Chapter 1: Whispers at Twilight

Note: This is a completely new genre for me and I wanted to write in a way that makes people contemplate their own life. I hope this shows in the first chapter, however, please comment with any advice as I did enjoy writing like this and I would like to fully refine the first book draft.

Story Blurb: Embark on an extraordinary journey through life's profound questions within "In Deaths Despair," a philosophical fiction novel that explores the delicate balance between life and death. Follow Mors Wellington, a quiet and introspective man shaped by personal tragedies, as he finds solace in routine and simplicity amidst the chaos of existence. But when he encounters Eli, an enigmatic figure embodying Death itself, Mors's world is forever changed.

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Mors Wellington steps out of the shadow that clings to the office building's bland facade. The door shuts behind him with a thud, severing him from the suffering torture of flickering fluorescent lights and hushed voices. His heels click against the pavement—a solitary beat that matches his breathing as he walks towards the lake.

The evening air is still and the sound of people shuffling through the streets frustrates Mors as they try and walk faster than usual to get home but still do what they can to maintain a false professionalism. Mors walks, his lean figure cutting a solitary silhouette against the softening glow of the evening. Dark, wavy hair falls briefly over his eyes before he brushes them away, a reflexive gesture, almost nonchalant revealing nothing of the turmoil hidden beneath.

Deep-set eyes with circles as dark as the coming night, fixate on the path unwinding before him, a narrow trail of fixed certainty amid the fog of his thoughts. Each flash of memory is a pool of sorrow, reflections of a past that claws at his present, inviting spectres to dance in his periphery. He blinks them away, those ghostly tendrils, but they linger, insistent.

There are very few people this far away from the main streets. Their faces mere smudges in his vision. He does not seek their eyes, nor do they pry into his solitude. It is an unspoken pact among the lost, broken husks of humanity that wander the parks and forest when the safety of the sunlight is retreating.

The rhythmic cadence of his footsteps becomes a metronome for his memories, each step a note in the dirge of days gone by. Mors moves through the world like a wraith, tethered to life by the thinnest of threads, each fray a whisper of despair.

As the lake draws near, so too does the veil of evening, draping the world in hues of melancholy. The path ahead promises a familiar sanctuary, a place where he can commune with the stillness of his soul, and perhaps, find solace in its depths.

As he nears the water's edge, his pace slows to a halt next to an old, weathered bench. The lake, a darkened mirror, whispers secrets in ripples that kiss the shore. Here, at the cusp of day and night, he reaches into the worn satchel slung across his shoulder. He retrieves a loaf, hands methodical, each tear of bread a litany against disorder. This small act, a private ritual, provides a moment of control that brings a short sense of relief from his busy, dictated lifestyle.

He sits down on the bench—his bench, forever uncontested, his oldest and most consistent friend.

His fingers run across the weathered surface, the wood yielding to his weight with gentle creaks that sing of age and endurance. It cradles him, this staunch confidant, bearing the burden of his presence as it has countless others before him. In its embrace, he finds a momentary reprieve from the persistent ache of existence, the bench a steadfast sentry in a world adrift.

His hand moves with grace, bread pieces falling from his fingers to dance upon the water's surface. They are like pale moths in the twilight, fluttering down to be claimed by the lake's inhabitants. The ducks converge, their quacks soft echoes that ripple through the air.

He watches them, these simple creatures of habit, and wonders at their contentment. Their soft feathers brush against one another as they jostle for morsels. They do not know turmoil, not as Mors knows it—his mind a labyrinth haunted by shadows that flutter just as quietly as the bread upon the water.

The leaves of ancient oaks murmur above in the wind combined with the water to sound like serene symphony that stands in stark contrast to the cacophony within his soul. Yet, his outside façade does not faulter, for he will not be the one to taint such a peaceful moment.

Around him, the world exudes a tranquillity that feels almost otherworldly, as if the lake and its surroundings belong to a realm untouched by human sorrow.

