Episode 9 – Those Who No Longer Write
1316 Words
One week after the encounter on the fifth floor, Nguyen An didn’t write a single word.
Not because he was stuck.
Not because he was tired.
But because… something inside him had gone quiet.
The silence wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t heavy.
It simply existed. Like dust settling on books left unopened.
The pen still had ink.
The notebook still waited patiently in the drawer.
Ideas still wandered around the edges of his thoughts, like smoke curling from a burned page.
But An didn’t write them down.
He feared that if he wrote again, he would begin to remember.
And if he remembered, he’d want to hold on.
And if he held on, he’d never be free.
That night, in the dim glow of his rented room, An reached into his drawer, pulled out his old black notebook—the one that had once been a sanctuary—and, for the first time in years, left it closed.
The next day, Linh invited An out to their usual café.
A quiet place with stone tables and mint tea, once the birthplace of many stories—stories about Lam, about Uyen, about the ones who had slipped away from the river of everyday life.
“Someone asked about you,” Linh said, pushing a brown envelope across the table.
No return address.
No signature.
Only a single handwritten line on the front:
“To the one who used to live through the memories of others.”
An opened it.
Inside was a list.
Ten names. Each followed by a short note:
Thao – Class of K43 – dropped out unexpectedly
Hoang Nam – lost contact since 2022
Vy – transferred schools without notice
Khoi – withdrew halfway through the semester
Minh Anh – previously treated for mental health
Tran – disappeared after refusing to submit a manuscript
Quan – once prolific, then abruptly silent
Hien – last piece titled “I Am No Longer Me”
Vu – former contributor, now unreachable
“The tenth person” – name missing
At the bottom, in a different, shaking hand:
“When they stop writing, they begin to disappear.”
An reread the list slowly.
Each name pulsed with familiarity, like old bruises beneath skin.
They were all writers once.
An started with Minh Anh.
He remembered her vividly—sharp prose, cold themes. She had submitted a haunting story titled “The Town Without Shadows.”
Following her old address, An arrived at a crumbling apartment block.
Rust-stained railings. Cracked stairs. An eerie silence echoed in the corridors.
No answer at her door.
An turned to leave, but an elderly woman sweeping nearby called out.
“You looking for the girl in room 402?”
“Yes. Minh Anh. Is she still here?”
The woman shook her head slowly.
“She used to write late into the night. One day, she was just… gone. Nobody knows where. Room’s been empty ever since.”
“Did she leave anything behind?”
The woman paused, then nodded.
“A bundle of paper. Completely blank.”
Back at the Archive Room, An meant to store the list, but found something unusual tucked into the desk drawer.
A black-and-white photo.
A group of students in front of a lecture hall.
In the middle—Uyen.
But her eyes were hollow.
Not tired. Not vacant. Just… not there.
She held a torn manuscript. Only half a page.
The other half was missing.
Underneath the photo, typed in a small font:
“Writers are not those who know how to write.
But those who still dare to.”
An stared at it for minutes.
A thought, dark and jagged, took root:
Could it be that every writer who stopped—who gave up—wasn’t just forgotten, but truly disappeared? Not just from paper, but from life itself?
An opened his laptop.
Created a file titled: those_who_no_longer_write.docx.
He began typing.
No structure. No edits. No metaphors.
Just truth.
“Thao once wrote a story about a wall that could listen. No one ever read it—she deleted it before the meeting.”
“Hoang Nam sent poems at 2AM. A collection titled ‘If Anyone Still Listens.’ Then nothing.”
“Vy wrote about her grandmother’s dementia. Then stopped attending the club. Last seen on Bus 53.”
“Minh Anh submitted fourteen drafts in one month. One day, her inbox was empty.”
An wrote as if he were inscribing names into a memorial wall.
Wrote as if writing was the only thing keeping them from vanishing forever.
Early the next morning, a strange notification appeared.
No profile picture.
No username.
Just one message:
“The last one is ready to appear.”
Attached was a single audio file.
An hesitated. Then clicked play.
The voice that emerged was fragmented, distorted—but unmistakable.
It was Uyen.
“An… if you still remember me… stop writing.
Writing means holding on.
But not everyone wants to be held.”
Then:
“3:17 AM. Fifth floor.
The door will open… one last time.”
An sat frozen.
The voice echoed in his ears, deeper than sound, threading into the quiet corners of memory.
At 3:17 AM, Nguyen An stood before the door.
This time, it wasn’t locked.
It wasn’t even closed.
Inside was no longer the room he remembered.
There were no desks.
No creaking fans.
Only a massive mirror.
And inside the mirror—a brighter version of the same room.
In it, the missing ones.
Minh Anh – by the window, writing quietly.
Thao – taping notes to the ceiling.
Hoang Nam – scribbling on the walls with a stub of pencil.
Vy – curled in a blanket, holding an unfinished draft.
At the center, an empty desk.
And Uyen, standing there, waiting.
She stepped out of the mirror slowly.
“An,” she said. “If you keep writing, we’ll never be forgotten. But we’ll also never move on. We’ll remain—frozen—inside your memory.”
An looked at her. “And if I stop?”
“Then maybe we’ll finally be free. Even if it means being forgotten.”
An’s throat tightened.
Every instinct screamed to preserve, to record, to remember.
But Uyen’s gaze—steady, exhausted, peaceful—spoke of a deeper truth.
“Writing isn’t always a kindness,” she said.
“Sometimes, it’s a cage.”
“If I write again,” An asked, “you’ll stay?”
“Yes,” she said. “But we won’t live. We’ll only linger.”
A long silence.
Then An smiled, tears welling in his eyes.
“Then let me write one last time.
Not to keep you,
but to let you go.”
An sat at the empty desk.
He picked up the pen.
And began.
He wrote each name.
Each moment.
Each c***k and bruise and breath they left behind.
The final lines:
“I once lived through the stories of others.
Now I must learn to live my own.
Goodbye—to those who once wrote.”
As he wrote the last word, the room filled with light.
The mirror dissolved into mist.
The figures smiled—gentle, grateful.
Uyen raised a hand to wave.
Then, one by one, they faded.
Not painfully.
Not tragically.
Just… peacefully.
Like stories that had finally found an ending.
The next morning, Linh found a printed draft on the Archive Room desk.
Title: “A Story About Me – The One Who Once Wrote Nothing.”
For the first time, Nguyen An had written about himself.
No embellishments.
No footnotes.
No characters with different names.
Just him.
A new voice.
Closer.
Clearer.
Linh read the last page.
She looked at An and said softly, “You’ve returned.”
An nodded.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt truly alive.
To Be Continued...
- Writer
