An ambulance hurriedly pulled up in front of DRM Hospital, its siren still blaring, urgently calling for the doctor and his attendants. Inside was a man who had been struck by a speeding car, thrown high into the air by the impact. Strangely, there was no external bleeding—an even graver sign, as it pointed to the possibility of internal injuries. The ambulance was driven by Sajith and Matthew, two men known for their deep humanity. They would never gamble with a person's life for the sake of money. Though St. Thomas Hospital was the most renowned—and the most expensive—in the city, it was too far away. Given the patient's critical condition, they had brought him to the nearest available facility.
Dr. Suresh rushed out at the sound of the ambulance. A highly skilled practitioner with over fifteen years of experience, he was known not just for his medical expertise but also for his unusual ways. Unlike most doctors, who took a day off each week, Dr. Suresh only attended the hospital three days a week.
You might wonder what he did on the other days, right?
“He’s a strange man,” people often said. “Most of the time, you’ll find him on riverbanks, seashores, or even atop lonely mountains.”
“I don’t understand how anyone goes to him for treatment. He looks like a madman himself.”
“He’s ridiculous. Don’t even bring up his name!”
“Yesterday, I saw him in a ruined temple—one no one dares to go near. And today, he’s back on duty like nothing happened. What sort of man is he? Still, I must admit—he treats patients well.”
These were the kinds of things people said about Dr. Suresh. Though undeniably talented, he wasn’t what most would call "successful." His heart wasn’t in the routine of medical practice. His interests lay elsewhere—on paths less traveled.
The ambulance drivers liked DRM Hospital for good reason—they had more holidays than working days, and yet, were paid a decent salary. Perhaps that explained their sincerity and dedication. In essence, they were simply enjoying life.
It was Saturday. Officially, DRM Hospital remained closed on Saturdays and Sundays. In practice, it only functioned on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. Every Friday night, a board would be hung at the hospital gate that read “Closed.” Sometimes, it stayed there untouched until Wednesday.
Dr. Suresh, aside from being a skilled physician, was also a prolific writer. He had published numerous articles, and most of his books were bestsellers abroad.
That Saturday, he woke unusually early—around 6 a.m.—got ready within half an hour, took his car keys, and left. Somewhere in a novel, he had read about an ancient temple hidden deep in a tribal village, deep inside a dense forest. The book had mentioned that signboards marked the way, so with that confidence, he set out.
The jungle was thick and wild. Even after sunrise, the sun’s rays could barely pierce through the dense canopy above. After about half an hour of navigating the winding path, he reached his destination.
The place was silent. Not a single soul was in sight. The stone temple stood quietly, its door open. The structure was old and covered in intricate carvings, which he tried to read, but couldn’t decipher. He stepped inside, offered his prayers, and came out.
A few meters away from the temple stood a vast, ancient banyan tree. Around its base was a stone platform—an artificial basement built for people to sit on. It was under this tree that the tribal people often held their meetings, discussing matters of their community under its vast, sheltering canopy.
Suresh took out a bedsheet from his bag and walked toward the banyan tree, intending to take a few photographs. He circled the tree once, looking for the cleanest spot to lay the sheet. That’s when he noticed something unusual.
A book lay there—its outer cover weathered and fragile, yet the pages inside appeared surprisingly new. Even more curious, the writing was done in modern-day ballpen. The book had no title, no author’s name. Just a series of handwritten pages.
He flipped through it. It was a story—but an unfinished one. At first, he assumed someone had simply forgotten it there. He left it untouched and lay down under the tree for a short nap.
When he woke up about an hour later, the book was still lying exactly where he had found it. Something about it called to him. “Let me finish the story,” he thought.
He picked it up, slipped it into his bag, and left the place.
Later that evening, after reaching home, he took out the book, settled into his chair, and began reading.
The story began like this:
In the kingdom of Martina, there lived a man named Jacob. By day, he ran a small car mechanic shop. But by night, a darker side of him emerged. Jacob was a petty thief who roamed places shrouded in pitch darkness. If he encountered anyone, he would threaten them with a knife and rob them of their money.
