Sometime -

The clock on the wall didn't just tick; it felt like it was counting down toward a deadline that didn't exist. "Sometime," Arthur always told himself. "I'll get to it sometime."

The "it" in question was a mahogany desk tucked away in the corner of his attic, covered in a fine layer of dust that had become its own kind of upholstery. Beneath that dust lay a collection of half-finished sketches and a typewriter that hadn't felt the strike of a key in years. sometime

He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. The clock on the wall didn't just tick;

The block wasn't a lack of ideas—it was the weight of potential. As long as the work remained unwritten, it was perfect. To begin was to risk being mediocre. Beneath that dust lay a collection of half-finished

One afternoon, a sharp gust of wind caught the attic window, rattling it in its frame and knocking a small, faded photograph from the wall. It was Arthur at twenty-four, grinning at a camera held by someone whose name he had almost forgotten, standing in front of a half-finished bridge.