Sometime

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.

Every Saturday morning, Arthur would climb the creaking stairs with a mug of black coffee, intending to finally bridge the gap between "someday" and "today." He’d sit, fingers hovering over the home row, watching the dust motes dance in the light from the small dormer window. sometime

He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. The block wasn't a lack of ideas—it was

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. Every Saturday morning, Arthur would climb the creaking

The first word was clunky. The second was worse. But by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the paper was no longer white. It was messy, flawed, and absolutely real. Arthur leaned back, his neck aching and his fingers stained with ink, and finally understood: "Sometime" had arrived, and it looked exactly like "now."

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 picked up the photo. On the back, in a scribbled hand, was a note: "We'll finish it sometime."