***

"ARE YOU SURE you don't want to sell it yet, Charlotte?"

I couldn't count how often my dearest grandmother asked me about that. She would also call my smartphone several times during the day. Even if I don't want to answer it, I know I won't be able to stand her.

"Nana, I'm pretty sure," I replied before sipping coffee to fill my stomach. I immediately lowered the cup and proceeded to get clothes from my closet and tuck it into my duffle bag.

"Can't you change your mind? They have a good offer, sweetie," she continued, trying to convince me. "It's a very reasonable offer."

I stopped what I was doing and let out a deep sigh. I intentionally made her hear it.

"No, Nana. I don't want to sell Dad's house."

"Charlotte . . . "

"He left it for me to take care of, and this is the last and only gift he gave me before he passed away. I really can't afford to sell it, Nana."

Her sigh did not escape my ears either. It seemed like we were in a constant battle of disappointing each other. We were getting each other to listen to our frustration.

But could she blame me? I did not grow up close to my father, especially since my mother passed away when I was born into the world.

My father had complications during his operation. So, since my childhood, I have never been close to my dad. I grew up and took care of my grandmother Remedios. But a year ago, dad followed mom. He passed away due to leukaemia, and even though we were not close, he still left me the house full of memories he and Mom had shared. And even in that way, I knew dad thought of me, too.

"Oh, dear me . . . " I knew she was restraining herself. My mind was moulded not far away from her, so I knew how her mind worked. "I wondered if letting you move out and just write and write was right."

"Nana," I frowned. I already knew where this conversation was heading. It was about me being a full-time writer.

"Write something happy, too, my grandchild. You've only been doing pure tragedy. I don't wish for that to you know . . . manifest in your life."

And that was the sign I didn't want to hear. I am so grateful that she supported me in what I wanted to do since childhood, but I did not want her to get ahead of me on what I should write.

First of all, they're all my ideas. So, whether it was about tragedy, comedy, or fantasy, they were what I wanted to do. I'm the one who's writing. She could write something herself if she wanted something else, and I will support her.

"Do you have anything else you wanted to talk about? I need to leave already," I announced.

"Nothing else, sweetie. But if you change your mind, it's not too late. Just call me, 'kay?"

I knew she wanted to sell the house for the business she had long wanted to start. I thought that she would be the one who would be against it. But no, she was constantly working on getting me to let go of the house.

"Yes, Nana. Bye," I replied and ended the call.

I noticed the missed calls and did not bother to call anyone because of the time. I was confident it was my editor, Carol. I put the phone on my bed and finished packing. I pretty much shove any light clothes into my black duffle bag.

I would be late for the trip if I didn't hurry. Instead of packing last night or the last few days, I was doing it last minute. I couldn't help myself. When ideas come to my mind, even calling my editor becomes long forgotten. Writing takes priority.

I reached for my laptop and put it in its case. I also included a notebook and pen inside. I couldn't control myself if I thought of something to write about. I must write before I forget.

I have a place I wanted to visit for inspiration in the novel I am writing. Fortunately, my editor allowed me, even though it meant that my manuscript submission to her would be delayed.

But she was coming along to ensure I would work and not just take a vacation. I couldn't figure out where she thought I would travel for leisure. That was not like me at all.

When I finished, I glanced at myself in the mirror and adjusted my glasses. I didn't even bother to put lipstick on my face because it didn't bother me. It wasn't a priority.

Carrying my bag, I left the house and locked the door. I will only be there for a few days. I wanted to be inspired to write, so I took a break.

I opened the car door, put my bag on the seat, and then hurriedly got into the driver's seat. I gave the house one last look in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm leaving for a while." I smiled as I said goodbye to the house, as if I were saying goodbye to my father before leaving the place.

While driving, my phone suddenly rang. I turned to my bag and saw the caller I.D. that my editor was calling again. Was she that bored and excited about this trip? I think I would be the one who would need to watch over her to make sure she was working.

I reached for my phone, but I failed because it was hanging on the net of the duffle bag. It usually holds the water bottle, but I placed it inside so the phone remained outside.

