Nesryn's POV

Death comes in many forms, and for me, it came as a choice I was forced to make.

To save my brother, I had to let a part of myself die first.

I never imagined that in order to do that, I would have to sell my only piece of heart: my manuscript. Now, here I am sitting on a broken bench in the forlorn garden near my house, replaying the moment when I sold my manuscript to Astor Reve, the famous author whose books sell like waves in the ocean.

His success feels too big for a small writer like me. Even if I had published my book, I knew I wouldn't achieve the same level of success he enjoys while celebrating the triumph of my story.

Sigh. It's alright; at least my brother is now healthy. My train of thought is interrupted by a strong wind and the thunderous sound of lightning. It looks like it's going to rain soon.

I bent down to collect my brown leather purse, which had fallen to the ground, and felt a rush of urgency to get back home. As I approached the porch of my beautiful house, a wave of nostalgia washed over me.

This house, the only treasure left to me by my parents, felt both comforting and haunting at times. My brother and I now shared this white wooden house, its size sometimes overwhelming, as if it echoed with the laughter and warmth of our happier family days.

Memories flooded my mind, each one a reminder of the joy we once had. I couldn't shake the feeling of regret that clung to me like a shadow; if only I hadn't insisted on dragging my family out for an ice cream date that night. The thought tightened in my chest, and I exhaled deeply to release some of the tension. With a heavy heart, I pushed open the door and stepped into my brother's room, seeking the familiar comfort of his presence.

I walked quietly to his bedside, careful not to make any noise that might disturb his rest. He lay there peacefully asleep, his chest rising and falling gently with each breath. The heavy dose of medicine had taken quite a toll on him; he seemed to spend most of his time lost in a deep slumber now.

I felt a pang of longing as I thought about how much I missed his lively spirit; his infectious laughter, the way he would playfully tease me, and how he would sneakily steal my fries, only to turn the blame back on me.

That old brother of mine... I lost everyone in that tragic accident, and the thought of losing him too was unbearable. Sitting beside him, I gently began to pat his head, my fingers running through his hair, which had grown long and unruly during his recovery.

I smiled at the thought of how he used to complain about needing a haircut, and I decided to remind him of that the moment he woke up tomorrow. After a few minutes of tenderly caressing him, I reluctantly got up, trying not to disrupt his slumber. I walked to his bedside table and filled the jar with fresh water, making sure it was easily accessible for him when he awoke.

I then adjusted his blanket, tucking him in snugly to keep him warm and comfortable. Taking one last look at him, I closed all the windows to block out the rainy chill and turned off the lights, leaving the room enveloped in a soft darkness. As I stepped out, I felt a mix of hope and worry, longing for the day when he would be back to his old self.

I decided to go to my study room instead of my bedroom. The moment I sold a piece of my soul: my manuscript. I lost the ability to sleep. It felt as if the characters I had created were mocking me, asking, "What kind of creator are you? A creator who can't even claim her own work? A creator who has the power to create but not the strength to defend herself?" My own shadows seemed to taunt me, drowning me in a pool of grief.

When I reached my study room, the first thing I did was open my laptop and tackle some paperwork. An accident had occurred, and I was in desperate need of money. My parents' savings required proof, which I didn't have at the time. That's why I made the impulsive decision to sell the manuscript; Astor Reve had been pursuing me for months. He'd seen a glimpse of my work on a random page I posted on Instagram and decided to buy it, even though I had been reluctant to part with it. I had my parents' support, everything I needed.

Then, one night, tragedy struck. My parents died in a car accident, and I was left with only my brother, who barely survived. The toll of the accident slowed my mind. Instead of collecting the necessary proof of my parents' savings, barefoot and wounded, I hastily grabbed my manuscript and ran to Astor Reve's house. That was how I sold a piece of my soul with my hands which were stained with mixture of my and my family's blood.

Once I was done with paperwork, I closed my laptop and took a deep breath. I decided to distract myself, and a small corner of my heart wanted to check how my book; sorry, how Astor's book was selling.

As soon as I opened Instagram, I was flooded with various posts displaying videos of Astor Reve's dead body on his own bed. "What the hell?" I whispered, shock overtaking me.

I hurriedly clicked on one post and began reading the headline, which said, "The famous author Astor Reve found dead in his own apartment. According to postmortem reports, he died from a heart attack, but why is there dried blood coming from his closed eyes, and why is his body bluish in color?"

"This is horrifying," I yelped and immediately closed my phone. My hands reached for the glass of water to clear my foggy thoughts. After drinking the water, I closed my eyes for a few seconds to sort through the incidents that had occurred over the week and now Astor's death.