His hand pauses mid-air, a fragment of bread pinched between his fingers. The ducks glide closer, expectant, but he is motionless, eyes distant. Within their depths, a storm brews—a tempest of memories that crash against the shores of his consciousness, each wave an echo of loss and despair.

The lake before him shimmers in dimming light, a canvas upon which the tragedies of his life are painted. He watches as the water ripples, disturbed by the ducks' eager to feed, and his mind drifts to days long past, where laughter was abundant and sorrow a mere speck on the horizon.

Emily. Her name surfaces like a buoy in tumultuous waters. In his mind, her image flickers—always radiant, always reaching out to dispel the darkness that seeks to envelop him. He recalls her smile, the way it could cut through the bleakness of any desolate day. But now, that light feels worlds away.

Her voice whispers in his thoughts, tender, a soft blanket like the silence that enfolds him. She had been his shield against the sorrow of their shared history, her optimism a beacon that burned brightly even when hope seemed extinguished. Emily’s spirit, fierce and unwavering, sparks within him a fleeting warmth before the cold reality of her absence wraps around him once more.

As the last vestiges of daylight bleed from the sky, Mors clings to the memory of her protectiveness, the only solace in his self-imposed exile. Yet the comfort is fleeting, slipping through his fingers like the sands of time, leaving him grappling with the solitude that is now his only constant companion.

Shifting, the bench groaning beneath him—a weary echo in the creeping silence. He inhales deeply, the chill of the air a sharp intrusion against the warmth of his breath. It fills him, tethers him to the now, a fleeting anchor amidst the tempest of his mind.

His hands, once parted the waters with offerings of bread, now lie still upon his lap, heavy as the stones that line the lake's silent bed. The weight of unseen tragedies bows his shoulders, a yoke forged from the iron of bygone despair. This place, this ritual by the water’s edge, is sanctuary and prison both, cradling him in familiar arms even as it chains him.

With each breath, he wrestles with the phantoms of joy and loss, of Emily's warmth—her laughter now just a ghostly refrain amidst the rustle of trees. The bench, her quiet perch, knows well the cadence of his grief; it creaks a mournful lament that only the wind dares to answer.

A chill settles in the air, a physical manifestation of the melancholy that has rooted itself deep within his bones. The last rays of light wane, as if siphoned away by an unseen force, mirroring the steady ebb of hope from his soul.

There is a stillness now, a pause in the world's breath as night asserts its reign. The ducks, once vibrant and full of life, are reduced to ghostly forms gliding across the lake. They move in silence, save for the occasional soft quack that punctuates the quiet.

Mors rises slowly, his movements automated. With a final glance over the waters, now lost to the night's darkness, he searches for a solace that evades his grasp. The ducks, mere silhouettes against the darkened canvas above, seem to bid him farewell, their presence a comfort even as they fade into oblivion.

Turning away, he accepts the closure of another day, the routine drawing to its inevitable end. The bench groans softly as he departs, releasing its hold on him until tomorrow. He leaves behind the tranquil scene, his footfalls a muted echo on the path that leads away from the only comfort he has.

In the waning light, shadows stretch across the path, reaching for Mors like spectral fingers. He moves through them, undeterred, the familiar shroud of introspection draped heavily upon his shoulders. Each step carries him further from his peace, yet the solitude he leaves behind clings to him, a ghostly companion in the encroaching gloom.

The wind stirs, a breath of anticipation that rustles the oak leaves into hushed conversation. They speak of change, their voices low and insistent against the canvas of dusk. Above, the sky darkens to a deeper shade of despair, stars beginning to pierce the twilight with cold, indifferent points of light.

He pauses, the air motionless around him as if time itself holds its breath. There is a weight in this stillness, a silent expectation that something beyond the veil of his current existence stirs, awakening. His heart, a pendulum caught between dread and yearning, beats out a rhythm that resonates with the pulse of the unseen.

Then, he continues. As he fades into the embrace of night, the bench watches, patient and immutable. It knows he will return. And when he does, it will be there to greet him, to cradle his secrets and his sorrows once more.

The End.

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I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of my novel and as I said in the intro, please comment what you thought as I would love to get this as perfect as possible.