Sometime -

They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history.

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

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. They never had

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." Beneath that dust lay a collection of half-finished

He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began.

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.