Work Text:
Palaces of silver and gold
cannot be designed overnight
its like the saying ive often been told
“No matter the cost, do things right”
Another crumpled ball of paper soared across the room, its trajectory a futile arc, before it landed with a soft thud on the floor beside a garbage can already overflowing with discarded sketches. The room, cluttered with torn pages and abandoned ideas, mirrored the chaos in his mind—an endless sea of half-formed concepts, each one feeling like a step closer yet never quite right. Weeks of painstaking work had bled into sleepless nights, and still, he couldn’t settle on a design. He had tried. Oh, how he’d tried. But each sketch felt incomplete, flawed in some way, as if the perfect idea was always just beyond his grasp. Perfection remained a cruel illusion, and he wouldn’t allow himself to compromise. The endless revisions drained him, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop. The work demanded it. There was no room for failure. It had to be right, or he would never be able to live with himself.
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You have to be careful, you have to be diligent
Planning and mesururing every detail
Creating is drawing, erasing and drawing again
And I’ve never been in it for fame or attention
I only work hard so the structures wont fail
But seeing it finished is worth every mora I spend
The clock ticked on relentlessly, each passing minute marked by the soft thud of another crumpled ball of paper hitting the floor. With every new sketch, there were more calculations, more precise measurements, more intricate details that had to align perfectly to ensure the structure’s longevity. Yet, despite his careful planning, something was always off. The angle never quite matched the vision in his mind. Frustration mounted as the eraser scratched across the paper, the friction tearing at the surface with every attempt to correct it. A groan escaped his lips as he hurled the latest failure into the growing pile.
He wasn’t even drawing something new anymore. It was the same building, the same angles, the same dimensions—over and over again. His mind raced, recalculating distances and measurements, trying to make sense of it all. But then, a thought flickered through his weary mind: Was this really what he wanted? Was all of this worth it?
For a fleeting moment, the weight of doubt pressed heavily on him. He glanced at the crumpled sketches scattered around him, then ripped another one in half, starting again. His right wrist throbbed painfully, a reminder of the hours he’d spent hunched over the drawing board. With a deep sigh, he switched to his left hand, his movements awkward and strained, but driven by an unyielding compulsion. The pain was sharp, but the idea of giving up was sharper.
He shut down the thoughts of failure, the questions that gnawed at him, and focused again. The numbers, the angles, the calculations—each one meticulously redone, rechecked, realigned. It hurt. His body screamed for rest, for relief, but the vision he had—however far out of reach it felt—drove him forward. The creation process was a brutal, painful journey, but the finished product… that was what kept him going.
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Within every building made with pride
The architect lives on inside
Shining paint, a marble heart
That's what makes a work of art
We build and we play
Sculpting dreams out of clay
With the hope that our towers don't fall
That we won't have to see the writing on the wall
“Kaveh designed that one.” Al’haitham’s words sliced through the conversation, coming unexpectedly as he walked alongside Nilou. She had noticed him on her way home from work after the recital and, in her usual lively fashion, had been talking about everything and anything. But now, she paused, her rambling coming to an abrupt halt as her eyes drifted toward the building in question.
“Really? It looks so similar to most of the houses in the city,” she remarked, her voice tinged with curiosity yet veiled with indifference.
Al’haitham was silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on the structure. It stood there, as familiar as the rest of the city’s skyline—but to him, it was different. Other than the fact that he had seen his roommate hunched over sketches for weeks, there was something about the design that screamed Kaveh. It wasn’t the obvious grandeur or flair; it was the subtleties—the meticulous placement of every arch, the precision in each wall, the careful curves of the ledges. Most wouldn’t recognize the thought and effort poured into every detail, but Al’haitham did. He could see it, feel it in the very bones of the building. It wasn’t just a structure; it was Kaveh’s essence, embedded in every line and angle, crafted with an intensity that only someone who understood the art of design would appreciate.
The building didn’t just stand; it emanated something more—a quiet pride, a reflection of a mind constantly pushing its limits. Al’haitham could see it all in the stone and mortar, even if no one else could.
