The Unwanted Wake-Up Call

Chapter four: The Unwanted Wake-Up Call

Ding-dong.

Caelum groaned.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

His fingers twitched, gripping the blanket as if sheer willpower alone could silence the assault on his doorbell.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

"Who the hell is trying to summon me like a demon?" he muttered, voice muffled against his pillow. His brain felt fogged with sleep, his limbs sluggish, but the relentless ringing was impossible to ignore.

Whoever was at the door had the patience of a god—or the persistence of a debt collector.

Finally, with a suffering sigh, Caelum rolled over and forced himself up. He snatched his toothbrush from the holder, shoved it into his mouth, and shuffled toward the door in a half-conscious daze.

The cold floor against his feet reminded him that he was still in his sleepwear—a loose, slightly oversized shirt and sweatpants that had seen better days. Not exactly a presentable look, but whoever had decided to disrupt his sleep deserved whatever sight greeted them.

Yawning, he scratched his stomach lazily and pulled the door open.

Immediately, his eyes burned.

The sunlight hit him like a divine punishment.

He squinted hard, momentarily disoriented, before a silhouette took shape against the glare. A girl.

Young, maybe twenty, a bit too much plump for her age, standing with a polite expression that made it painfully obvious she had been awake for hours. Her black hair, streaked with a faint green line, was neatly styled, and she wore a black-and-white dress that gave her an oddly formal.look for someone ringing random doorbells.

Caelum stared at her with dead eyes, toothbrush still in his mouth.

She smiled. "Good morning!"

He made no effort to return the greeting. Instead, he slowly lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes before grunting, "Who are you, and who are you looking for?"

His voice came out half-muffled by the toothbrush, but the girl seemed unbothered.

"My name is Iris," she said, her tone light and pleasant. "I live in the only house near the park."

Caelum frowned, mentally picturing the area. A two-story house stood near the park's entrance—the one he often passed by but never really paid attention to.

'So that's where she crawled out from.'

Iris clasped her hands together. "I'm here on behalf of a community effort. We're raising donations for a young boy in our neighborhood who was recently diagnosed with a rare illness. We've started a fund to support his treatment, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in contributing."

Caelum blinked at her. Then, slowly, he chewed on the handle of his toothbrush.

His first instinct was to say, I don't even know this kid. His second was to laugh because, out of all the doors she could have knocked on, she had somehow picked his—the guy who was already on a first-name basis with death.

The irony was almost impressive.

He sighed through his nose, taking a step back as if about to close the door. "Yeah, not interested." Before he could shut it fully, a small hand caught the edge of the door.

Caelum raised a brow.

Iris held firm, her expression unwavering. "Even a single dollar would help," she said, eyes filled with the determined light of someone who didn't take 'no' for an answer. "It's to save the life of an innocent child."

Caelum stared at her for a long moment.

Then, he exhaled heavily through his nose, toothbrush still hanging from his mouth. "Fine. Wait here."

Iris smiled brightly. "Thank you!"

He turned back inside, shaking his head. This was a mistake, A huge mistake.

If he gave her money now, she'd probably come back again later, ringing his doorbell at ungodly hours like some kind of charity ghost. Still, it was just a dollar. A small price to pay for getting her to leave.

He grabbed his wallet, pulled out a single bill, and returned to the door, holding it out.

Iris accepted it with both hands, bowing slightly in gratitude. "Thank you so much!"

As she did, Caelum caught himself looking away.

Not because he was embarrassed, but because, from this angle, her plump almost pinkish upper chest was visible.

His mind flatly supplied, 'She's huge! Way to huge.'

He cleared his throat and took a half-step back. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't make this a habit."

Iris giggled. "I'll try my best."

She tucked the bill into a small envelope before looking up at him again. "Oh! Before I go, I wanted to invite you to a small gathering we're holding this evening."

Caelum's face remained blank. "What gathering?"

"A discussion about how we can continue supporting the child's treatment," Iris explained. "We're planning ways to raise more funds and provide assistance. If you're interested, you're more than welcome to join us!"

Caelum's expression didn't change. "Sure," he said flatly.

But internally. 'Yeah, not a chance in hell.'