I laid the bag on my lap while one hand remained on the steering wheel. I was not driving that fast and was alone on the street, so I was not too worried.

My eyes kept darting over the bag and to the road. This bumpy road is narrow, but only limited vehicles pass by.

Many stories were also created because of the towering trees around them. Particularly horror and supernatural stories. It does become scary when it gets dark. Anyone would be terrified and confused, especially if they got lost in the middle of the forest.

The story varied from place to place, from the tree giants and white lady to the thieves. And since I am a fictional writer, I do not involve imagination with reality. It's also good that there is no traffic here.

I managed to get my phone, and as I slid the screen to answer Carol's call, I heard a loud horn from the front. It was moving very fast, and there seemed to be no plans of stopping.

I felt my chest throb as I realised what would happen to me if I didn't get out of there.

"Hey, Charlotte. Where are you?"

Instead of answering, I turned the steering wheel to get through the trees and move away from the oncoming truck.

I felt like I only had a few delicate seconds to do this. I must hurry. The truck kept honking, and I could no longer hear what Carol was saying from my phone. I did not even realise I had already dropped my phone.

I was holding on for dear life!

But I was disappointed that the distance between the trees was very narrow. My car would not fit. I had no choice but to get out of there.

I quickly grabbed my seatbelt, thinking of an escape plan. But as soon as it went loose, the whole car turned around quickly. The car swerved and screeched. I could no longer see what was happening because I was rolling on the road with it.

I don't know how many times the car and I rolled, but my body was exhausted when everything stopped. It was as if I had gone through an exhausting exercise, flipping my whole body.

I knew the door had been crushed. I tried to open it even though I felt drained.

I noticed the hot red liquid on my arm. Even my head hurt badly.

"Charlotte! Hello?! Please answer?"

It came back to my mind that I did press the answer on my phone to talk to Carol, but my phone was outside. It was only a few inches away, but I could not reach it.

I tried to shout, but my voice was coming hoarse.

The bag I used to carry was also outside. I didn't know how it came out, but I don't have it anymore. I needed to get out of here. But how?

I faintly peeked at my feet and noticed that the roof of my car was folded, and my legs were pinched. However, I did not feel anything there. I tried to move my legs, but I was left disappointed.

Suddenly, silence enveloped the place. Did the truck driver also get hurt? Was there a porter with him? Did no one else see his fast driving?

"Charlotte!"

I looked again at my cell phone outside. Even though I was trembling, I tried to reach for my phone. But it seemed like I had no escape. I could not get the broken window without hitting the shattered glass.

"He-lp . . . " Almost every word came out of my mouth like a whisper.

My eyes were slowly shutting. I could feel the flow of hot liquid on my cheek. Was this how my life would end? Was this how my story would end?

I saw my laptop and notebook with the recent story I was writing.

The pages were flying around, one by one. I could do nothing but watch every page dance in the air with the dust while I was trapped inside the car.

A few pages were flying near my spot. I could see the random scribbles I'd been doing on them—every detail in the story that I researched. I haven't even done half of that yet, and it looked like I couldn't finish it.

There was a page that dropped near my hand. Of all the things I could reach, it was about the tragedy. Will what I do with the fictional characters also give me karma, as my grandmother thought? I was a tragedy writer, for goodness sake!

As I read the notes' names in bright red ink, my eyesight was getting blurry. I remembered writing this name yesterday.

Renée de Lovett.

A feminine name that sounded lovely, but misfortune was chasing her life. She was the misfortune princess of the land who was meant to die. She had everything except trust and love from everyone—most significantly, from her family. Whatever she did, she was unlucky. She was meant to die no matter how she tried to change her fate.

That's unfortunate. I would not even be able to finish her story. Her life was a sad story . . . like my current situation—alone, getting weak, and with no help expected to arrive.

Was I paying for my misfortune here? Ah, I wonder.

I closed my eyes and savoured the peace of the surroundings—my body was growing numb. I couldn't quite imagine that today would change the course of my whole life. I didn't see my death coming.

***

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