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The more you work, the higher the stakes
And the bigger the sorrows to drown
'Cause one mistake is all that it takes
For the walls to come crumbling down
You have to ignore them, the echoing voices
That cackle and curse as you toil away
Cover your ears and focus on boxes and lines
And the shadowy figures, they're nothing but shadows
Like ink on a page, they have nothing to say
But maybe, just maybe, they're trying to give me a sign
He had been working on this commission for three weeks now. Each week, he presented his client with a fresh set of designs, and each time they were swiftly rejected, leaving him more defeated than before. Two bottles of wine sat beside him—one empty, the second nearly drained. The bitter liquid clouded his senses, dulling the sharp ache in his wrist and the crushing weight of frustration, allowing him to push through, to continue the work that seemed endlessly imperfect.
“How’s realizing your ideals going for you?”
The voice was sudden, biting, cutting through the silence with an edge that made Kaveh’s heart leap in his chest. He jerked his head around, eyes wide with panic—but there was no one there. No shadow in the doorway, no form that could account for the words. His room was empty, save for the faint glow of the desk lamp and the scattered sketches—abandoned ideas littering the floor like failed attempts. It had to be the alcohol. It was the only explanation.
He tried to shake it off, to focus on the next sketch, but then came the sound—a soft sobbing, distant but familiar, reverberating in the silence. His mother’s voice, cracking with grief, echoed in his mind, and his chest tightened. It was just another illusion, another drunken hallucination. He wiped his eyes quickly, blinking away the rising tears. He couldn’t afford to let them fall. With a trembling hand, he finished the last of the wine, its warmth only deepening the emptiness inside him. Yet, despite the ache in his body and the gnawing doubt in his mind, he pressed on—sketch after sketch, lost in the madness of his thoughts.
But then came another voice—soft, insistent, cutting through the haze of his exhaustion.
“Kaveh.”
A shadow materialized in the doorway, tall and steady, stretching long across the floor. Kaveh stiffened, his heart hammering in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He looked up, and the voice called his name again—this time, familiar, grounding.
“Kaveh.”
The figure stepped forward, and the air seemed to settle around him. The chaos in Kaveh’s mind quieted, if only for a moment. A hand, warm and real, landed gently on his shoulder, its presence offering a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he needed. In that moment, the noise of his thoughts faded, replaced by something simple, something human.
Al’haitham placed a cup of tea on the desk, followed by a bowl of peeled Zaytun peaches—comforting, small gestures, grounding in their simplicity.
“It’s time to sleep,” Al’haitham’s voice was low, steady, a quiet anchor amidst the storm. And as Kaveh looked up, the weight of the night, the weight of the work, seemed to lift, if only slightly, under the unwavering gaze of his roommate.
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That in every building made with pride
The architect remains inside
Peeling paint, a heavy heart
That's what makes a work of art
We scream and we pray
Sculpting dreams out of clay
As we try not to look at the scrawl
the message of doom, the writing on the wall
Kaveh’s state had only worsened. As the deadline loomed ever closer, the pressure of not having a single viable concept weighed heavily on him. He had tried—sketch after sketch, each more lackluster than the last, as if the very act of creation was slowly draining him. He hadn’t rested. He hadn’t paused. And with each passing hour, his work seemed to slip further away from what he knew it could be. Each line felt wrong, every angle off. The more he pushed, the worse it got.
Frustration bubbled up from deep within, and Kaveh slammed his fist on the table. The noise reverberated through the small room, echoing in his tired ears. He stood up, muttering curses under his breath. "A break," he told himself, though he knew it was just an excuse to grab a snack before returning to the endless cycle of sketches and revisions. He needed something, anything, to push him forward. The idea of stopping, even for a moment, felt like failure.
