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Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim

In the midst of a frigid winter, the scene is set in a dimly lit room where an author grapples with his work. "This isn't it; I can do better than this," he mutters, frustrated by his creation. Cold and resolute, he watches his crafted work burn. "What... just thist' ? It always turns out like this. I need... It to be perfect, I have to craft the perfect the story."

Elena enter the entrance to the room, her voice heavy with sorrow. "You don't have to do this to yourself," she implores, concern evident in her tone. "It's been a whole year since you locked yourself in this room. Please, your story will turn out perfect. Just accept your fate."

As he clenches his fists, his gaze reflects the turmoil within. "To hell with my doubt. I must create a story so beautiful that even the gods themselves would descend from their thrones to witness my craftsmanship." He slams the door behind him as he returns to his seat, the fire of ambition burning brighter.

Tears glisten in the character's eyes as she watches her beloved's obsession consume him. The story unfolds against the backdrop of a cold winter night, with a full blood moon casting an eerie glow. The author, driven to the brink, sits naked by an open window, swearing to freeze himself to death if his story isn't perfect.

Dizzied by his resolve, he inflicts pain to stay awake, cutting his own flesh to remain focused on his work. "I must... I will," he murmurs, his determination unyielding. He writes and writes, the ink swirling as dizziness takes over.

A voice in his head interrupts, "Who decided, would decide what the perfect story is?" Startled, he questions the origin of the voice. A chilling encounter follows, as the Grim Reaper reveals himself, standing before the author.

"The Grim Reaper?" the author gasps, disbelief and intrigue warring in his voice. The Grim Reaper confirms his identity and purpose, signaling the imminent collection of the author's soul. The author's eyes flicker with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.

The author counters with a proposition, his voice determined. "Let me finish the story; that's what I ask for." The Grim Reaper, surprised, responds with skepticism, "And what would be my reward for keeping my part of the deal? What do I get in exchange?"

With a steely resolve, the author grabs the Grim Reaper's hand and locks eyes with him. "You'd be the first soul to lay eyes on my perfect story," he declares, conviction evident in his voice. The Grim Reaper's skepticism remains, and he questions the worth of the author's creation.

The author's gaze intensifies as he holds the Reaper's hand. "Do you know the feeling of being caught between life and death? The sheer rawness of it?" he asks, his voice carrying a weight of experience. "This story is crafted with the hands of a god. Each word is like wine from the heavens. Tell me, Mr. Grim Reaper, don't you want to experience what it means to be immortal?"

The Reaper pulls his hand away, taken aback by the author's audacity. "You're a strange one, human," he concedes. "Your deal is accepted, but I'll give you only three minutes." The author's satisfaction is palpable as he continues to write, seemingly oblivious to the pain of his bleeding hands.

"Three minutes are more than enough," the author replies with determination, focusing on his work. He writes with a fervor that transcends the pain, his purpose consuming him. As the minutes tick by, he falls from his chair, a look of contentment on his face.

"Now I've seen heaven without dying, met the devil without trying," he whispers, his voice fading as he embraces the end. "And they both seem to wanna talk to me. But I'm all outta luck now, and my dreams aren't worth a buck now. It's tough tryna land on my feet when this game of life plays heavy on my heart. And love is tough, but loneliness is twice as hard. And I'll carry that 'bout everywhere I go." His words trail off, and he drops to the cold floor.

"Ain't you afraid to die?" the Grim Reaper questions, standing over the fallen author. "So death created time to grow the things that it would kill, and you're reborn into the same life that you've always been born into. No, I'm not afraid. In fact, I've never felt more alive," the author replies, his voice fading into the darkness.

As the last word is written, the author's time runs out. The Grim Reaper approaches him, an air of finality surrounding the scene. The author's final sentence lingers in the air, capturing the essence of his understanding of life and death.

With the author's demise, the Grim Reaper is profoundly affected by the story he has just collected. He recognizes the author's unique perspective and experiences deep emotions that he can't quite comprehend.

The tale concludes with a tragic twist: the perfect story, written in blood and sweat, burns to ashes in the cold winter night. Only the Grim Reaper has glimpsed its beauty, leaving readers to wonder about the one word he managed to save from the fire.

..............

There is no such thing as a perfect story.