ㅤ ⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⠞⣣⡴⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣰⣆⣀⡀⠳⡄⠀⠀⢤⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀ㅤㅤ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡏⢧⠀⠀
⠀⠀⢀⣤⠖⢋⣡⣾⣯⡀⠀⢀⣀⣤⡾⠗⠒⠚⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠉⠓⠲⢤⡛⣎⠙⠲⣄⡀⠀⠀⢠⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣧⠘⣇⠀
⣠⡾⢋⣤⠾⠋⠁⠘⣯⡉⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣀⣉⡙⠷⠀⠀⠙⢶⣤⢿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡿⡄⢹⠀
⣿⣶⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣈⣿⣦⣄⣀⣀⡀⠀⠀⢣⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⡤⠖⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠓⠤⣄⡀⣰⠃⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠇⣧⢸⡇
⠻⣿⣷⣶⣶⣶⣿⣟⣿⣿⣿⣿⠽⠛⠁⠀⠀⣀⠳⠄⠀⡠⠞⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣾⠃⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡿⠶⠿⢰⣿
⠀⠈⠉⠙⠛⠛⠛⠋⢉⡿⠋⠁⠀⠀⣠⠖⠋⡁⠀⢠⠞⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠒⠋⣵⠋⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⡇⢀⣶⢦⢹
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡏⠀⠀⠀⢠⠞⠁⢀⡞⠁⢠⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⠀⢀⣾⠁⠀⠀⠀⢳⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⠀⠸⣿⡾⢸
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⠏⠀⠀⠀⣰⠏⠀⠀⢼⠆⠀⡟⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⡴⠶⠂⠀⢀⣴⠾⠋⣠⣾⣿⢿⣿⣷⣦⡌⠳⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⡷⠶⠂⠀⢠⣿
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡾⠀⠀⠀⣸⠋⠀⠀⢠⡏⠀⠀⠃⣠⢴⣻⠟⠉⠀⠀⣀⣴⠟⠉⣠⡾⢋⣿⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⢿⣆⠈⠻⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⠟⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⡏
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡟⠀⠀⣰⡏⠀⠀⠀⡞⠀⠀⢰⠟⣡⠟⠁⠀⠀⣠⣾⠟⢁⣤⠞⠋⠀⣼⣿⣴⣶⣤⣤⡀⠀⠻⡆⠀⠈⢣⡀⠀⣠⠟⠉⠀⠀⠀⣠⠟⣹⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢷⠀⢠⡿⠀⠀⡄⠀⠇⠀⢰⣏⡼⠃⠀⢀⣤⣾⣿⠷⠚⠉⠁⠀⠀⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⠀⢹⡀⠀⠈⢳⡼⠋⠀⠀⠀⣠⠾⠁⣰⠇⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⠘⣆⢸⡇⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⢰⣿⡿⠀⢀⣶⣿⣿⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠛⢿⠈⢿⣆⠈⢷⡀⠀⠀⢻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠁⢀⣴⠃⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⠯⢽⣾⣿⡀⠀⢱⠀⢀⣾⡿⠁⣠⢿⡉⠿⠭⢾⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣦⠀⠘⣿⡀⠈⢷⡀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⠿⠵⣻⠇⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡴⠛⢿⣷⡀⠈⣆⢸⡟⠁⢰⠋⠀⠙⣲⣶⣿⠶⣦⣤⣤⣀⡀⠠⣏⠮⣭⠿⠛⢿⡇⠀⠀⢻⡇⠀⠈⣷⡄⠘⡇⠀⠠⠛⢀⣠⡴⣋⣠⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠞⠋⠀⠀⠀⢿⣷⣤⡈⢸⣧⢰⣏⣤⠴⠋⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠳⣽⡢⣤⣤⡴⠋⠀⠀⠀⣾⣧⠀⠀⢹⠀⢰⠇⠀⢀⣠⠾⠛⠛⢉⡟⠀
⠀⠀⠀⡼⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡟⠁⠈⠛⢮⣿⢿⡿⠉⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠛⠁⠀⠀⠙⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠶⢿⣍⠀⠀⢸⠆⣼⣴⠞⠉⠀⣀⣤⣾⠟⠀⠀
⠀⢀⣾⠤⢤⣴⠶⠆⠀⢸⢡⣤⣿⣷⠀⠈⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡇⢻⣶⣦⠀⠀⠙⠿⣄⣼⠛⠵⠯⢄⣀⠈⠙⣛⣓⡾⠃⠀
⠀⢨⣤⡴⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡈⠏⢿⡋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠁⠀⠃⣨⣿⣿⡆⠀⢹⣧⡀⠈⠛⢟⠉⠛⢿⡟⠋⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠈⠛⢧⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣧⣀⢸⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⡈⠉⠉⣀⣰⣿⢣⣿⠀⠀⠀⠙⣦⣀⢳⡄⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⢦⣔⡒⠂⠘⣷⠚⠋⣤⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣾⣿⣶⣤⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⠀⢸⣿⣿⢯⣿⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣄⢷⠀⠀⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠺⢯⣥⣀⠀⠀⠈⠳⣄⣴⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣿⡿⠛⠛⠛⣿⡿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠟⠁⠀⢠⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠘⢿⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⠛⠶⢦⣌⡻⣍⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣻⣿⡿⠛⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠳⢤⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⣿⣿⡟⠀⠀⠘⣿⡷⣄⠀⠀⢀⡞⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢲⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣀⣀⡤⠴⠺⣿⠟⠛⠯⠤⣄⣀⠀⠈⢷⢮⣷⣀⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣼⣟⠛⠳⣶⠤⣴⣶⠶⠶⡾⠟⠛⠉⠁⠀⠀⣸⣿⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠙⠲⢼⠄⠉⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⡤⠶⠛⠹⣄⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠈⣳⣄⡀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⠴⢶⣾⠉⠉⠀⢘⠀⠈⢿⣶⣾⠆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⠈⠹⢿⠿⣛⣿⣿⢷⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⢀⡤⠞⣫⠵⣒⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠸⡇⠉⢙⣿⠛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⡄⠀⢀⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠈⣽⣳⢦⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⣴⠋⠀⠺⠗⠋⠉⠄⠒⣶⠀⢀⣀⡼⣖⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠛⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠛⠟⠁⠉⠳⢦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