But as he stepped into the hallway, something struck him—a sliver of daylight. He froze, blinking against the harsh light that poured through the windows. The sun was already high in the sky. He hadn’t even noticed the hours slipping by. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall. It was already late morning, maybe even closer to noon. A pit formed in his stomach as the realization hit him. He hadn’t slept a wink. Not for twenty-four hours. He looked into the kitchen, where his roommate stood, casually preparing coffee as if it was any other morning. Al’haitham, as composed as ever, glanced up from his work with an unreadable expression, the faintest trace of concern in his eyes. Kaveh felt a wave of guilt wash over him. His own exhaustion was apparent, but Al’haitham didn’t comment, instead offering the coffee with an easy familiarity.
"Three sugars, and a splash of cream. Just how you like it," Al’haitham said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Kaveh hesitated for only a moment before accepting the cup. He was well aware of the unhealthy habits that had taken root, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t show up to his client’s office empty-handed. The thought of it—of failing so completely—was unthinkable.
“What’s the point of sleep when I’ve got this deadline looming?” Kaveh muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with bitterness. He took the cup of coffee, feeling the warmth seep into his tired hands.
Al’haitham didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched Kaveh for a moment, as if weighing the unspoken tension in the air. Finally, he said, quietly, “You know you can’t keep this up forever.”
Kaveh only sighed, taking a long sip of the coffee. It was perfect, just as Al’haitham always made it. Sweet and creamy, a small comfort in the midst of his relentless stress. But even as he drank it, he knew that the caffeine wouldn’t fix what was broken inside him.
For a brief moment, Kaveh allowed himself to stop thinking about his client, about the looming deadline. He let the warmth of the coffee and the quiet presence of his roommate be a reminder that perhaps, just perhaps, there was something more important than finishing the job—like his own well-being, like remembering the importance of rest.
But even as he thought this, a deeper voice in him reminded him: there was no time for rest. The work had to come first.
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Every day we play this game of chance
Whirling through a desperate dance
Sketching visions in our heads
Just to see them ripped to shreds
This road that we share
Doesn't lead anywhere
But there's nothing an artist can do
When you swing your brush, you have to follow through
Kaveh entered Puspa Café with a sense of exhilaration, the kind of excitement that only comes after days of unrelenting work. He had spent the last three days working tirelessly on a design, each moment building towards something that felt like it could finally be the one. He had poured every ounce of his energy, every spark of creativity, into it. This was it—he could feel it in his bones. When he looked at the blueprint, all he could see was brilliance. His client would love it. There was no doubt in his mind.
But as soon as he handed it over, something shifted in the room. The client's eyes scanned the design with a growing frown, their lips pressed into a tight line. The excitement in Kaveh’s chest began to deflate, replaced by a rising dread. The client didn’t speak at first, but Kaveh could feel the tension building, the weight of silence heavier than any words could be.
And then, the words came—sharp, dismissive. "This is not what I asked for," they spat, their voice dripping with frustration. “This is... this is nothing.”
The blood drained from Kaveh’s face as he watched, helpless, as the client grabbed the blueprint, crumpling it in their hands before tearing it apart with a sudden, brutal force. The sound of paper ripping echoed in his ears, louder than any word spoken.
His heart splintered.
He stood there, frozen, as pieces of his work—his hours, his sweat, his soul—fell to the floor in a cascade of shredded paper. His eyes blurred with tears, but he refused to let them fall. The client, with a final sneer, stepped on the discarded pieces of his hard work, crushing them beneath their heel as they turned and walked out, leaving Kaveh alone in the café with nothing but the remnants of his failure.
The world around him seemed to collapse in on itself. For a moment, everything was silent. His heartbeat, erratic and loud, drowned out the distant hum of the café. A suffocating emptiness settled in his chest, like the very air had been sucked from the room.
Thoughts of escape flashed through his mind, an overwhelming urge to end the torment in the simplest way possible. The small pastry knife resting on the counter, shiny and sharp, became a dark temptation. Just a flick of the wrist, and it could all end. The weight of everything—the years of struggle, the dreams dashed one by one—felt unbearable. A voice, soft but steady, lingered in the back of his mind.
Al’haitham.
Al’haitham's steady presence, his quiet but firm words.
"No matter the cost, do things right."
