“I created it all with an ink...”

" No, they write themselves to life through you.

For every story you write, there is a character. Unknown to you, you aren't expressing yourself through those letters you weave. They weave their tales through your letters."

Simon scoffed," of all things you ever said, this is the most stupid! I write my characters, not the other way round."

The Talebearer sighed, and turned to the east. “ Have you ever wondered why your stories don't end in line with your outlines? You should let them speak.”

It was the last of the Talebearer that Simon would ever see. Year after year, Simon returned to where they first met. Nothing remained of him except their last conversation. It took awhile for him to realize he never knew the old man's true name. 

" But if I would, what would I call him?"he nibbled at the pen.

“Yes! Titus...and that he shall be called...”

And thus began the tale of Lord Titus of Bear island. Not far gone, Simon was deadlocked. No idea. Thoughts sealed away behind a volcano flaming in his mind.

" I guess some stories don't want to be told," he thought, feeling the sun set upon him in the west. 

Maybe it was the rays seshaying to their rest, for Simon recalled that the old man loved the east, so much it could mark his grave.

"Grave," he drifted.

" What would make a man tarry at a direction if not in wait for something that was promised?

A love, maybe.

A woman..."

Simon overwhelmed the pages with memories that he could swear was his. Dialogue of a bitter love story. And the resentment of a lovesick man.

When it neared its end, Simon sat down under the baobab tree, reminiscing about his time with Titus as he read the book.

“ My friend, if this was what you meant about letting them speak, I'm afraid I could be damned.”

The tale was about a man who caged his betrothal in his fantasy of a perfect marriage. Despite her rebellion, he insisted on their marriage. However, she left him... with a promise to return.

Simon closed the book, ready to go into town, and only then did he observe a man watering a portion east of him. The direction the old man loved.

" Ho! What business brings you here, my friend?" He hailed, but when he was close enough, he realized it was a woman.

“Sorry...”

“ No offence taken, son...you are the mad writer."

His brows furrowed, offended. “ Why mad?”

“ You talk to yourself... always.”

He was sure he hadn't seen her around, so he bowed and turned away. Halfway, he stopped. He almost missed it. It was a marked grave. “ Titus Bear...”

The woman's eyes misted," we were betrothed. I went off with whom I felt was a much better man," she explained.

I didn't think I would return here, although I promised I would. 

We parted right on that spot you sit every year. I was going off to my aunt's for a holiday, I told him, and I would return the same way. It was a lie.

The much better man," she smiled, "he locked me away in a cellar when he was done with me. While in that cellar, I prayed for a second chance with him. To returnto  his side. To be with him. But years raced by and neither sunrise nor sunset kissed my eyes.

When I finally got back, he was gone. As you see.

You remind me of him, only he was mindful of his appearance more."

Simon could not believe his ears, nor what he saw. The stranger thing was not about his friendship with a dead man, but the name.

He searched frantically for the sachet his mother gave him. The little horse was sitting there, and on its body was the name he read out from the gravestone. 

The man his mother sent him to search for.…

Simon bowed his head, this time, not to the woman but to the one laid to rest.

" I was wondering... how do you know it's the anniversary of his death each year?" She asked, looking intently at him.

“I don't know. Some characters just weave their tales through me.”