A Freesia on My Doorstep - TO BE PUBLISHED UNDER PAPERINK IMPRINTS

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Red Carnation: My Heart Aches for You

SEVERAL WEEKS HAVE passed since Dalfon's encounter with the Ghost King. The freesias on his doorstep continued to appear without missing a day.

'Who is this person? They could even make a request to the Ghost King. . . .'

His curiosity was getting deeper and deeper, yet he couldn't find a satiating answer. He couldn't grasp the light within the darkness he was in.

'I need a mystery. I need to think of something else!'

And so, Dalfon left his office and headed for the area of the screenwriters.

His footsteps echoed through the silent hallway of the 12th floor. There were a few people he walked past but no one dared to make even the slightest noise.

The automatic doors of the Screenwriting Area opened upon the presence of a person.

The chatters died down as soon as their gazes landed on the figure of the Story Department Head. Everyone settled on their respective seats as Dalfon quietly stepped inside.

He stood at the center front and began, "Let me be frank. You know very well that I've rejected a lot of work in the past few weeks. Why? Because your, submissions, are absolute, trash."

His cold voice that carried those words was like a blanket of poison that sent shivers through the writers. The room remained silent. Some writers lowered their heads while some were too stunned to even move.

Dalfon continued, "I want a screenplay that would grab the viewers' minds. I want them to watch while thinking about what will happen in the next scene. Give me something like that.

"If you think your screenplay is too predictable for me, then don't dare submit it to my office. I will only spend my time checking good screenplays. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir Ananta," the writers responded altogether.

"And," he added; "no romance plot. Do not put anything cliché in your works. Once I find another screenplay like those I've rejected, I will ask Lizelle to burn your folder right in front of you."

"But, sir—"

"I've been too kind," Dalfon cut the male writer's protest at once. "Maybe I should have begun the burning of folders ever since the new batch of writers was accepted in the company."

His cold gaze roamed around the room, piercing through each of their souls mercilessly. "You are incompetent. You don't deserve to be part of Asterisk."

Such parting words were heavy to bear. As soon as the man left the Screenwriting Area, tears started to stream down the faces of soft-hearted writers.

DALFON RE-ENTERED HIS office and his tracks came to an immediate halt. It wasn't because the blonde-haired ghost who frequents his office was strangely quiet in one corner.

On his swivel chair sat the Vice President of Ziberstein Technologies, Deema Ananta-Ziberstein, his one and only older sister.

"What brings you here?" he asked, closing the door behind him with a slam.

Deema stood up and approached him. "You don't have to display how unamused you are to see me, my little brother."

"What brings you here?" Dalfon repeated; his words heavier than before.

"I came here because I have some concerns about you," she stated mockingly. "I remember our mother saying something about your thirties."

He brushed past her and stood behind his desk, facing the midnight blue curtains that covered the skyscraper view outside.

Placing his hands in his pockets, he sneered, "I'm sorry to disappoint our parents on the other side, but I am not interested."

"When will you learn romance and get settled with a family?"

"Again," he turned to face her; "sorry to disappoint, but I'll only know love if it hits me in the face . . . hard."

Then, without any warning, the blonde-haired ghost who was quiet in the corner sent a punch right through his face. Although it obviously didn't hurt, shivers ran down Dalfon's spine.

They exchanged looks—one mad and one confused—before the ghost stomped out through his office door furiously.

"Dalfon!" Deema's voice echoed in the room. "Dalfon! Are you listening to me?"

"Y-You were saying?" He tried to keep his attention away from the event that had just occurred, but he evidently couldn't.

"I said, how about you start writing some romance? You don't know. Maybe it'll bring love into your heart."

"What?" Dalfon let out an exasperated laugh. "Romance is too cliché. There are too many competitors in that genre. We won't be able to surpass them."

"Well, your mind-boggling films also wouldn't be able to surpass the best filmmaking company!"

"We are good at number two and these mind-boggling films are what brought us here. Besides, filmmaking is not a competition. We have one common goal, and that is to entertain people with our original works. If we all work with one genre, then where's the entertainment?"

Having nothing else to say, Deema sighed in defeat and left her younger brother's office.

As the door closed, Dalfon settled in his swivel chair with utter bewilderment in his brain. He kept the moment frozen in his memories and set its playback on repeat.

'I'll only know love if it hits me in the face . . . hard.' And the ghost punched him in the face.

Annoyed that he couldn't solve the problem, he ran his hands through his neatly combed hair, making it messy.

"The freesias, the punch . . . What the hell were those for?"

THE BLONDE-HAIRED ghost met with the Ghost King in his palace in the Afterlife Realm.

"My dear boy, something seems to be bothering you," he noted.

"I punched him, Your Majesty."

"Surely, it didn't hurt."

"No, but . . . I did it on impulse. H-He . . . he was saying. . . ."

For the sake of the introverted ghost, the Ghost King finished his sentence. "He'll only know love if it hits him in the face, hard. That's what he was saying, right?"

"Y-You knew?!"

"I have eyes and ears everywhere, my dear boy."

The ghost fell onto his knees. "I'm sorry for bringing you into my mess, Your Majesty."

"Don't bother." The Ghost King smiled. "I have nothing else to do anyway. Do you have any more requests?"

"Forgive me for asking, Your Majesty, but why are you favoring me? Other ghosts are talking about that."

His smile turned melancholic; his glistening maple-red eyes turned gloomy. "To some beings, the very existence of a person in the Living Realm or here in the Afterlife Realm is a flicker of hope. To find that light within each other is such a rare occasion."

He stepped down from his throne and the blonde-haired ghost stood from his knees. Their eyes met as the Ghost King arrived in front of the other.

"Dalfon Ananta is your light. He is your hope in this world. You refused resurrection so you could keep watch over him. You rejected the opportunity to live a new life because your life is him. You continued to live as a ghost for him.

"My dear Egan Conley, until when will you let your light be out of your reach? Until when will you keep on waiting?"

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