It was dark, save for a single spotlight.
The only thing visible in the seemingly endless darkness was a piece of paper.
A figure appeared, a single red pencil in their hand.
A single line, across the page.
Another, traced over the path of the first.
The third, which ripped through the page.
The fourth and final, which was small and filled with ink.
The figure turned, having heard a noise in the darkness.
Quietly, they waited, pencil hovering over the page, in silence.
Agonizing moments passed.
And again, the figure pressed the pencil down, releasing more ink.
Except it wasn't ink.
It wasn't a pencil.
It wasn't paper.
The figure knew this from the beginning, as they added line after line.
Line after line.
And in the morning, they would live with those lines until they healed.
And formed another blank slate, waiting for more.