act lay some moral principle, and yet, as soon as the cup almost failed to contain it. He lifted the bottle and drank straight from it. A paradox? But then again, wasn’t he himself trapped in a path whose roads were an embodiment of contradictions? He was bound by ideals, yet drawn to his own ruin. A seeker of truth who laughed at himself at its absence.

  He paused to listen. The wind outside rattled the door, shrill and insistent, like it was demanding to be heard. The hearth crackled, indifferent to the concerns. Somewhere, a chair scraped against the floor, and the innkeeper — used to the sight of faces drowning in their thoughts — wiped a glass with the slow patience of one who knew that no soul under his roof, no matter how burdened, would ever escape the inevitable business of thirst.

  A smirk across his lips, but it was a bitter thing, more akin to a grimace. He ran a damp hand through his jet-black hair — neat despite the rain that had soaked his clock in the muddy roads his boot tasted — before letting his fingers fall, almost unconsciously, upon the hilt of his sword. The blade, catching the orange ember in the candle, reflected his image back at him. He gasped. He recognized it but found it strangely foreign. He frowned at himself, as though perplexed by the very fact of his own existence. Was he, himself?

  His fingers drummed against the wooden rail, tracing the deep grooves and scratches left by the countless souls before him, that sat in there. Marks of pleasures or pain, of lives that had burned brightly for a moment, only to flicker out in the next second. And he, too, thought it was merely another scratch tonight.

  He took another sip, letting the cheap wine coat his throat. It was bitter. Or perhaps he had simply acquired the taste of bitterness, so accustomed was he to swallowing it. There had been sweeter wines once, finer drinks on finer tables. But the one tonight settled on his tongue like an old regret, reluctant to leave. It was sharp at first, like a rusted dagger drawn too quickly. There was not velvet smoothness, no deep warmth, instead, it was thin, almost watery, as if it had been diluted too many times.

  And yet, wasn’t that fitting? A fine wine was for men still enchanted by illusions, men who could still afford to close their eyes and pretend that pleasure was lasting for a fleeting second. But this wine belonged to those who had ceased to pretend, who had made peace with the acrid, the fruitless labor, the unrefined.

  He wondered. Was it really his choices that led him here, or was it all destiny? Was he merely a fool sipping the consequences of his own actions, or was he bound to a fate that had been sealed long before he ever had the chance to choose? He knew his past, his present, and the blurred lines of his future. Nothing in the world could surprise him anymore, yet he felt a deep sorrow for even trying to be.

  Reclining slightly in his seat, he signaled to a young maiden at the opposite side of the tavern. She nodded at him, adjusting her violin on her shoulder, her curly brown hair dancing, matching the red dress and red lips. She smiled at him, then he closed his eyes, waiting.

  The first note. Slow, deliberate, heavy as a drop of molten honey. It stretched into the air, trembling before it dissolved into silence, followed in the next breath, richer, darker. He felt it in fingertips, in the hollow between thought and impulse. The drawn-out lament of the strings slithered into cracks of his mind, caressing in-between the gaps like a lover whispering old wounds back to life. A sigh escaped him, barely there, as if he failed to contain himself.

  The melody deepened. The bow carved each note with surgical precision, and for a moment, he imagined it was his own flesh being split apart, each stroke peeling away another layer of whatever fragile coherence remained in him. The tavern had fallen into reverence. Even the wind outside, always rattling, always demanding entry, seemed to calm.

  His grip on the bottle tightened. The song turned sharper. The notes climbing in jagged succession like nails scraping against glass. His pulse quickened. There was something violent in it, something that clawed at his insides. It was no longer the music, the wine, or the shadows. A flicker of madness sparked in his eyes. Broken glass. He should have bled, but he did not. The world refused to punish in properly.

  The floorboards creaked. The music swelled, and in its depths, he felt two selves warring within him. One, an ocean of fury, churning, violent, ready to rise, to claim, and to break free in the way only destruction allowed. The other, a fragile vessel, adrift on the storm, desperately clinging to the illusion of control. Which was he? The storm or the ship? Or the wreckage left behind?

  He stared at the fragments of his reflection in the broken glass, at the cold sheen of his sword. There he was, shattered and multiplied, a thousand versions of himself staring back in mockery. He found pleasure in it. Yes — there was beauty in fragmentation, in chaos, in the exquisite disorder of things falling apart.

