The Forgotten Writer

In a town where shadows reach the spire, where lamp posts flicker like funeral pyres, there resided a name now forgotten—A writer buried beneath his verses.

No statue adorned the village square, no memoirs whispered through the air, just pages scattered in cellar dust, and ink turned red with age and rust.

They say he walked with hollow eyes, as though he'd seen through all disguise. With a cane in hand, his pace was slow, a man pursued by what he knew.

His name? once celebrated—A fierce poet, his verses ablaze with truths too sharp for gentle tongues, and wounds too deep to mend with songs.

He wrote of death as if he knew its lullabies, its silent hue. He penned betrayal in the night, with trembling hands and candlelight.

The town, at first, devoured each book, the critics sighed, the readers shook. He spoke of love, then tore it down, a king who laughed without a crown.

But whispers soon began to grow—that what he wrote was more than show. His stanzas dripped with real regret, confessions dressed in a sonnet’s net.

They spoke of blood upon the floor, a locked-up room, a bolted door. A woman lost, a fire set, a crime the law could not forget.

Yet nothing proved, and nothing said, the papers declared him dead. He vanished one November storm, his coat still hanging, barely worn.

Some say he walks when moonlight spills like milk upon the distant hills, and in the library, late at night, his ghost still scribbles by candlelight.

They find his words in books misplaced, in margins torn, in lines erased: "Forgive me not—remember pain, the words I carved were not in vain."

Now children dare to seek his name in attics filled with ash and flame, while crows recite in morbid glee his unpublished soliloquy.

What haunts the world more than the dead are words we wished we’d never read—and silence kept in final breath, that bleeds in ink long after death.

So, raise a glass to Thorne’s decay, to every truth he flung away. A writer lost, but never quite—a ghost who haunts the page at night.