He was the kind of man you wouldn’t notice twice in public — but you’d remember his voice if he ever read something aloud.

Noah Cassiel. Age 26. Graduate of Columbia — computer science major, creative writing minor. Quietly brilliant, casually handsome in the way that looked unintentional. Sharp jawline hidden behind soft hoodies and week-old stubble. He worked remote now — some cybersecurity contract for a start-up that never asked for meetings and paid him enough to never leave his house.

But that wasn’t his life.

Not really.

His real life was upstairs — in the converted attic he called “the office.”-It was always cold in there, always dim. Books stacked against the wall, old mugs lined like trophies on the windowsill, a mechanical keyboard that had long outlived its warranty. And in the center: his desk. His screen. His stories.

Noah had written five novels under a name no one knew belonged to him. One had hit the bestseller list. He didn’t do interviews. Never showed his face. He liked it that way.

He didn’t go out much. Didn’t date. His friends would say he was just “introverted” or “too busy,” but Noah knew the truth: reality bored him. It was predictable, clumsy, loud. His stories were clean. Curated. Better.

Lately, though, they’d all been about her.

He never named her. Never gave her a backstory.

All his writing revolved around her though— a character he’d created, carefully stitched together from fragments of dreams and fleeting thoughts. He never named her. Never gave her a backstory. She simply appeared on the page — barefoot in kitchens, laughing on rooftops, tracing her fingers over the rim of a wine glass while looking straight through him. She was the perfect fiction, more vivid than anyone he’d ever met. She was perfect. the perfect woman. A mix of smarts and beauty, one that would never bore him.

That night, he finished a scene — one of those delicate, aching ones that almost made his chest hurt. She had just smiled at him in a way that made the silence stretch, and he couldn’t bring himself to write the next line.

So he didn’t.

He hit save. Pushed his chair back. Let the quiet settle.

Then, just as he was about to stand, he heard something — faint, almost like a soft shuffle behind him.

He didn’t turn.

For a second, just a second, he wished she was real enough to fill the room.