  How foolish were those who craved order, to seek meaning in neat lines and steady paths. They feared ruin, but ruin was the only truth. To be broken was to be honest. The violin turned frantic, as if time itself had grown impatient. The notes lashed at him, each one pressing into his skull like the tightening of fate’s grip. Warning? Recognition? It no longer mattered.

  Without thought, he stood. His blood thrummed in synchrony with the strings. The song pulled at him, and he let himself be dragged. His arms outstretched as if to embrace it, as if surrendering to something greater than himself. The room spun; reality blurred at the edges, unraveling like thread caught on a blade.

  The climax. His feet traced invisible lines on the wooden floor, a dance dictated by forces beyond his comprehension. Each stroke of the bow cut through him, through the years, through the noise of the world. A strange smile bloomed on his lips. The lullabies of his childhood wove themselves into the tune, distorting, merging. He swayed with it, laughing, hearing screams where there were none, feeling resistance against his limbs though nothing held him back. And yet, he did not resist.

  The music soared one final time, a cry of love and sorrow and defiance, then fell into a whisper, a dying breath echoing in the quiet. He stood still. The tavern exhaled. The moment passed.

  He opened his eyes to stare at the innkeeper. A tremor had stilled the old man’s hands, the cloth slipping from his grasp as though his fingers had forgotten the art of holding. And in the old man’s eyes, there it was, the thing he had seen in so many faces before. Fear. But not the kind one feels in the face of a blade. No, it was deeper, something that rotted a man from within.

  He studied the old man’s face twisting. His breath quickening, shallow and uneven. He could see in the innkeeper’s eyes a knot of confusion tightening in troubled breaths, the light playing tricks on his face, and his swollen nose as the wind became fierce, relentless, knocking at the door, and the creaking of burning wood as if the tavern itself was set aflame.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The old man inhaled, and in that breath, he caught it. The scent of fate, cold and raw, wrapping around the innkeeper’s hearth like iron chains plunged into a frozen sea. He watched as the old man’s gaze flickered, searching — anywhere but him. But how foolish. There was no escape from green eyes like his.

  The man traced the journey of the innkeeper’s pupils and watched them shrink and tremble. The iris quivered, betraying the desperate calculations behind them. He saw a man thinking of flight but knowing his feet would fail him. A man thinking of words but knowing his voice had abandoned him. And beneath the skin, the blood moved sluggishly, serpentine and slow, thick with dread, crawling like something half-dead.

  He let his right hand fall to his sword. The silver blade, now anointed in the room’s half-light, caught the glow of the lanterns, but it was not silver at all. It was dark, red-stained, and gleaming in sickly hues. For a moment, he thought he could hear it whispering. Or perhaps it was the innkeeper’s mice voice bleeding into the air. Wine? No.

  No wine could account for the way the walls seemed to press inward, the way time itself had slowed to a creeping, agonizing crawl. Then he saw the innkeeper's realization. The face drained of all warmth. The mouth parted slightly, lips trembling as if it wished to form words. A pulse flickered at the throat, visible, desperate. The teeth met in an unconscious clench, grinding against one another. A single tear broke free, trailing down his cheek, softening the bristles of his unshaven beard.

  He smiled. He knew what it was. It was not a sob, nor a plea. It was simply the old man’s body acknowledging what the mind could not yet process: that something had already been lost. Finally, the man broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly, yet tinged with an unsettling charm.

  "Ah, the irony of beauty, don’t you think? When life seems to whisper that the struggle has ceased."

  The innkeeper flinched, the words striking him like the first cold drop of rain before a storm. He nodded, mute, his throat too dry to betray him further.

  The man smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only that sharp, predatory glint suggested he saw more than he should, that he understood more than one should ever dare to. The kind of gaze that did not merely look but devoured.

  "It seems as though we have written on the walls," he murmured, voice curling like smoke. "One's birth is a game of chance. Should fortune smile, prosperity follows. If not, the ghouls devour your flesh, a blight upon your existence.”

  "You grow old, weaving bonds, tasting treachery, savoring affection, and enduring the sting of unrequited love. You toil, promising yourself and the stars above that greatness will be yours."

  He chuckled softly. “And you did it.”

  The innkeeper twitched.

  "You walked the narrow roads of false riches and illusory choices. Your labor bore results, giving the illusion that life's puzzle was finally coming together.”

  A cruel grin. "You look in the mirror each morning, a soft smile gracing your lips as you notice your healthier skin. You feel stronger than ever. The woman in your bed walks over for a kiss.” A pause. The grin widened. "It felt like a dream, one you vowed to make real."

