Fragments of the Fool Poet

Alden's POV

I blow the last smoke of my cigarette, staring at the vast, endless stretch of sky above me. It's beautiful—an open canvas—but have I ever really captured it? In all the poems I've scribbled, the paintings I've attempted to create, have I even come close?

I'm not a poet, nor a painter. I'm just a restless soul, bound to the rules of God, repeating this cycle called life. Reincarnation, they call it—a hellish loop with no clear end in sight.

"Fyodor Dostoevsky—wait!" A familiar voice cuts through the haze. I feel his hand on my shoulder, his nails digging in, but the pain doesn't bother me. I barely feel it.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, his eyes darting down to the cliff's edge and then back to me.

"Going mad," I reply.

"God won't forgive you for killing yourself," he says, his voice trembling.

"How can I kill someone who is already dead?" I smile, shrugging his hand off before letting myself fall.

As the wind whips around me, I feel a strange relief. I am done with this life.

'Done with being Dostoevsky.'

---

"Mr. Alden! Earth to Mr. Alden!"

I jolt out of my thoughts, blinking rapidly. In front of me stands a teenage girl waving a library card with visible irritation. "I said, can you renew this book or not?"

Adjusting my glasses, I straighten my cardigan and fumble with the keyboard.

"Oh, right. Sorry." My voice comes out awkward, a little too high-pitched.

I scan the book and hand it back, avoiding her exasperated glare. She stomps off, muttering something about

"clueless nerds."

With her gone, the library falls silent again. Shelves of books surround me like a fortress, their spines worn and familiar.

Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Kafka, Dazai, Camus. Their names stare back at me, mocking me with their greatness.

'If only I could be as successful as them'

I lean against the counter, my mind wandering back to the dream. The wind, the fall, the strange relief—like I had finally escaped something. But had I? Or maybe I am just being a dramatic bitch that I am.

"You look like you've just lost a chess match you were destined to win."

I spin around so fast I nearly trip. A man stands leaning casually against one of the shelves, his arms crossed. He's tall, with messy black hair that looks like it was styled by the wind itself. His sharp jawline, smoldering dark eyes, and annoyingly perfect smirk give him an air of effortless confidence that immediately irritates me.

Great. A model wandered into the library. Just my luck.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, adjusting my glasses in a feeble attempt to regain composure.

He smirks, tilting his head as he sizes me up. "People call me many things. Some say I'm a guide. Others call me a curse."

I blink at him. Trying to restrain myself from bursting out laughing.

Seriously? What kind of pretentious nonsense is this? Is he on drugs?

"Cool story. Library's closed, so maybe guide yourself to the nearest exit."

He chuckles softly, his voice dripping with condescension. "I'm not here for the books, Alden."

I freeze. "How do you know my name?"

His smirk deepens. "I know a lot about you. For instance, I know you've been having strange dreams lately. Dreams about falling. Dreams about lives you've never lived—or maybe you 'have.' "

A chill runs through me, but I scoff to mask my unease. "Okay, stalker. I'm calling security."

"You can try," he says, stepping closer, his presence ready to devour each piece of me. "But you and I both know this isn't about the library."

He stops just close enough for me to catch the faint scent of whisky on his clothes.

'Oh fuck, this guy must be drunk'

"You've been here before," he says, his tone softer but no less intense. "Not just this library, but this life. Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Kafka, Dazai—they weren't just names to you. They were you."

I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "You're insane and drunk. I'm just a librarian. You've got the wrong guy."

He leans in slightly, and I swear his gaze pierces straight through me. "Deny it all you want, but deep down, you know I'm right. The restless nights, the obsession with greatness, the feeling that nothing you create is ever enough—that's not a coincidence."

My stomach twists. I feel exposed, like he's peeled back the layers I've worked so hard to build around myself. "What do you want from me?"

"I need your help," he says simply.

I laugh again, this time bitter. "Right. Let me guess—you're from some secret organization, and I'm the chosen one. Hate to break it to you buddy, but I'm not exactly hero material. I am lazy as fuck" I said presenting a thumbs up.

"You're the only one who can help me," he says, his voice low and serious now

'uhhhh why does he have to do this so dramatically?'

"This cycle you're stuck in—it's not just about you. Something's gone wrong, and if it isn't fixed, you'll lose everything. Permanently."

I stare at him. "What do you mean, permanently?"

"This is your last life," he replies, stepping back but keeping his eyes locked on mine. "If you don't figure out what you're searching for, the cycle ends. And not in the way you're hoping."

I swallow hard, his words sinking in despite myself. "Why me? Why not someone else?"

"Because you've already lived the lives of the greatest minds this world has ever seen. Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Kafka. You carry their memories, their questions, their unfinished answers. If you don't figure this out, no one will."

His gaze softens slightly, and for the first time, he looks almost… vulnerable. "Please, Alden. Help me. Help yourself."

I may or may have been not the smartest person alive, and there is a possibility that this guy is just a maniac but... His eyes whisper something that I have been hunting.

'Fuck it'

"What exactly do I have to do?" I whisper.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "That's the spirit."

The lights flicker, and a strange hum fills the air, like the library itself is alive. Whatever this is, I have a feeling my life is about to change forever.