The writer stared intimately at their life’s works. They were the embodiments of effort and time. Calcified bones rolled out of the chair and removed the books from the shelves. Shuffling back to the desk, the writer fell, clutching their time, into the cushions. Hours passed as the yellowed pages turned. Words flowed through eyes and splashed playfully into memories. Occasionally, a sob would break the silence, but heartwarming laughter followed. The writer’s eyes glistened with happiness when left with a blank page, but prickled at an abrupt period. Looking at the closed books, the acceptance of unfulfilled endings crashed down on the writer’s heart. With the strength of a mother burying her child, the writer gathered up the pile of finished books, heavy with disappointment. The writer carefully shuffled her way to the closet in the hallway of their house. The floorboards creaked under the weight of what-could-have-been. The writer carefully placed the once beautiful efforts on top of a stack of fading covers and spines, and whispered a farewell as they tenderly closed the door.