-1920-

In the dim light of his cramped Prague apartment, the weight of the world felt heavier on Franz Kafka's shoulders. The flickering candle danced nervously, casting shadows on the walls, as if mocking him and his inability to conjure words. It was late November, and the chill from outside seeped through the windows, further wrapping him in an oppressive silence.

He thought of Gregor Samsa, that tragic insect whose transformation had once spilled from his pen effortlessly. Today, however, he felt like an insect trapped in a chrysalis of his own making, yearning to escape but suffocated by expectations—his own and those of a world waiting for his next tale. As the clock ticked on, each second bore down with a heavier weight, reminding him of deadlines and dwindling patience.

Kafka closed his eyes, seeking solace in the chaos of his imagination, where shadows danced, whispering truths he longed to articulate. Yet, when he opened them, the typewriter remained unchanged, as if mocking his creative impotence.

Frustration peaked, and he clenched his jaw. What if the story he sought was nothing but an illusion, a labyrinth with no exit? Just as despair threatened to engulf him, he recalled a fragment of advice—a delicate dance of patience, persistence, and surrender.

With a deep breath, he placed his fingers back on the keys, embracing the emptiness as he began to write not what he expected, but what the silence demanded. In that moment, he understood: perhaps the struggle itself was the story.