On a foggy London night, Charles Dickens sat at his oak desk, the gaslight flickering as he penned a new tale. Suddenly, the inkpot quivered, and from its depths emerged two spectral figures.

“Please, sir,” said a timid boy in ragged clothes. It was Oliver Twist, clutching his empty bowl. “Might I have more of your ink to write my happy ending?”

Before Dickens could respond, the air chilled, and a shadowy figure stepped forth. Ebenezer Scrooge, his face lined with remorse, growled, “Bah! Endings are not given—they are earned.”

Dickens set his quill down and gazed at them. “You both teach us invaluable lessons: hope and redemption. But remember, my dear creations, your stories belong to the world now. It is they who decide how your tales unfold.”

As the clock struck midnight, the characters faded, leaving Dickens alone once more, a smile tugging at his lips. His stories lived beyond the page, not just in ink but in the hearts of all who read them.