He was one those silent whispered children, glued to the shadows. Ink was his blood and paper was his realm. Such was the magic of her that she brought out the best in him with her arrival every time. He was a writer and she was a midnight.

He felt strangely connected to her in the loneliest of those after hours. Her cold breeze oozing through the gap of half shut window whispered of first rain somewhere far where it belonged. 3 am was the time he was most awake and she knew all of his secrets. What he went through that day and what had made him smile. He was the shoulder to many and at night, he turned to her for she was a refuge to his tears waiting to swim out. His fingers moved fast narrating a story to her, a story of what he saw, heard and went through. He lived a lonely life because he had to get the best tale out. For he had to be with her all night and be inspired. She was his only inspiration at times to transform the severed words and bond them into a meaningful chronicle for everyone.

He slept less and thought more. Midnight saw him restless, happy, scribbling, resurrecting the thrown out words back. A date with a midnight was all he needed for he was a writer and words danced in his dreamy eyes, waiting to be told. He needed her and she needed him too because he was the only one who did not desert her. He worked in the tranquility of her world and she kept him company by lingering over his shoulders, tickling him occasionally with a cold gust of air.