Yet, despite his criminal ways, Jacob followed a strict personal code—he had never killed anyone. No matter the situation, he stuck to his principles without fail.
As the pages turned, the story delved into his daily life: the rundown garage he worked in, the cramped neighborhood he called home, the handful of friends who tolerated his odd ways, and even fragments of his troubled family.
Everything seemed to be going smoothly in Jacob’s strange little world.
Suresh, however, felt underwhelmed. He had always enjoyed a good mystery, but this one? It felt flat. Predictable. Boring.
He sighed, flipping another page, wondering if the story had anything more to offer—or if the true mystery lay not in the tale, but in the book’s eerie origin.
It was Monday, and as usual, Suresh was at his hospital. The place was quiet—no patients had arrived yet. Taking advantage of the silence, he continued working on the untitled story he had found near the temple.
Wanting to spice it up, he added a romantic twist.
Jacob, the once petty thief, fell in love with a girl named Maria. They went to beaches, watched movies, and strolled through parks. Their love blossomed into something beautiful and pure. The entire neighborhood came to know of their story. Maria wasn’t someone who desired wealth or luxury; her love alone was enough to transform Jacob.
Moved by her sincerity, Jacob left his life of crime and became an honest man. His friends were astonished by his change.
“You’ve entered a second life,” they told him, half-joking, half-serious.
Just as Suresh was writing this part, the sound of an ambulance shattered the calm. A man with severe internal injuries was rushed in—he was a well-known politician who had been hit by a speeding car.
By the time he arrived, his vitals were dangerously low. His pulse was weak, and his heart rate was steadily dropping. Suresh quickly assessed the situation—it was almost impossible to save him.
Before he could express this clearly, the politician’s followers, a group of aggressive local goons, had already barged in, dragging their unconscious leader inside.
“I won’t be able to treat him,” Suresh tried to explain calmly, but they wouldn’t hear a word.
Tempers flared. Chaos erupted in the small hospital. Surrounded by threats and shouting, Suresh found himself with no choice.
He was forced to begin the treatment.
Suresh did everything in his power to save the politician. Every skill, every bit of knowledge he had, was put to use—but it was in vain.
The man died.
As the news spread, a massive crowd gathered outside DRM Hospital. Chaos erupted. Mobs stormed the building. Suresh and the ambulance drivers, Sajith and Matthew, were beaten mercilessly. The hospital—his sanctuary—was reduced to rubble.
Suresh lay bleeding, his vision blurred, pain shooting through every part of his body. There was no one to rescue him. No patients. No colleagues. No friends.
After what felt like an eternity, the police finally arrived. Suresh, Sajith, and Matthew were rushed for treatment. Friends and distant relatives began to trickle in.
“You need to leave this place,” someone said gently. “This town is no place for innocent people. You did nothing wrong—I know that.”
“I can't take revenge on them,” Suresh whispered. “I leave it to God.”
The two ambulance drivers, under pressure from their frightened families, quit their jobs. The few doctors who used to visit on a contract basis stopped coming altogether.
It was as if the entire world had quietly abandoned him.
Days passed. Then weeks.
One afternoon, Suresh sat alone on a worn-out chair, silence echoing through the ruins of what once was. In front of him lay the same old book—the one he had found under the banyan tree, still unfinished.
He picked up the pen.
And resumed the story.
Jacob had become a good man. He had left behind his past, embraced honesty, and was respected by many.
But one evening, as he was driving home, his car collided with another. The other driver was a local goon—his name was Riffin.
Riffin wasn’t just any street thug. His master, a powerful politician, had recently died in DRM hospital when treatment failed. The very same hospital that Jacob, once treated in secrecy, had heard much about.
Tensions flared.
Riffin, aggressive and full of vengeance, picked a fight with Jacob over the car issue. But Jacob was now well-known—people liked him. Within moments, a crowd gathered, siding with Jacob. In the scuffle that broke out, Riffin suffered a heavy blow to the chest. He collapsed.
He died.
It had not been Jacob’s intention. But it didn’t matter. The result was the same—Riffin was gone.
Suresh paused, his fingers trembling slightly over the pen. He had written the scene in a blur of emotion. His mind was still reeling from the brutal assault, the wreckage of his hospital, the betrayal, the helplessness.
