N I C H O L A S

There was a large coast, thirty minutes away from the Berrington University. Nicholas and his friends had always wanted to visit the beach, but each time they planned on going there, they changed their mind and went to town instead, watching a movie or going to a pub in the end.

    With his rental bicycle, Nicholas rode across town until he reached the coast, where the address was leading him. He could sense the humidity rising the closer he got to the heaving waters, the searing scent of the sea growing vivid.

    Nicholas rode down a winding and narrow dirt road which was stretched out to the sea. He was surprised to see that at this part of the coast there was no sign of humans; no tourists, no visitors or swimmers, and no fishermen. Only a thin sandy shore beside the water, wide cliffs that ran alongside the shore for as far as the eye could see, and a small cottage in the distance.

    His heart giving an excited lurch, Nicholas realized that this had to be where Walter Elmore lived. He stopped his bicycle at the end of the lane and walked the rest of the way across the cold sands, until he reached the house's door.

    To still the rapid beating of his heart, Nicholas took in a few deep breaths, before knocking at the wooden door. He waited and waited, yet no one answered the door. He knocked a second time, and then a third, starting to worry that he had come to the wrong address.

    But before he could even turn around to leave, a deep and cold voice behind him said, "Who are you?"

    Turning around briskly, Nicholas saw a man standing there, his figure outlined against the sky and his face darkened by the sinking sun behind him.

    Nicholas blinked a few times, trying to retrieve his vision from the blinding sunlight, before looking back at the figure in front of him again. The man looked to be in his late sixties, with brown eyes and dark brows. His thick goatee beard and mustache were grey and white, and he was wearing a woolen flat cap. The man was old, full of wrinkles that were scarred upon his face by time's sharp dagger.

    "Who are you, boy?" He repeated himself sternly when Nicholas failed to answer him the first time.

    "I..." Nicholas began to say, but the man's sharp gaze held him on the spot like a knife at his throat.

    He raised a brow at him. "You don't even know who you are?"

    Nicholas cleared his throat, trying to regain himself. "My name is Nicholas, sir. Nicholas Pierce."

    "And may I ask what you're doing here, Nicholas Pierce?" He spoke calmly, his voice measured, but the man intimidated Nicholas in a way he could not explain.

    "I actually came here to see you, sir."

    "You came here to see me," he repeated. There was no question in his tone. "I might be old, but I don't remember inviting you here."

    "I apologize for coming here without an invitation, Mr. Elmore, but I really wanted to speak to you about your book, if you allow it."

    "How do you know who I am?" The Man frowned and his expression suddenly changed for the first time, narrowing his eyes at him. "How did you find me?"

    Nicholas managed to give him a charming smile. "I'm the chief editor of Berrington University's newspaper, sir. I have my ways."

    Amused by the young boy's wit and daring, Mr. Elmore walked past Nicholas and opened the door to his home, stepping inside without another word. Although he left the door open, and so Nicholas took it as his permission to enter.

    The cottage was spacious, but the many books and plants inside it made it look slightly smaller. Perhaps it was the warm fireplace, or maybe the many windows it had, or perhaps even the smell of candles and flowers combined, but there was something ever so welcoming about the place, making it feel like home.

    "Shut the door behind you," said Mr. Elmore, going to the kitchen to make some tea for himself. When Nicholas had done as he was told, the old man said, "Now what is it that you wanted to ask? Hopefully you're not going to write about me in that newspaper of yours."

    "No, sir." He shook his head in response. "I'm here because I recently read your book. Only yesterday, to be exact. It was so beautifully written. So full of raw emotions. I had never read anything like it before."

    "Hmm..." Mr. Elmore grumbled as he took a sip of his tea without offering a cup to his guest. "And what was wrong with it?"

    Nicholas gaped at him, not sure what he was supposed to say. "I beg your pardon?"

    "I'm not interested in your compliments, boy. I've heard enough of them to last me a lifetime," he said. "Now, tell me. Do you write? And I don't mean just in the newspaper."

    "Yes. Yes, I do." Nicholas nodded, a little proud smile growing on his lips. "Poems and short stories, mostly."

    "Then if you're any good, you should be able to at least name three things wrong with my story," Mr. Elmore said sternly, placing down his cup on the counter. "Go ahead."

    Nicholas's mind had gone blank, and it took him a few seconds of thinking and a bit of stuttering to finally say. "I — um — I think all your characters were grey; not entirely good, and not completely bad. And even though that's closer to how people actually are in real life, I personally like to read stories with characters I can fall in love with. Because that's why I read; to escape reality."

    The old man was now looking him dead in the eye, his face unreadable. "What else?"

    Nicholas was thinking hard, searching his mind for an answer, but nothing came to. "I can't think of anything else at the moment, I'm afraid."

    Mr. Elmore was quiet for some time. "Do you have any of your own writing with you right now?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Let me take a look at it, then. And I'll tell you what I think of it."

    Nicholas tried not to show how excited he was as he took his backpack off his shoulder and dug out his red notebook which he always had with him. He then opened the notebook to the page he had written his latest poem, and handed it to Mr. Elmore.

    The old man carried the notebook to his armchair beside the window and sat down with slight difficulty, sipping on his tea as he began to read the poem. Nicholas felt impatient, his heart throbbing in his chest with anticipation. He had never dreamt that one day he would show his poems to a professional and published writer.

    "Let me guess," Mr. Elmore said once he had finished the poem, though his eyes remained fixed on the page. "Your favorite poets are William Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. Correct?"

    "Yes, they are." Nicholas smiled heartily. "How did you know?"

    "Because it's all over your writing."

    "Oh... thank you?"

    "It wasn't a compliment. You're trying so hard to write like them that your work lacks originality. To be frank, I don't like it. It was completely worthless," the man said coldly, closing the notebook and tossing it on the small wooden table in front of him. "This was a waste of my time. You may see yourself out."

    Nicholas stood frozen on the spot, letting his words sink in. There was an ache in his chest, like someone had broken his ribcage and was clutching his heart.

    "Right... sorry for wasting your time," he muttered, trying to remain polite despite the surging disappointment in him.

    He picked up his notebook from the table and made his way over the door, but just as he was about to reach for the doorknob, he halted. Gritting his teeth together, Nicholas turned to face him sharply.

    "Actually, I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry at all!" Nicholas said severely, his voice ringing firmly. "I spent my whole life feeling sorry about how I was disappointing my parents, about how I could never become the son they wanted me to be! But writing is not something I'm going to feel bad about! You might not have liked it, but that's not going to stop me from writing again and again until it's not a waste of time anymore! This is what I live for, and nothing in this world can change that!"

    Nicholas fell silent, breathing heavily as he watched the old man, waiting for him to say something, or at least react somehow. But Mr. Elmore remained seat on the armchair with his cup of tea in hand, his back facing Nicholas.

    "Goodbye, Mr. Elmore," he said sternly, turning to leave.

    But he had only taken a step outside that the old man said without even glancing at him, "Leave your notebook. Come back to pick it up on Saturday. Be here at dawn, and don't be late."

    Nicholas stared at the back of his armchair, his breathing becoming steadier. Without saying anything more, he placed his notebook on a shelf nearby and left the house.

     When he closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment longer, a little smile pulled at the edges of his lips, slowly turning into a light laughter. Doing a little dance in victory, he made his way toward his bicycle, hopped on it, and rode away.

    This was only the beginning.