Sometime -

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." sometime

They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history. The clock on the wall didn't just tick;

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. in a scribbled hand