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Caelum shut the door with a quiet click and let out a long breath.

His ears were still ringing from the relentless doorbell assault, and his brain—previously clouded by sleep—was now uncomfortably awake.

Dragging a hand through his messy hair, he shuffled back toward the bathroom, toothbrush still hanging from the corner of his mouth like a cigarette. As he leaned over the sink and resumed brushing, his mind replayed the last few minutes.

The Iris girl and her donation request. Her bright, unshakable smile.

And the moment she had bowed—

His hand momentarily froze before he shook his head vigorously. 'Nope. Not going there.' caelum thought as he looked down, his penies a bit erect.

'That was too much stimulation for this early in the morning for me.'

Scrubbing the last remnants of sleep from his face, he rinsed his mouth, wiped himself down with a towel, and stepped back into the apartment. The scent of his home greeted him—neutral, a mix of faint laundry detergent and the slightly stale air of a place lived in but rarely visited by guests.

His stomach growled.

"Ah Right, Food."

He wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard, scanning the shelves. His hand landed on a bag of bread, and after a second of consideration, he grabbed a can of beans from the lower shelf.

"Guess I'll make an omelet," he muttered to himself, setting the ingredients on the counter. "Eggs, beans, bread. Simple. Efficient. Slightly less depressing than eating instant noodles again."

As he cracked the eggs into a bowl, his mind drifted. Or rather, it returned to the quill. Like It always did.

Even when he wasn't actively using it, the weight of its existence sat in the back of his head like an itch he couldn't ignore.

He had spent the last few weeks pushing its boundaries, testing how far it could go. But no matter what he created—be it objects or living creatures—the process remained the same. It was all based on definition.

He understood that the quill didn't just conjure things from thin air. It built them according to how he understood them.

If he defined a chair as wood, nails, and a solid surface, that's what the quill produced. If he defined bread as butter, well… he got an abomination that looked like bread but collapsed into greasy disappointment the moment he touched it.

So the real question was—

"Can I make something that doesn't exist with my current willpower?"

He stopped whisking the eggs, staring at the mixture as if it might answer him. Could the quill seriously invent?

So far, everything he had created had a reference—an original blueprint that already existed in the real world. Even the temporary creatures he had drawn were just replicas of living things.

His stomach twisted slightly at the thoughts that were starting to run wild again.

He knew what would happen if he tried. The same thing that always happened when he pushed too far—he'd black out.

"Still…" His fingers twitched slightly against the whisk. The idea was very tempting.

'If I could create something entirely new, that would mean...'

The omelet hissed softly as he poured it into the pan, the scent of sizzling eggs filling the kitchen. He watched it cook, flipping the edges with practiced ease.

No point in thinking too hard on an empty stomach.

First, he'd eat, Then a shower.

And then, He'd experiment with the quill for the entier day.

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After completing this breakfast, Caelum set his fork down with a quiet clink, exhaling as he leaned back in his chair.

The meal had been simple, but it did the job—kept his body running, kept the gnawing emptiness in his stomach at bay. He didn't have the best eating habits, but he figured as long as he wasn't keeling over from malnutrition, he was doing alright.

He stood, stretching his arms over his head before gathering his plate and heading toward the sink. The water ran warm as he scrubbed the dishes clean, the rhythmic motion almost meditative. It gave him time to let his thoughts settle, to prepare himself for what came next.

Because he already knew what he was going to do today.

It was always the quill.

After drying his hands, he made his way back to his room, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind him.

His space was small but comfortable—dim lighting, a desk cluttered with papers, ink stains marking the wood like scars of past experiments. The quill sat in its usual place, untouched but ever-present, always waiting for him.

Caelum sighed, dropping into his chair. He took a breather, rubbing the back of his neck, before letting his gaze settle on the quill.

Without thinking, he reached for it, the smooth wood fitting easily into his grip. He grabbed a blank book from the corner of his desk, flipping it open to crisp, untouched pages.

The emptiness of the paper felt vast.

Like an open door for him to put anything into. A open canvas for his imagination.

"Alright, something big this time."

His willpower has grown quite a bit over the course of days of experiments, and this time he wanted to push everything to his limits to make something way complex than ever before.

