This text competed for the 5th edition of “Fairy Tales” 2018 held by Blank Space.

The ceiling was approximately six meters high. The interior was quite wide as well, but neither a door nor a window was there; not even a draught. The air was getting unbreathable, indeed. He stood up from the chair and looked around it: it was a huge glass box. And he was trapped inside of it.
Still disbelieving, he started to analyse every corner of that weird place. Although the glass appeared very resistant, he kicked it strongly, hoping he could break it, but he couldn’t even scratch it. Then, in a fit of passion, he decided to use the chair, the only object shut with him in that room, indeed. After measuring the distance, he run towards the wall. When he was almost there, he instinctively shouted, so covering the sound of glass ending in a thousand pieces. He was out. 

“So, my dear architect, what do you think about it?” the monarch’s Assistant shouted, as a vain attempt of overcoming the machines’ metal clangour. “It’s the most beautiful tower in the world, isn’t it?”
The deafening noise of the construction site and the unpleasant voice of that man, suddenly woke Doinel Aubrey up from his weird dream. Not that what he saw were less surreal of a crystal box: a wide desert from which a glass and steel—and unfinished—skyscraper arose. From the top, very high steel frameworks raised up, vanishing in the sky, like gothic pinnacles.
“I’m still wondering why people already live there.” Doinel replied, nearly scornful. “The sovereign was strict”, the man exclaimed, “this tower represents the power of his Kingdom! It will be one mile high, a true masterpiece! And masterpieces don’t wait.” He moved close to him and murmured: “Don’t forget the King is craving to see how you want to complete it. He waits for your final proposal. That’s the reason why he invited you straight here. His patience is ending. You know he’s here too, don’t you?” 
Still looking at the top, like tracking down that virtual peak, Doinel was absorbed in his thoughts, his head in the same clouds that hid the summit of his building. “Who?” he replied, waking up for the second time that morning. 
“The King!” 
“The King…”, Doinel whispered, almost like that word instilled an unexpected sense of nausea in him.  

Albeit yet under construction, the operating part of the tower was spectacular. The entrance hall, already very crowded, was the maximum depiction of splendour, with golden furniture and precious fabrics. A majestic marble staircase accommodated the visitor, before clambering along a bright inner courtyard. However, the main throng was in the lifts area, since all the restaurants and the hotel were located upstairs. 
Doinel was accompanied to the spa, where the King was relaxing and entertaining his illustrious guests. 
“Oh, here is my architect!” the monarch shouted, while Doinel’ shadow appeared through the vapour. Then, he addressed his invited: “You know, this man is a real star! His works are on the biggest world magazine covers! And soon, my skyscraper will be there too, right?” 
“Sure.” Doinel bashfully replied. 
“Come here. We need to talk about business. I want to show you my idea for the tower’s top: a ten-storey Casino where you will enjoy the view of the whole city!” 
“A Casino...” Doinel was about to continue the phrase but suddenly stopped after seeing a female figure wearing a long red clothing, hard to ignore due to the snowy space around them. He swore he knew her and, after apologising to his audience, he run after that woman, disappearing in the fumes.  

When he ended up in the restaurant hall, the place was already packed. Wiggling between the incessant shout and the flatware noise, a Jazz music reached him. “Four”, by Sonny Rollins, echoed in the room among the distracted, nearly absent, people. A lazy saxophone sound turned slowly into an irrefutable lure for the others band members, ready to ride. Doinel was entrapped and seemed he forgot about the woman. After that performance, he moved close the saxophonist, who was intent on leaving the stage. 
“Your improvisation was outstanding!” he said. 
“Cool, man! Gettin’ a compliment after the show it’s always great! In this place, rattling the jewellery counts more than the applause…” the musician wryly replied. “I see. You always work here?” 
“I live here, man! My suite is forty levels above. I work in this place 24/7! But I’m not complaining, d’you know what I mean…salary is very good, food is free and it’s plenty of chicks…” 
Doinel was about to admit the authorship of that building but found himself fibbing. “I like your music. It’s genuine, it’s sincere. I’m a writer. A poet, indeed. I would like to change the world with words, but anything I write is banality, pornography. Everybody yet admires me. Now I’m struggling with the most important work of my life, something bigger than me, which I can’t control anymore. Or perhaps, I never truly controlled. Maybe, I should get into something different. Something with which I could really express myself, without compromises. Authentic, like that saxophone.” 
The musician was not nearly moved by that short confession. The severity of Jazz made him tougher than the brass he was wielding.
“Even the more extreme improvisation is not an exclusive outcome of his author. Music has its gospels and requires a certain respect.” he replied. “The musician’s job is not to escape from these rules, but to make order in the huge chaos in which they act. You don’t write it, music writes you. You are its flute, its trumpet. Everyone loves music, but we get soon ruled by technique. We should be servants, but not slaves.” 
That said, he placed the saxophone in the dark case and disappeared. Doinel was left alone and decided to order a whiskey. While he was awaiting at the bar, he saw the woman in red, again. She walked among the crowd, and nearly vanished, again. Seeing her going upstairs through the service core, Doinel consumed quickly his drink and headed her. The Assistant stopped his running. 
“Where were you?” he said, holding his arm. “The King is looking for you and tonight there’s the press conference, don’t you remember? They expect from you updates about the end of works!”
Doinel released himself from the man. “I’ll be there soon, with amazing ideas!”. Then, he resumed the pursuit.

It was a never-ending stairway. Although the woman was just a red point, Doinel didn’t have the slightest intention of giving up now. Why was she going towards a forbidden area, still under construction? What was she running away from? While those questions tangled up in his mind, a freezing wind engulfed him and Doinel realised he was at the top of the building. No sound, except for the wind passing through enormous steel frameworks. No people since works were suspended. A red silhouette only, still on the edge of that huge open space, of which everyone awaited the end. Albeit being afraid of heights, Doinel moved to the woman. “I waited for you.” 
She didn’t reply and saw Doinel. Her hair was flying in the wind and he glimpsed a tender smile between the locks. Then, she moved backwards, walking on the cold steel edge. “What are you doing?”
Unconcerned about his apprehension, she carried on her deranged gait. Doinel moved closer but his evening shoes weren’t ideal for walking on the top of a skyscraper under construction. He slipped on the frigid metal and dangerously collapsed towards the brink of the beam. Only clutching some steel bars, he kept the other half of his body inside that line. Being safe, he looked for the woman, almost like blaming her for the missed aid, but she left no traces. He wandered between the frameworks, but she disappeared. Again. At this point, he feared the worst. She might have slipped, or maybe that was intentional. Or perhaps…The wind stopped. For the first time, Doinel felt cold and, simultaneously, a flash of lucidity crossed his mind. 
“What the hell…she’s right. Enough of this consolatory perfection…we should lower the tone…we should listen to the silence too. Having the strength of jumping off, looking beyond this comforting horizon.” 
He was returning downstairs, when journalists enclosed him. The King and the Assistant were there too. Evidently, Doinel was late at the planned press conference. Questions about the project’s future overwhelmed him. When everyone was finally silent, the architect replied. 
“There won’t be any ending for the tower. I intend to keep it as it is, half-done. Like ruins of a desert temple, of fleeting beauty. As for me, the job ends here.” The clamour of that news left everybody flabbergasted. This time, unravelling in the second load of questions was harder, but he made it, anyway. The King was horrified.
“I knew you were a swindler!  You’re done! You won’t set foot inside any other country!” But his words got lost in the wind, returned to blow in that steel and concrete desolation.
Without looking back, Doinel ran down the stairs, one more time.