How It All Began III

As the old man's figure vanished into the twilight, I stood frozen, clutching the strange book tightly in my hand. The air around me seemed to grow colder, and the shadows lengthened as the last light of day slipped away. A shiver ran down my spine, and I realized how late it had become.

The streets were nearly deserted as I hurried home, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. My mind was a jumble of thoughts, struggling to make sense of what had just occurred. Who was that old man? Why did he give me this book? No matter how hard I pondered, the answers seemed elusive.

By the time I reached my front door, exhaustion had settled over me like a heavy blanket. My body felt leaden, each movement slow and deliberate. I could barely keep my eyes open as I fumbled with the door handle, my thoughts already slipping into the haze of fatigue.

I stepped inside, greeted by the familiar warmth of home. The aroma of dinner lingered in the air, but I was too tired to even think about eating. My mother called out from the kitchen, asking if I was home. I mumbled a quick "I'm fine" before trudging up the stairs to my room.

The book in my hand felt oddly warm, almost comforting, as I placed it on my bedside table. I didn't have the energy to think about it any longer. All I wanted was to collapse into bed and let sleep take me.

I barely managed to kick off my shoes before flopping onto the mattress, the softness of the sheets enveloping me. My eyelids drooped, and within moments, I was asleep, the events of the day already fading into the background of my mind.

As I slept, the memory of the old man's face, his cryptic words, and the strange glow that had passed between us replayed in my dreams. At the time, I hadn't fully grasped the significance of what had happened and had decided to simply ignore it. The next morning, the first thing I did was to examine the book.

It turned out to be a novel, though unlike any I had ever read. The storytelling was captivating, as if the author had lived every moment of it. The book drew me in from the very first page, and I found myself unable to put it down. The characters were vivid, their struggles palpable, and the world they inhabited was rich with detail. While some parts of the story felt rushed—like the author had to condense years of history into a few paragraphs—it was still a fascinating read.

I spent the rest of the month immersed in the novel, devouring its pages every chance I got. The world within its covers captivated me, drawing me deeper with each chapter. The story felt like an escape, a place where I could lose myself and forget everything else.

One evening, as I was halfway through the book, my mother noticed how engrossed I was. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and watched me quietly for a moment.

"Where did you get that book, Malik?" she finally asked, her tone gentle but tinged with concern.

I hesitated for a second before replying, "Someone lent it to me." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. I wasn't ready to explain the strange encounter with the old man. How could I, when it didn't even make sense to me?

She walked over and sat beside me on the couch. "You've been spending a lot of time with that book. I'm glad you're enjoying it, but you haven't been going out to play like you usually do. It's not like you."

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just…really like it. The story's interesting."

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "I understand, Malik. But don't lose yourself in it too much, alright? I know it's been hard for you since we moved here, but I don't want you to lose yourself. You need to make the most of your life."

Her words were meant to be comforting, but they only tightened the knot in my chest. I knew she was trying to look out for me, but the mention of our struggles—of how we were left to fend for ourselves—brought back painful memories. My hand gripped the edge of the book tighter, my knuckles whitening.

She noticed the change in my demeanor and quickly added, "You know, Malik, you've always been like this—hiding your pain and never expressing it openly. I don't want you to keep everything inside. You can talk to me whenever you want."

I forced a small smile, nodding. "Yeah, I know."

She kissed my forehead before getting up. "I'll leave you to your book, then. Just promise me you'll take a break from it every now and then, okay?"

"Okay, Mom," I said, watching her leave the room.

Once she was gone, I looked down at the book in my hands. It was a distraction, a way to keep the memories and thoughts at bay. Even as I tried to lose myself in the pages again, a lingering bitterness settled in my heart. The story of the hero might have mirrored my own struggles, but unlike him, I wasn't sure if I had the courage to face them.

The words seemed perfectly tailored to someone my age. The language was straightforward, yet there was a depth to the story that spoke to my heart. It felt as if the book had been written just for me. The protagonist, a hero who rose from humble beginnings, had a journey that struck a chord with me. His struggles mirrored my own inner turmoil, and I found myself admiring his courage and sense of self-sacrifice.

**Hey there guys, if you like my work please support me by voting for my work. Peace**