As his thoughts and mind wandered out for inspiration a old memory surfaced.

School. He hadn't thought about it in years, but the memory surfaced anyway, uninvited.

Back then, he had been alone. Not entirely—there had been one person.

His only companion of childhood.

She wasn't particularly remarkable, nor was she the center of attention. Like him, she existed on the outskirts, unnoticed by most, acknowledged by few. They had gravitated toward each other naturally, two lonely people finding companionship in the absence of everyone else.

She had been his only friend. And, as far as he knew, he had been hers.

They had spent their days in quiet company—eating lunch together, walking home in near silence, sharing books and idle conversations that never quite dipped into anything too personal.

And then school ended and Life moved forward.

And she faded into the past, just like everything else. He barely remembered her face now.

---

Graduation had been a turning point.

Not in a triumphant, new-beginning kind of way. More like a slow unraveling.

His family had never been particularly affectionate, but after school, the shift had been noticeable. At first, it was subtle—missed dinners, shorter conversations, a growing disinterest in what he was doing with his life.

Then, it became nothing at all. They stopped asking questions. Stopped acknowledging his existence beyond the bare minimum.

It wasn't outright cruelty. It was just absence. And when he was diagnosed, their reaction had been…

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"That's unfortunate."

That was all they had said and That was all they needed to say.

He had taken the hint so He had left.

---

Caelum blinked, the weight of his thoughts pressing into his chest like a heavy stone.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Damn it," he muttered. "Got distracted."

This wasn't what he sat down for, He wasn't here to wallow in old memories.

He was here to create, his grip tightened on the quill, refocusing.

This time, he wouldn't just draw an object. He would draw a place. Something tied to those memories, but not completely swallowed by them.

His middle school classroom.

His lips pressed together. He could still remember it—the arrangement of the desks, the way the afternoon sunlight hit the windows, the faint scratches on the chalkboard.

He pressed the nib of the quill to the page.

And he began to draw.

The tip of the quill hovered just above the paper.

Caelum's fingers were steady, his grip firm but not tense. The white pages of the book stared back at him, vast and empty, a blank slate waiting to be filled.

"Haa~" He exhaled slowly.

He could still remember the classroom—how the old wooden desks were arranged in neat rows, some carved with the stray marks of bored students. The chalkboard at the front, always covered in faint remnants of past lessons. The tall windows that stretched along one wall, their glass slightly dusty, filtering the golden glow of the setting sun.

It had always been his favorite time of day.

When the sun dipped low, painting the classroom in warm, amber light, making everything feel softer. Less harsh and Less lonely.

The quill touched the page, Ink flowed.

The first lines took shape—outlines of desks, the long stretch of the board, the old, worn-out books stacked haphazardly on the teacher's desk. Each stroke felt natural, as if his hands already knew what to do before his mind caught up.

As the image came to life, something else stirred within him it was the Familiar sensation of being pulled.

"As Expected."

The steady drain of his willpower, sinking into the ink, binding itself to the lines he created. It wasn't just normal exhaustion.

The feeling had grown more distinct over time. The more complex his drawings, the more he was poured into them. This was different from sketching an object or a small creature. A classroom was a place—a whole environment, filled with history, with presence. And it demanded more of him.

His breath came a little shorter, His vision felt just a bit dimmer at the edges. Still, he kept going.

His hand moved on its own, detailing the wooden textures, the light streaming through the window, the way the floor reflected the soft orange hues of the dying sun.

The room was almost complete.

And yet, he hesitated, His eyes flickered toward the empty seats, His chest tightened.

He had no trouble drawing the desks, the light, the little details that made the classroom feel real. But he couldn't bring himself to draw her.

Aruey.

His childhood friend. The only person who had sat beside him in that room, the only one who had made the classroom feel less empty.

His fingers twitched. The quill remained poised and waiting for his movements.

But he didn't move.

For a long time, he sat there, staring at the unfinished page, feeling the slow drain of his willpower even as his hand refused to continue.

Then, with a sharp breath, he pulled back.

The quill lifted from the paper with the connection severed.

His heart pounded in his ears and The drawing remained incomplete.

" Lets keep it at that." He just wanted to draw the classroom anyways. "And im almost out of willpower."