The Ink of Fate

The sun hung low over the crooked trail that wound up the side of Mount Aster, its orange glow spilling over the sharp rocks and whispering pines. On a small ledge halfway up stood a wooden stall, barely held together by rusted nails and hope.

That stall belonged to Elior, a 23-year-old seller known for his quiet charm and tired eyes. He sold odd things—maps no one used, old trinkets from travelers, watches that didn’t tick but looked beautiful anyway. He wasn’t rich, but he liked the silence of the mountain more than the noise of cities.

Every evening, mist rolled in like smoke, and Elior would light his small lamp, waiting for travelers who almost never came.

Until one day, someone did.

The Visitor

It was nearly dusk when Elior heard footsteps—soft, deliberate, too light for a hiker. A young man appeared through the mist, around the same age as Elior, wearing a long gray coat and a satchel slung across his shoulder. His hair was dark and damp from fog, and his eyes had that restless gleam of someone who never truly slept.

“Are you selling anything… interesting?” the stranger asked with a half-smile.

Elior gestured at his small collection. “Maps, trinkets, some pens, if you write.”

The stranger’s gaze landed on a silver pen, dull with age but carved with delicate patterns. “That one,” he said.

Elior picked it up. “It’s just a pen. Doesn’t write smoothly, but the design’s nice.”

The stranger smiled faintly. “I’ll take it.”

He handed Elior a crumpled note—far more than the pen was worth. Elior tried to give the extra back, but the man shook his head.

“Keep it. Some things are worth more than they seem.”

He turned to leave. Before the mist swallowed him, he added softly, “You should be careful what you sell.”

Elior frowned. “What do you mean?”

But the man was already gone.

Strange News

The next morning, Elior walked to the nearby village to restock supplies. At the tea stall, a group of locals whispered anxiously.

“Did you hear about the writer?” one said. “The one who fell into the river last night?”

“He didn’t fall,” another replied. “They say he… jumped. Left pages behind. Wrote about seeing things before they happened.”

Elior froze, the silver pen flashing in his mind.

“What was his name?” he asked.

The man shrugged. “Aris. Came from the city. Stayed in the inn for a few days. They say he was writing about fate.”

Elior’s throat went dry. The stranger’s eyes, his tone—everything matched.

The Second Buyer

A week passed, but the memory wouldn’t leave Elior. He wanted to forget, but curiosity itched under his skin. One afternoon, a girl came to the stall. She wore a red scarf, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke.

“Do you have any pens? I’m studying for the university entrance exam.”

Elior hesitated. He looked at his basket of pens—old, harmless. Then he noticed another silver pen, identical to the one he’d sold Aris.

His heart stopped. He didn’t remember having two.

Maybe he’d just missed it before. Maybe it wasn’t the same.

He handed it over. “Sure. Take this one. It’s lucky.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

The Pattern Begins

Days later, the news came again. The girl—Lina—had been found injured near the railway tracks. She’d survived, but her notebook was filled with strange words: “He will fall before sunrise. The train will stop. The ink knows.”

The ink knows.

Elior sat alone in his hut that night, the words echoing in his mind. The fire flickered weakly, shadows twitching on the walls. He reached into his drawer and found—again—the silver pen.

His breath caught. It shouldn’t have been there. He’d sold it twice.

And yet, here it was.

He touched its surface. The metal felt warm.

For a second, he swore it pulsed like a heartbeat.

Writing a Test

The next day, Elior brought out an old notebook and dipped the pen in ink. The nib glided effortlessly, smoother than silk.

He wrote: “Tomorrow, it will rain at noon.”

He waited.

At exactly noon, the clouds darkened, and rain began to fall.

His hands shook.

He tried again: “A man will come asking for help.”

An hour later, a villager appeared, limping, asking for bandages.

The pen worked.

But what if it could write more than fate—what if it could change it?

He hesitated, then wrote: “My father, who died ten years ago, will call my name tonight.”

When night fell, the mountain howled with wind. Then, faintly through the noise, Elior heard it—his father’s voice, hoarse, whispering his name.

He dropped the pen, terrified.

The Return

The next evening, a knock came at his stall door.

It was Aris—alive.

Elior stumbled back. “You—You’re supposed to be—”

“Dead?” Aris smiled faintly. “No. I survived. But not really living either.” He pointed to the pen on the table. “You used it, didn’t you?”

Elior nodded slowly. “What is it?”

Aris’s eyes darkened. “It doesn’t write stories—it writes truth. Every line you write, it trades a piece of your time. Borrowed time.”

Elior whispered, “Borrowed?”

“You don’t die. Not right away. But every time you use it, something else takes your place. A friend, a stranger, someone near you. The pen collects lives to keep your words real.”

Elior stared at him in horror. “Then how do I stop it?”

“You can’t,” Aris said softly. “You can only pass it on.”

He turned and vanished into the mist.

Borrowed Lives

Days turned into weeks. Elior tried to destroy the pen—burned it, drowned it, buried it. But every morning, it reappeared on his counter, gleaming softly.

People kept coming. A traveler, a poet, a boy wanting to write letters. Each time, Elior warned them—but they never listened.

And each time, someone nearby met a strange fate.

Elior stopped sleeping. The mountain air grew colder.

Then one night, he wrote one final line: “May this pen never find another hand.”

He placed it in a box, sealed it, and walked to the cliff’s edge.

The wind howled, carrying whispers that weren’t his own. He dropped the box into the abyss.

But when dawn came, the pen lay on his table again—its silver surface reflecting the pale morning light.

Elior laughed softly, the sound breaking into a sob.

He picked up the pen.

And began to write.