Marcus sat on a bench in a park in Newark. The trees were bare. The grass was brown. The sky was the color of a television screen he forgot to turn off. He had a gun in his pocket. He did not want to use it today. He brought it because he wanted to feel like he had a choice.

Three novels. Seven years. Three hundred twelve rejections. He did not count anymore. He stopped counting after number two hundred. Numbers were a kind of hope. Hope was a kind of cruelty.

A woman pushed a stroller past him. She did not look at him. She looked at her phone. She did not know he was there. Nobody knew he was there.

He did not have a stroller. He did not have a woman. He had a studio apartment above a laundromat and a cat that died last winter.

The old man sat beside him. Marcus did not look at him. Homeless people sat beside him every day. They talked. They always talked.

But this man said something different.

"You're a writer."

Marcus did not answer.

"I can tell," the old man said. "You carry your words like they're heavy. Like they're made of something heavier than paper."

Marcus looked at him. The old man had no beard. No silver jacket. Just a dirty coat and eyes that were too clear for someone who lived on the street.

"I wrote three novels," Marcus said. "Nobody wants them."

"They want them," the old man said. "They just don't know it yet. One day, someone will read them and they'll cry. Not because they're sad. Because they're not sad enough."

Marcus laughed. It was not a happy laugh. It was the laugh of someone who had laughed at this joke too many times.

The old man stood up. "Keep writing," he said. "Even when it's useless. Especially when it's useless."

He walked away. Marcus watched him go. He did not feel hope. He felt something worse. He felt like he almost believed him.

Marcus went home. He did not take out the gun. He did not need to. The gun was a plan. Plans require hope. He had no plans.

He went to work the next night. He fried burgers. He wiped counters. He counted change. He did not think about writing. He did not think about the novels. He thought about the price of beef. He thought about whether the laundromat down the street would still be there when he got off work. He thought about the cat.

He went home. He slept. He woke up. He went to work. He fried burgers. He wiped counters. He counted change.

Five years passed.

Marcus was still at the same restaurant. He was still night shift. He had promoted to assistant manager. His boss called him Webb. He did not answer to Marcus anymore.

One night, during a slow hour, he watched the news on the television behind the counter. A reporter stood in front of a bookstore.

"A previously unknown author's debut novel has become the surprise bestseller of the season. The book, titled Nothing Left to Lose, was discovered in the apartment of its anonymous author, who died last month at age thirty-four."

Marcus watched the reporter hold up the book. He did not recognize the title. He did not recognize the cover. He continued cutting onions.

Marcus cut onions. He cut them every night. They made him cry. He had stopped noticing. The tears were automatic. They came when the knife touched the onion. They stopped when the knife stopped.

He watched the news. "The book has been compared to the works of Carver and Chekhov. Critics praise its devastating honesty and unflinching portrayal of American despair."

Marcus did not know his work had been compared to Carver or Chekhov. He had read Carver. He did not see the comparison.

The reporter continued: "The author's identity remains unknown. The manuscript was found in a shoebox under his bed, along with three other unpublished novels."

Marcus nodded. He did not know why he nodded. He finished cutting the onions. He started the fries. He did not think about the book. He did not think about the author. He thought about whether he needed to order more oil.

"Everything alright, Webb?" his coworker asked.

Marcus looked up. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's fine."

He cut the onions. The tears came. He did not notice.

---

Objective Codes (OTMES-v2): TI=92.0 | T1=绝望级++ | M=[9.5,0.5,6.0,1.0,0.5,1.0,0.5,1.0,0.5,0.5] | N=[0.1,0.9] | K=[0.9,0.1] MDTEM: V=1.0 I=1.0 C=0.3 S=0.1 R=0.0 | θ=340° | 主核:悲剧-被动-感性个体