In the quiet solace of his room, surrounded by the gentle rustle of pages and the soft scratching of pencil on paper, he found his sanctuary. An enigmatic soul, he was a lover of solitude, a connoisseur of the quiet moments that life whispered. Books were his companions, their words a balm to his wandering thoughts, and his sketches were echoes of the emotions that rippled through his heart—a silent language only he could truly comprehend.

Yet, in the embrace of his isolation, there existed a paradoxical yearning, a silent plea for understanding that lingered in the spaces between his breaths. His phone, a bridge to the world he intermittently inhabited, would often light up with the names of those who once understood—or at least, he thought they did. But the chasm between reaching out and retreating further had become too vast, too daunting. The calls went unanswered, text messages slipped into the void of digital space, and slowly, the names on the screen appeared less and less.

The distance from others was a consequence he foresaw but could not brace himself against. The friends he cherished, the laughter that once filled his days, began to fade like the last rays of dusk, leaving a twilight in his heart. He didn't despise them for drifting away; how could he, when he was the architect of his own solitude? Yet, in the silent chambers of his room, tears would sometimes find their way, tracing paths of unspoken regrets and wishes for someone to hear the cries that never escaped his lips.

He lived in a fortress of his own making, the walls adorned with his art and shelves heavy with books that whispered secrets only to him. But beneath the layers of contentment in isolation, there lingered a fragile hope that someday, someone might listen, might knock on the door he had inadvertently closed. Until then, he would continue to dwell in his self-crafted world, holding on to the belief that understanding and companionship might still find a way through the keyhole of his locked door