Sometime

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.

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." sometime

They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history. He reached out and blew the dust off the carriage

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. The clock on the wall didn't just tick;

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