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."
He reached out and blew the dust off the carriage. It puffed into the air, a miniature storm of forgotten Saturdays. He rolled in a fresh sheet of paper—crisp, white, and terrifyingly blank. 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. The clock on the wall didn't just tick;
He picked up the photo. On the back, in a scribbled hand, was a note: "We'll finish it sometime." It puffed into the air, a miniature storm