The words cut through the fog of despair. Kaveh’s breath hitched as he gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. He couldn’t let the weight of this failure swallow him whole.
Finish the client. Do it right. And then...
The thought lingered, dark but necessary.
Kaveh took a deep breath, the air sharp and cold in his lungs. He would finish this. One last time. Then, when it was over, he could walk away, done with it all. He would finish this. He would give it his all—every last piece of him, no matter the cost. But for now, there was still a client to face. Still a job to finish.
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Within every building made with pride
The architect is trapped inside
Bleeding paint, a shattered heart
That's what makes a work of art
I'll fight for control
But the right way takes a toll
And still, at the end of it all
I can't escape my fate
The writing's on the wall
It took two more weeks before the client finally settled on a sketch. Two weeks of sleepless nights, of anxious pacing and frantic revisions. Two weeks of pushing himself further than he ever thought possible, each moment more torturous than the last. But finally, he had done it. The design was perfect. It was everything his client had asked for—and more. It was everything he had given up for. He had made things right, no matter the cost. No matter the toll it had taken on his mind, his body, and his soul. The nights without sleep, the endless cups of coffee, the fractured thoughts—he had pushed through it all, until the project was complete.
But there was a price. And Kaveh knew it.
Every day, he stood over the building as it took shape, inspecting every detail of the construction, watching with a mix of obsession and reverence. The building grew before his eyes, an extension of his labor, his passion, his pain. His hands were trembling, his heart racing. He was so close, so close to seeing it finished, so close to finally proving to himself that he could do this. That he was worth something.
The moment the last stone was set in place, the last roof tile secured, Kaveh felt a deep breath catch in his chest. The house was done.
Without a second thought, he left the site, moving swiftly through the streets of Sumeru, heading toward the Palace of Alcazarzaray. It was the only place he could think of—the only place that seemed fitting to admire his magnum opus. He stood there, outside the gates, staring at the completed structure. The design he had poured everything into, the one that had consumed him for weeks.
And then, he did something that made his blood run cold.
He slipped small rocks into his shoes, his pockets, and sleeves, feeling the weight of them like a promise. A final act. He didn’t even know why he was doing it, but somehow, it seemed necessary. There was a finality to it—an end that had to come, even if he couldn’t quite explain it. With each rock, the burden on his chest grew heavier.
Kaveh stopped at the edge of the river, gazing at the flowing water. Everything felt surreal, almost peaceful, as the cool breeze ruffled his hair and the river whispered beneath the twilight sky. The water’s current was swift, beckoning him, pulling him toward its embrace. He felt the weight of the stones in his clothes, the heaviness of the decision he had made. His chest felt tight, as though the river itself had already begun to swallow him whole.
Stepping into the water, he felt the rush of cold wash over him, sending a shock through his body. The current seized him, tugging him deeper with each step. It wasn’t long before the water was up to his waist, and then, with a resigned breath, he allowed himself to be pulled under.
The cold enveloped him, filling his lungs with a sharp, bitter chill as he slipped beneath the surface. He gasped, but there was no air, only the crushing weight of the river pushing him further down. The rocks in his pockets seemed to pull him deeper, their weight a physical manifestation of his internal torment.
But then, as the darkness closed in around him, a thought struck him—a sudden, sharp clarity.
Al’haitham.
The memory of his roommate, his constant companion, his anchor in the chaos of his life, pierced through the fog of despair. The things he hadn’t said. The things he couldn’t take back. Kaveh’s mind raced, panic surging through his chest as he realized how much he still had left undone, how many words remained unspoken, how many moments he had let slip by.
He wanted to live.
He wanted to scream, to reach out, to do anything to escape the darkness, but the current held him fast. His body, weighed down by the rocks, refused to fight back. Please, not now... The thought fluttered desperately in his mind, but it was as though the river had already claimed him. His body felt heavy, every movement sluggish and futile against the strength of the water.
The pain in his chest, the ache of unspoken regret, began to blur as the world around him darkened.
The writing was on the wall.
There was no escaping fate.