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.

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.

Arthur looked at the typewriter. He realized that "sometime" wasn't a point on a calendar; it was a ghost that lived in the space between intention and action. It was a comfortable lie that allowed him to feel productive while standing still.