Once upon a time, there was a writer who had written a story about a character.
Nothing new so far, you might say.
And indeed, nothing new under this sun or under that other one farther away, the one that lights up worlds where stories never really end.
Everyone knows that characters always take inspiration from someone real. But what no one says is that, sometimes, reality takes inspiration from the characters.
So even though the writer believed he was the one pulling the strings, in the end it wasn’t quite like that, because the strings were moving on their own.
One day, without warning, the paper character began to walk into real life. And the real one, photo after photo, seemed to slip into the role the writer had imagined for someone else.
Because sometimes it’s easy to lose yourself in a story you like more than the life you’re living.
The writer watched him from afar, the way one watches a spell that works a little too well.
And he understood a truth that no fairy tale dares to say out loud:
sometimes it’s not the character who is born from the man.
It’s the man who is born from the character.
From that moment on, the story continued in a suspended territory, where fantasy doesn’t surpass reality but contaminates it, bends it, reshapes it, creating unexpected metamorphoses. Where inspiration becomes a mirror, and someone, unaware, walks toward their better version without knowing that someone has already written it.
And he, the writer, smiles in the shadows. Because he knows that every dark fairy tale holds an ancient power: it transforms whoever stares at it for too long.
But the story wasn’t over, because stories that come to life never end.
They simply change color.
Just like chameleons.