  A deep sigh, feigned sorrow. "But once your mirror becomes tainted... everything changes."

  The innkeeper trembled, his eyes wide, unblinking, pupils swallowed by the void of horror. His chair, sturdy and new, creaked under the weight of his convulsing body.

  His hands failed him. Glass tumbled, shattering against the wooden floor in jagged echoes, shards scattering. A bottle tipped, its contents spilling in slow, crimson rivers, mingling with the stale scent of beer and sweat.

  The man only watched.

  "You always said that you were going to make it." He shook his head. "Now it's evident to all. This game spares none, only leaving behind casualties and the servitude of a hollow smile.”

  His tone was light, almost amused. "Do you believe that if I leave things as they are here, you will be the key to the whole plan?"

  The innkeeper made no reply, only shook, pale as death perched upon his shoulder. The man leaned in, his breath brushing against the old man’s ear. "I believe in you, sir," he murmured. "Is it too late to reveal? Some truths you may uncover later, but beware, they can consume your life, scorching all bridges and leaving no refuge.”

  The man straightened, picking up his sword, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. He inhaled deeply, as though tasting the weight of fate itself.

  "From all those times, I didn’t walk away when I knew it was my time to go. From all the attempts that made others think me a madman," his voice darkened, his eyes burning with something unspeakable, "I didn’t back away a single time."

  He spat on the floor.

  "I made mistakes. You think I don’t care? But you, the others, and the heavens don’t realize what this means to me. So, I’ll give myself one more chance to make it right.”

  And with that, he turned. The maiden followed, silent as a wraith, her violin dangling like an omen in her grasp. At the threshold, he hesitated, one last thought lingering on his lips.

  "Is it madness to challenge destiny?" He did not wait for an answer. "If it is, then so be it; label me the fool; I don’t care."

  Each step he took sent tremors through the floor. The room seemed to warp around him, shuddering with something unspeakable, a slow unraveling of reality’s delicate seams. It was as if the world had been drawn too tightly, like old parchment cracking under the strain of unseen hands pulling, pulling, until it could hold no longer.

  The air thickened around the innkeeper. It seeped into the lungs, clinging to the skin like damp cloth, wrapping itself around the ribs and squeezing, relentless and cruel.

  Above them, the ceiling groaned — a deep, wretched sound. A single splinter fell, light as dust. Then another. Then the great beams themselves cracked, their wooden bones snapping under the weight of something nameless. Fragments rained down like brittle autumn leaves caught in a death-dance with the wind.

  The walls did not crumble so much as they folded inward, as if the space itself had grown weary of existing. The wood, once sturdy, once warm with the glow of a thousand whispered conversations, now curled and split like paper cut apart by an unseen razor. It was slow, methodical, intimate.

  Outside, the storm raged. The rain struck in sharp, hammering blows, each drop a nail driven into the remnants of what had once been shelter. The wind roared, a great beast gnashing its invisible teeth, tearing at the tavern’s ragged remains. It whistled through the cracks in the walls, filling the space with a ghostly, keening wail.

  From tavern to a ruin. The tables lay on their sides, broken-backed, their legs twisted in unnatural angles. Chairs had been reduced to kindling, their splinters lost among the wreckage. The floor, once sturdy beneath countless tired feet, was fractured, an uneven battlefield littered with glass, wood, and the spilled remnants of the past.

  The innkeeper knuckles had turned white against the wood, gripping the arms of the balcony as if it were the last anchor to reality, the last thread keeping him from unraveling with the rest of the world. His body trembled. His eyes, hollow and wide, had lost their luster, as if the light had been drained from them, as if they no longer saw but only reflected the inevitability of ruin.

  At the threshold, the man stopped. He turned back, his green eyes gleaming, eerie and inescapable, twin lanterns in the dying glow of the collapsing tavern. The maiden stood beside him, her violin silent now, its strings still resonating with the last echoes of their song. The bow hung limp in her fingers, as if exhausted from conjuring the night’s madness.

  The man smiled. "It’s foolish to believe in a fool," he murmured, his voice dipping just above a whisper.

  The innkeeper’s heart clenched at the sound — a final, crushing weight upon his soul, pressing him down, down, until there was nothing left of him but silence.

  The man tilted his head slightly, watching. "But isn’t it even more foolish," he continued, "to take a fool’s words seriously?"

  The last splinter fell. The last ember flickered.

  And then, nothing.