He stared at the name: Riffin.
“I just made him up,” Suresh whispered to himself. “Just a name. Just a character. And I killed him.”
But something about it felt... real.
Too real.
Suresh didn’t want to drown in depression.
In an attempt to clear his mind, he left for West Coast Island, where an old friend welcomed him. The days passed slowly. Though he didn’t exactly enjoy them, something about the ocean breeze, the distant waves, and the quiet nights gave him space to breathe.
Fifteen days later, he returned, still hollow but more stable. He decided he wouldn't rebuild the hospital. Instead, he thought of opening a medical shop—something quieter, simpler. As he searched through old documents and certificates, something unexpected caught his eye.
The old, half-completed storybook.
He dusted it off and flipped through its pages casually—until he froze.
The story was complete.
He stared at the last few pages, his heart racing. He knew he hadn’t written them.
“Who completed my story?” he shouted, calling for his wife.
She came rushing in.
“I don’t know,” she said, confused. “No one entered your room the entire time you were gone.”
Suresh sat down and began reading from where he had left off.
After Jacob's accidental encounter with Riffin, the goon's friends had not stayed silent. One stormy night, they came in large numbers, broke into Jacob’s home, and murdered him.
And that was how Jacob’s story ended.
Suresh closed the book slowly, his hands trembling.
He stared at the last line again.
It felt less like a story—and more like a warning.
Next to the book lay a newspaper. Its headline read:
“Riffin’s Revenge Lead Death”
Suresh’s eyes widened. As he read the details, his breath caught in his throat.
It was the same story.
Word for word, the events matched what he had written. He scrambled to gather all the newspapers from the day of the hospital attack onwards. Each one echoed his “fiction.” Every twist, every character—real.
His heart pounded. “So it happened... all of it. Jacob existed. And he died... because I wrote it?”
He needed to know the truth.
He traveled to the address that appeared in one of the articles. The place where Jacob had supposedly lived. And it was there. Real, tangible. Neighbors still whispered his name, speaking of a man who changed, who loved deeply, and who died too soon.
Suresh returned home, overwhelmed. He picked up the book and drove to the old banyan tree, the place where it all began. The forest stood silent, thick as ever, but the air felt charged—like it was listening.
He stood beneath the tree, the book in his hands.
“My dear Lord,” he said, his voice trembling, “you’ve written a story for every living soul. You know how a life will begin and how it will end. When a man like me is handed a thread of creation, I see now... it’s not meant to be shaped by pride or pain.”
“I thought it was just fiction. I didn’t know it was real. If I had known, I would have written something beautiful. Something hopeful.”
He knelt down, placing the book on the same spot where he had once found it.
“I now understand why you are called the Supreme.”
A single tear rolled down his cheek and fell onto the cover. In that instant, the old, tattered cover turned new, gleaming softly. The inner pages, once fresh and white, yellowed and curled with age.
The book had been returned.
And Suresh walked away, lighter than he had felt in years.
Many years passed.
The banyan tree still stood tall, its roots deeper, its shade darker. The jungle had grown wilder, and the path to the ancient temple was now barely visible. But still, drawn by curiosity or fate, a man named Baron made his way to that very spot.
He had heard whispers in an old journal about a mysterious book under a sacred tree. With a skeptic’s smirk and a wanderer’s heart, he arrived, brushing past vines and thorns—until he saw it.
The book.
Still there.
Its cover looked oddly fresh, untouched by time. He picked it up and flipped through the pages. A story unfolded—of Jacob, of love, of transformation, and of an untimely death. And a man named Suresh who discovered the terrifying truth of his own authorship.
Baron reached the last page.
There, in a handwriting unlike the rest—finer, sharper, etched with finality—were the words:
“The power of death was once given to a man.
And he chose to end Jacob’s life at the age of thirty-five.
God desired a smooth story.
But man chose one of aggression and pain.
THE END”
Baron closed the book slowly, his fingers trembling.
A gust of wind passed through the trees. The jungle fell silent. The book pulsed faintly with an energy he couldn't name.
And far away, in a realm where stories are born before they happen, the Author watched in silence.
