The Shape of a Morning

Chapter two: The Shape of a Morning

Caelum woke to the gentle hum of the city outside his window.

For a while, he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling. The early light softened the sharp edges of his room, casting quiet shadows across the floorboards. His body felt heavy—not in a way that meant something was wrong, just… in a way that meant getting up would take effort.

He exhaled through his nose. One thing at a time.

A shift of his arms, a slow stretch of his legs. He flexed his fingers slightly against the blanket, testing himself. Some mornings were worse than others. Some mornings, his limbs felt sluggish, like his body was still trying to remember how to work.

"I wish i could sleep all day." He sighed at the thought of waking up.

Still, he didn't move right away. His eyes drifted toward the desk across the room, where the quill sat untouched.

It was still there, Still real.

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face before finally swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Alright," he muttered to himself, voice rough with sleep. "Up we go."

The floor was cold beneath his feet, but he ignored it as he made his way to the bathroom.

---

The mirror reflected him back in tired silence.

He studied his own face, tilting his head slightly. Dark hair, messy from sleep. Eyes a little sunken, but not unbearably so. His skin was pale, though that had always been the case—he had never been someone who tanned easily. Still, he could see the signs.

The faint hollowness beneath his cheekbones. The way his collarbones stood out a little more than they should. The quiet exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes, no matter how much he rested.

"I don't look that bad," he murmured. He frowned, then sighed. " infact I'm quite handsome if i say so myself."

He turned on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm. The sound filled the small space, grounding him. He splashed his face, rubbing his hands over his skin, as if washing away the remnants of whatever thoughts had clung to him overnight.

The shower helped. The heat loosened the tension in his body, easing the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. He stood under the stream longer than necessary, eyes closed, mind drifting.

The quill.

The leaf, the feather, the key, the box.

His fingers twitched slightly against his sides.

He had made those things.

Brought them into existence with nothing but ink and paper.

'If i could do that…'

His eyes opened, steam curling against the edges of the mirror. He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the air before stepping out.

---

By the time he was in the kitchen, he felt more awake.

The fridge was half-empty, as usual. He wasn't much of a cook, and eating had always felt like a chore more than anything else. But skipping meals never ended well, so he grabbed the easiest thing he could—some bread, a bit of jam, a glass of water.

He sat by the window, watching the city move outside.

The world continued on, unaware of what sat on his desk. Unaware of what it could do.

"Hahuf."

Caelum let out a quiet huff, dragging a hand through his hair. "This is insane," he muttered. "Completely insane."

But it was real.

As he finished his meal, pushed his chair back, and stood. His eyes flicked toward the desk again.

' Now then.Time to test it again.'

---

The quill felt familiar now, balanced perfectly between his fingers.

Caelum sat at his desk, gaze flicking to the objects he had already created. The key, the feather, the leaf, the small wooden box. All of them resting there, existing when they shouldn't.

He exhaled through his nose. "Alright. Let's see what else you can do."

This time, he chose something different.

He pressed the quill to the paper, letting the ink flow.

A small wooden cup. Simple, slightly worn, as if it had been used before. He focused on the tiny details—the faint grain of the wood, the little imperfections that made it feel real.

When he was finished, he leaned back.

And waited.

The ink shimmered.

Then, as if peeling itself from the fabric of reality, the cup lifted from the page.

It landed softly on the desk.

Caelum reached out, hesitating for only a second before picking it up.

It was solid.

Smooth against his palm.

His breath left him in a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Of course it worked," he muttered. "Why wouldn't it?"

He turned the cup over in his hands, inspecting it. It was exactly as he had drawn it.

And then, a thought struck him.He stood, crossing the room to the sink.

Turned on the faucet and Filled the cup.

For a moment, he half-expected the water to fall right through it, for reality to reject what shouldn't exist.

But it didn't. The cup held.

His grip tightened slightly. He brought it to his lips and drank.

The water was cool against his tongue. Real.

Caelum exhaled slowly, setting the cup down on the counter. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

"This....."

His thoughts took a flight.

---

Deciding to take his casual daily walk, caelum strolled out.

The streets were alive with their usual rhythm.

The smell of coffee drifted from a nearby café, mixing with the sharper scents of the city—concrete, metal, the faint trace of last night's rain.

Caelum walked without a destination, hands in his pockets, his mind elsewhere.

The quill had already broken the rules of reality.So what were the limits?

He muttered under his breath as he walked, thinking aloud. "I can make things. Objects. But what about something bigger?"

A key, a feather, a leaf, a box, a cup. Small things. Simple.

What if he didn't stop there?

His fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"A world."

The word slipped out before he fully processed it. As if it were natural.

His steps slowed, He could make a world.

The thought settled deep in his chest, sending a shiver down his spine. A world of his own.

Something untouched by time, by his sickness, by anything outside of his control.

His breath was unsteady now, heart beating a little faster.

A world where nothing faded. A world where he wouldn't have to worry about how much time he had left.

His fingers twitched.

He had always thought of his life as something fragile, something slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tried to hold on.

But what if he didn't have to hold on?

What if he could create something that lasted? A slow, quiet breath left him.

He wasn't sure if it was fear or excitement or something else entirely.

He only knew one thing.

Today, he would draw again.

--------------

------

The apartment door clicked shut behind Caelum with a quiet finality.

He lingered there for a moment, his back against the wood, fingers curling tighter around the paper bag in his arms. Outside, the city buzzed with the restless energy of late afternoon—cars groaned through the streets, voices tangled in conversation, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at something undoubtedly unimportant.

