"I'm sorry, Mr. Paul, but you won't be able to wield a bow again."
The doctor's words struck like a dagger, sharp and unyielding, piercing through Paul's carefully built walls of hope.
He'd prepared himself for disappointing news, but this was like standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering, unsure if he'd be pushed or if he'd simply fall.
He gripped the armrests of the chair, knuckles white against the polished metal.
The room felt smaller, like it was closing in.
His throat tightened.
"What do you mean?" The words barely escaped him, caught somewhere between disbelief and desperation.
The doctor's gaze softened with pity, but his tone remained clinical.
He pointed at the scan displayed on the screen beside them.
"As you can see," he began, tracing his finger along the blurry image of Paul's shoulder.
"The tissue here is significantly damaged. The injuries have severely compromised your shoulder's mobility. With the way it is, you won't be able to draw your arm back far enough to use a bow effectively again."
Paul's eyes followed the doctor's hand, but the words blurred together.
Tendons, ligaments, range of motion—none of it seemed to matter.
All he heard was never again.
"It's gone too deep," the doctor continued, his voice calm yet unrelenting. "The damage is irreversible, Mr. Paul. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do".
Paul nodded numbly, though the words clawed at him with a brutal finality.
A void opened in his mind, one he couldn't begin to fill.
Archery had been his life for as long as he could remember.
After his parents' deaths, it was the bow that had brought him purpose.
It was the precise control, the calm release of every arrow that had kept him steady.
And now, even that was slipping away.
The doctor's voice faded into the background as Paul's thoughts spiraled.
He had nothing else—no fallback plan, no other passion to cling to.
What was he supposed to do now? The image of a future without archery felt like an endless, empty corridor, stretching out in every direction with no way forward.
The doctor's words cut through the haze. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Paul."
Blinking, Paul registered that the conversation had ended.
The doctor looked at him with a sympathy Paul hated—the kind of look that said, I'm sorry, but your life just changed forever.
He muttered a thank you, barely able to hear his own voice.
As he turned to leave, he kept his eyes low, avoiding the doctor's pity.
---
Outside, the afternoon sun was blinding, forcing Paul to squint against the harsh light.
He stood there a moment, letting the world sharpen around him.
People moved past, cars honked in the distance, and birds called out from somewhere overhead.
But all he could hear was the doctor's voice, each word ringing in his mind, each one a nail sealing his fate.
He wandered aimlessly down the city streets, his feet carrying him without direction.
His shoulder throbbed, but the pain felt muted, insignificant compared to the emptiness that had begun settling in his chest.
He couldn't bring himself to go home, to sit alone in the silence and confront the brutal reality of his situation.
The sun was setting by the time he finally reached his apartment, the orange light casting long shadows across the walls as he stepped inside.
The space felt colder than usual, hollow and lifeless.
He dropped his keys on the table and sank onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts spiraled deeper into a pit he couldn't climb out of.
'What now?' The question rang in his mind, each time louder than before. 'What's the point?'
He had spent years honing his skills, dedicating every free moment to becoming better, stronger, precise.
Now, all of it was slipping through his fingers.
He didn't know who he was without it, without the bow that had defined him.
With a sigh, he reached for his phone, hoping for some distraction.
Anything to pull him out of the darkness that had begun swallowing him whole.
Opening his favorite app, he saw that the author of Arthdal Chronicles had just posted two new chapters.
'Why not?' he thought, a comfort out of his reality.
He'd read over a thousand chapters of this series by now; it was more habit than entertainment at this point.
He skimmed through the chapters, the words barely registering.
The story had shifted its focus to a recent plot arc—the main cast discussing ways to find a mysterious artifact.
The main character, Dante, had lost a close companion, a supposed love interest.
In an attempt to preserve her soul, he had used the Astravon special sealing Art to seal it into an object in hopes of someday reviving her.
Paul scoffed. 'Should have just let her death be permanent.'
He believed that would give Dante more purpose, a reason to be proactive, rather than drifting aimlessly with his companions.
But the author seemed set on keeping the story light, leaning more into slice-of-life than the power fantasy it had once been.
Paul missed the old tension, the thrill of watching Dante struggle against impossible odds, facing challenges that defined him as a character.
When he reached the end of the chapter, he scrolled down to the comment section.
Without really thinking, he typed:
"What meaning is there in a life without purpose?"
The comment wasn't directed at anyone in particular—it was just a way to vent, to let out a fraction of the frustration he'd been holding inside.
He hit send and tossed his phone onto the bed.
The author never responded to comments anyway.
Why would today be any different?
But then his phone buzzed.
Paul blinked, glancing at the notification.
He picked it up, his eyes widening when he saw the reply.
It was from the author.
Paul stared at the screen, caught off guard.
The words felt oddly profound, simple yet carrying a weight that settled somewhere deep inside him.
After a moment, he typed back:
"What if all the choices in the world don't satisfy my desire?"
He wasn't sure why he asked.
He didn't expect an answer, certainly not one that would mean anything.
But the author replied almost immediately.
Paul frowned, irritation flickering to life.
"What does that even mean?" It sounded ridiculous, like some hollow encouragement from a cheap fantasy novel.
He typed out a response, half out of frustration, half out of curiosity.
"How do I do that?"
The author's reply came quickly:
Paul scoffed, tossing his phone aside again.
'Belief?' Was this some kind of joke? He was done with the conversation.
Yet, as he lay back, staring at the ceiling, the words lingered, echoing in the quiet of the room.
But his phone buzzed once more.
He stared at the screen, the question hanging in the air.
It was absurd. And yet, some part of him—the childish part that had once believed in something beyond himself—was intrigued.
Without thinking, he raised a hand, reaching toward the ceiling as if grasping for something just out of reach.
"I believe…" he whispered to the stillness, feeling a pang of foolishness even as he said it.
Closing his eyes, he let sleep pull him under, the thought lingering in the back of his mind, shimmering faintly like a distant star.