He sat slightly hunched, his head turned slightly toward the window, ignoring the fading sunset. He pushed the chair back with a sigh, brushing the latest demanding letter from his publisher into the trash can next to the desk.

The cover of his old, yet well cared-for typewriter clicked as he closed it, once again, unused. A gift from his sister, It bore his name upon a small brass plate, M. Sanista. His gaze flicked to the bookshelf, barely registering his name repeated on the top shelf in various colors.

He sighed again, his shoulders slumping as he walked toward the doorway. “You write nine books and they still demand -” His eyes widened as he stopped cold. His head snapped toward the bookcase again as his lips moved slightly, counting.

His trembling fingers touched the tenth book. Tips of his fingers touching his name and the unfamiliar title in disbelief. “What the…?” He grasped the spine gently, as if it would disintegrate if handled too roughly and opened it. Darkness enveloped him.