But in here, it was silent and Safe.

"Hah~."

He exhaled slowly and set the bag down on the small table near the window. Then, almost on instinct, he reached for the lock, twisting it into place with a soft click. His hands moved to the curtains next, dragging them shut in one slow pull, cutting off the outside world.

Not that anyone was watching him. Not that anyone ever really had.

Caelum let out a quiet huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he dropped into the chair. His gaze flickered toward the quill resting on the desk—still, quiet, as if waiting, Waiting for him.

But first, he needed a minute.

He leaned back, letting his head tip slightly against the chair's edge. His fingers drummed absently against the wood. He wasn't even sure why he was doing this—locking the doors, closing the windows, shutting everything out like he was hiding something.

Or maybe like he was the thing that needed hiding.

He let out a breath through his nose.

Funny. He'd spent his whole life invisible, yet now, with the quill in his possession, he was acting as if the universe might finally turn its eyes toward him.

'Relax dumbass.' he told himself.

'No one cares, No one ever had.'

His fingers stilled against the table. His lips twisted slightly, humorless.

" Alright, that was dramatic. Even for me."

He knew self-pity wasn't a good look, but some thoughts weren't so easily ignored.

His family had always been good at not looking too closely. At not seeing him.

It wasn't malicious—just effortless.

He had an older sister. Older brother, too. Both brilliant, successful, the kind of people who had their lives wrapped in neat little bows. His parents had poured everything into them, and he had—what? Been there? Existed in the background?

He snorted. More or less.

He still remembered the conversation, the way the words had come out flat, unbothered.

"The doctor said it's serious. A year or two, at best."

A pause. A few sympathetic nods. A murmured, "That's unfortunate."

And then, "So what are you going to do now?"

Not grief. Not worry. Not even denial. Just a question.

Like he'd told them he'd lost a job. Or a set of keys.

Caelum let out a low breath, dragging a hand down his face.

It had been that moment, that exact moment, when he had made his decision.

No more working for a future he wouldn't have. No more trying to fit into a space that had never been meant for him.

His savings weren't much, but they weren't nothing. Enough to live. Enough to exist, however he damn well pleased, for as long as he had left.

And right now, what pleased him most was the impossible artifact sitting on his desk.

Caelum pushed himself forward, resting his elbows on the wood as he reached for the quill.

Time to work.

---

He needed something simple, Something precise.

His gaze flicked over the clutter of his desk, scanning for an object to replicate. His fingers landed on a crumpled dollar bill.

He held it up to the light, studying it.

The texture. The faded ink. The tiny imperfections where the paper had worn thin from use.

Could he recreate this?

His brow furrowed as he ran his thumb over the surface, committing every detail to memory. He had never been much of an artist—his sketches were functional at best, uneven at worst. But he had a feeling this was different.

He pressed the tip of the quill to the paper and began.

---

The lines flowed smoother than they should have.

His hand moved with an ease he shouldn't have had. Every curve, every mark, every intricate detail took shape beneath the quill's tip as if it wanted to be created.

Minutes passed, Maybe even an hour.

When he finally sat back, there it was—a perfect replica.

A dollar bill, crisp and exact, resting on the paper.

His breath caught in his throat as the ink shimmered. And then—It peeled from the page.

Caelum barely had time to react before the bill landed on the desk, light as a whisper.

His fingers twitched.

He reached out, hesitantly, as if the moment would shatter if he moved too quickly.

His thumb brushed the surface.

'It feels... real.'

Paper-thin, slightly rough, the same strange softness that came from too many hands exchanging it.

He turned it over. The back was identical. The ink didn't smudge.

His stomach tightened, by the fact that he could make money.

For a moment, the sheer implications sent a sharp thrill through his ribs. I could be rich. I could—No.

No, this was dangerous. If he started thinking like that, it would spiral fast.

Still—If money was possible, then other essentials were too. His fingers curled around the quill once more.

Bread, Clothes, A few other necessities.

Each drawing came easier than the last.

Almost Too easy.

As he kept drawing his body slowly shook.

The edges of his vision blurred.

His breath hitched, Something inside him pulled.

And then—"bumm"

His upper body landed on the table-top like a nuke, his conciseness drifting into darkness.

---

When Caelum woke, the light outside had changed. It was Evening.

His limbs were heavy. His head pounded, a dull ache spreading behind his eyes.

Looking around he couldn't help but feel confused.

"Wha-what... had just happened?"

He sat up slowly, wincing as his body protested. His gaze flickered toward the desk.

The quill rested there, undisturbed. The objects he had drawn remained solid.

His stomach twisted.

He swallowed, pressing a hand to his temple as he thought back.

The exhaustion. The sudden blackout.

The quill had taken something from him.

Not energy, not in the way a long day might drain a person. Something deeper.

His willpower. The Mental energy that was the human consciousness.

His breath left him in a quiet, bitter laugh. "Of course. Of course it wouldn't be that easy."

He rubbed his temples, shaking his head as he slowly stood. His muscles still felt leaden, but he could move. That was enough.

All he could think of right now was a shower.

"And ofcourse." Rubbing his stomach, " a proper dinner."

After a long time he felt urge to eat.

---

By the time he sat back at the table, a plate of food in front of him, his mind had settled.

The quill had power, Power always had a price.

And now, he knew what it was.

His fingers drummed idly against the wood as he stared at the quill's feathered edge.

Exhaustion or not, he wasn't done.

Not by a long shot, He'd push further and See what else it could do.

But not yet, His lips curled slightly.

"after some goodnight rest," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what you're really capable of tomorrow."