flog

His name is Flog. No one knows if it's a name, a nickname, or just the sound a soul makes when it hits cold water.

He lives alone in a creaky wooden house, half the room taken by a narrow bed, the other half by crooked stacks of philosophy books. Some chewed at the corners, some stained with soup. He reads like he's trying to patch a crack in the sky.

Mornings, he watches light slip through the wooden walls and thinks about how everything fades. Afternoons, he makes soup, always soup, like he's trying to warm up an old question. Nights, he sits on the bed beside a candle and reads until the flame starts to shake.

Flog isn't exactly sad. He's more like a quiet rain that never fully stops.

He believes living itself is an art form. Every small act, a brushstroke no one asked for.