My magic pen can change reality

The school bell rang, signaling the end of another day. Saylar exited the classroom, his bag slung over his shoulder, his mind still mulling over the teacher's lecture on black holes. He had never been a fan of studying, but the idea of other worlds hidden within the universe intrigued him.

"Imagine," said Sal, his best friend, catching up to him. "Worlds completely different from ours, with different laws of physics, maybe even life forms that don't resemble us at all!"

"I think the teacher is exaggerating a bit," Saylar said with a wry smile. "All of this is just theory, with no evidence to support it."

"But that's the beauty of imagination, isn't it?" Sal insisted, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. "To imagine the impossible, to think outside the box."

"True," Saylar said thoughtfully. "But in the end, we have to come back to reality. With all its problems and complexities, like the mid-term exams that are upon us!"

Sal frowned. "Don't remind me! I'm so stressed out. All these subjects, and those difficult questions… I don't know how I'm going to pass."

"You're not alone," Saylar said sympathetically. "I feel lost too. I wish I had more time to prepare."

"I wish there was an easy way to succeed," Sal said wistfully. "Maybe if we could predict the questions or get the answers in advance!"

"Or if we could download information directly into our brains," Saylar said, joining in the fantasy.

Sal laughed. "Great ideas! But unfortunately, we have to rely on ourselves and our studies."

"That's true," Saylar said with a sigh. "Anyway, I'll do my best. See you tomorrow, Sal."

"See you, Saylar," Sal said, bidding him farewell. "And good luck with the exams!"

They parted ways at the crossroads, each taking his own path. Saylar, with his tall stature (180 cm) and silky black hair, looked elegant despite his simple school uniform. He walked through the crowded streets of Baghdad, his mind still wandering. The city's hustle and bustle, the sounds of street vendors, the honking of cars, the smells of spices and perfumes… all of this formed a noisy backdrop to his quiet thoughts.

Suddenly, he saw an old man fall to the ground in front of him, gasping for air and clearly in pain. The man was wearing loose-fitting traditional clothes, and his long white beard covered his chest. He looked exhausted and weak, as if he was about to die.

Saylar ran towards the man in panic, his heart pounding. He knelt beside him, trying to understand what had happened. The old man was suffering from severe wounds all over his body, his clothes torn and covered in blood.

"Help me…" the man murmured in a hoarse voice, his eyes struggling to stay open.

Saylar felt helpless and terrified. He didn't know how to help this man. He had never dealt with such serious injuries before. He tried to put pressure on the wounds to stop the bleeding, but to no avail. It was clear that the man was suffering from serious internal injuries.

"Don't worry," Saylar said, trying to calm the man and himself at the same time. "I'll get help. You'll be fine."

The man shook his head slowly, a peaceful smile forming on his tired lips. "No need, my son… It's too late."

"Don't say that," Saylar said insistently. "Don't give up. I'll find someone to help you."

"Don't trouble yourself, my son," the man said in a weak voice. "I am content with my fate. Just… thank you for your kindness."

"But…" Saylar stammered, unable to hide his feeling of helplessness.

"Don't grieve for me," the man said reassuringly. "I am at peace. I have lived a long life and seen a lot. Now it is time to rest."

The man looked at Saylar with a deep gaze, his eyes shining with the wisdom of his years. "You are a good young man, my son. Keep your kind heart and use it to help others."

The man stretched out his trembling hand towards Saylar and gave him a small black pen. "Take this gift…" the man said, "as a reminder that kindness is the most powerful weapon in this world."

The man closed his eyes peacefully, and his breathing stopped. Saylar realized that the man had died. He felt a deep sadness, but also a strange sense of peace. The old man had passed away calmly and contentedly, as if he had accepted his fate.

Saylar took the pen and put it in his pocket, then called the police and reported the incident. During the investigation and waiting for the police, Saylar's mind was in a whirlwind of confused thoughts. He was shocked to see death for the first time since his father's death, and he felt guilty that he couldn't do more to help the old man.

The police arrived and took the man's body, then drove Saylar home. Saylar was silent the whole way, his mind still preoccupied with the day's events. He didn't tell anyone about the pen, not even his mother. He felt that there was something strange about this pen, something scary and intriguing at the same time.

When he arrived home, which was a modest house in a working-class neighborhood of Baghdad, his mother greeted him with warmth and affection. His mother, Mrs. Madstar, was a woman in her mid-forties, with gentle features and light brown hair. Despite the years she had spent in Iraq, she still retained a slight British accent in her speech.

"Saylar, dear, how was your day?" his mother asked him with a warm smile.

"It was a normal day, Mom," Saylar replied, trying to hide his anxiety and nervousness. "Nothing new."

"Are you sure?" his mother asked skeptically. "You seem a little… different today."

"I'm fine, Mom, don't worry," Saylar reassured her. "Just a little tired."

"Okay, dear," his mother said with a smile. "Go and rest for a bit. I'll make you some tea."

After dinner, which consisted of a delicious plate of dolma prepared by his mother, Saylar felt exhausted and weak. He dragged himself to his room, which was decorated with posters of his favorite rock bands and some drawings he had done himself, and threw himself on the bed without changing his clothes. He fell into a deep sleep, trying to forget the terrifying events of the day.

The next morning, Saylar woke up early, around five o'clock. The memories of what had happened the previous day came back to him, and he kept thinking about the events with sadness. Then he remembered the pen he had received from the old man.

He quickly checked his pockets, and when he found the pen, he was stunned. It was no ordinary pen. It was dark black, as if it could swallow light itself, and it had strange golden inscriptions on it, the likes of which he had never seen before.

"What the hell is this?" Saylar muttered, turning the pen over in his fingers.

He touched the inscriptions on the surface of the pen, and suddenly he felt a sharp sting in his finger. He looked at his finger to find a small bleeding cut. He put his finger in his mouth, but what happened next stunned him.

The blood spread along the inscriptions as if feeding them. Then the pen lit up with a bright purple light and rose into the air, transforming into a small point of light that pierced his forehead.

"Ahhh!" Saylar screamed, staggering back, his heart pounding.

He ran to the mirror, looking for any change in his face, a wound, a mark, anything. But there was nothing.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked himself in a trembling voice.

Suddenly, a transparent blue screen appeared before his eyes, showing a loading percentage that reached 100%. Saylar felt dizzy, as if he was about to faint.

"What's happening to me?" he whispered in panic.

The screen disappeared, and everything returned to normal. Saylar looked at the pen, which... had vanished!

"Where did it go?" Saylar wondered in confusion, touching his forehead in fear!