And then there were none, well there was one, sitting on the rock above the beach watching the characters below act out the final tragic scene of the book for the thousandth time.
In the end, he supposed, it wasn't that bad of a life, at least people read their books. They had hundreds of people watching them through a screen of words. As for his book, well, it never really got off the ground. In fact, if he remembered right, his author had up and died in the middle of it, leaving him to play background characters for other character's books- a baker selling bread, a passerby in the crowded city.
Getting up from the rock as the characters on the beach held perfectly still as they waited for the reader to close the book, he silently wondered what it would be like to be a reader. To not know that the characters that you were reading about were really reenacting, as they did every time someone read their book, the same story, the same plot. He wondered what they would do if they could guess that behind their screen of words there were thousands of characters, dumped through literature in a world that was constantly growing and changing. What would they do, he wondered, if they ever learned that the characters in books, good, bad, finished or unfinished, interacted, talked, and even, sometimes, fell in love with each other.
Laughing, he slowly walked down the hill, hiking past the rocks and being careful not to step in the briars. There was a city not far from there, and he would try and find a book that he could attach himself too, while he was in town anyways.
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