Episode 7: The Keeper Of Words
1130 Words
The new writing room on the ground floor of Building C had no sign, no lights, and no one else but Nguyen An.
Yet, every time he entered, he felt like hundreds of people were standing behind him—silent, listening to every word he wrote.
After each writing session, he would leave the draft on the desk, under the old flashlight.
The next morning when he returned—it would be gone.
No one ever claimed they read it.
No one left comments.
But somehow, stories about the forgotten—U., Lam, Huy, and scattered pieces of memory—were being rewritten and preserved.
He named the place “The Archive of Language.”
A week later, Linh sent An a photo.
It was of the old bulletin board from the Literature Club—once left blank for months.
Now, it was plastered with handwritten notes, old and new prints, some with names, some anonymous, some were random paragraphs, and some were unsent letters:
“If I was never written about, did I ever exist?”
“I miss the sound of your fountain pen.”
“Does anyone remember that An lost his voice for three months in his freshman year?”
An stared at the screen for a long time. He didn’t know who started it.
But he knew then: the sixth floor was opening up inside people—not through staircases, but through words written again.
One late night, An found a new notebook on the desk in the archive.
Black cover. No title. No author.
The first page read:
“Don’t just write to preserve others. Write to save yourself.”
Underneath was a passage:
“I was once an editor. But eventually, I deleted everything—afraid no one needed them.
Now I write again. Even if no one reads. Even if this room closes too.
If An is still here, keep this. Keep it for the version of me that never dared to keep it myself.”
An read it over and over. He couldn’t tell who had written it.
But something told him—it was from someone who had once given up.
Maybe it was Lam. Maybe it was himself—in another timeline, another life.
From that day on, An changed the way he wrote.
He didn’t just write about others anymore. He started writing about himself.
About the exams he failed.
About the months he lost his voice and had to communicate with paper.
About the fear of being told he was “too dramatic” for caring so much.
About the nights the fifth floor was locked, and he wrote on the back of old calendars under the stairwell.
He didn’t write for anyone.
He didn’t write hoping to be read.
He wrote so he wouldn’t forget who he was.
One day, Linh told him:
“Did you know there’s a group of first-years who pass around your story?”
An blinked. “Which story?”
“The one about Huy—the guy who typed with two fingers.”
“How do they even have it?”
“Apparently, one of them used to be in Huy’s old class. Now they print it out and read it aloud at small private gatherings. They call it Floor Zero.”
An laughed, unable to hold it in.
Floor Zero.
No room. No desk. No name.
Just people writing for each other—to survive.
A week later, An received a letter from the Literature Club:
“We’d like to invite you—not to present your work,
but to speak about those whose names were never published.
We call them: The Ink That Never Dried.”
An held the paper for a long time.
Tomorrow, he would stand on a stage—not to read someone else’s story, but to speak for those who had disappeared from official text.
No citations.
No data.
Just one promise:
“Everyone who’s ever written deserves one last story.”
The night before the event, An couldn’t sleep.
He sat at his desk, going through old drafts, reading every line about people whose names were almost forgotten. Some passages, he had no memory of ever writing. Some were just stray dots, with no subjects, no endings.
Yet all of them had one thing in common: they were written with something painfully real.
He realized: maybe what keeps a writer alive in others’ minds isn’t how good or popular they are—but the pain or love they poured into their words.
And if the writer forgets that pain—who will remember it for them?
He opened his notebook. Wrote one line:
“Tomorrow, I won’t speak for them—I will admit that I was once them.”
The sharing session took place in a small classroom. No microphone. No backdrop. No stage lighting.
Just over thirty students—most of them unfamiliar faces.
Linh sat in the front row, notebook in hand. She didn’t look directly at An, but he knew she was listening.
He stood up.
At first, his voice trembled. His hands shook slightly with the paper.
But a few lines in, he set the paper down. Looked straight ahead.
He spoke about Lam—the editor who erased herself from the margins.
About U.—who only left hearts but never comments, and then deleted her social media completely.
About Huy—who typed with two fingers, slowly but earnestly.
About the unlit fifth floor.
About the vanishing drafts.
About a nameless room on the ground floor—where people wrote not to be read, but to not be forgotten.
And finally, he said:
“I don’t expect anyone to remember my name.
I just hope, when you read or write something, you ask yourself:
Is someone trying to survive in this sentence?”
The room was silent for a long moment.
Then someone clapped.
And then everyone clapped.
Not the applause for a brilliant talk.
But the applause of those who had hidden something—and finally heard it spoken aloud.
After the event, An didn’t head back to his dorm.
He made his way to Building C.
Entered the “Archive of Language” as usual.
To his surprise, a new paper lay on the desk:
“Someone listened. Someone rewrote.”
Beside it was a thick printout—green cover, neatly bound.
The title read:
“The Floor Without a Number: A Collection of Once-Unpublished Drafts.”
By: Nguyen An – and those once forgotten.
He placed his hand on the cover.
And for the first time, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Not from sorrow.
Not from regret.
But because he understood:
Someone else is writing now.
An was no longer the last writer.
- Writer
