Sometime May 2026

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.

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

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. He reached out and blew the dust off the carriage