Artifex suggested that Ink take a break from writing, and at first, she vehemently refused. How could she, when she had been struggling with writer’s block for a long while? Wouldn’t taking a break now ruin her flow?

“What flow?” he had responded evenly, and she was silent at that.

His explanation made sense: she had one line, one good line, and yet no idea of plot or substance. Only the barebones existed, and even then, he argued, the barebones was not enough to jump into a story. No, she needed to take time away, because only then would the story would leap out at her; once she was sufficiently away from a piece, her subconscious, without her knowing, would be exploring every possibility, and her frustration and block would vanish at the opportune time.

“But what about that whole thing I wrote?” she had protested. “It’s lost!”

“Rewrite it later,” he had replied. “It’ll probably sound better than it did initially.”

She had grumbled, mostly out of discomfort with the idea. But in the end, she agreed to take a break; she had been obsessing with the story for so long, maybe she did need a break. A break to collect herself, live life, learn a little, and then, when that time came, she could get back into the piece, into the writing, and hopefully finish it.

“In the meantime…”

In the meantime, she would put her novel away. She would not open the document for a while. She would hide it from her eyes and speak little of it. She could read and write other things but she would not read or write her novel for now. And she would wait; wait until, suddenly, inspiration and motivation came, and then she would launch herself into the writing.

But it would be hard—this she knew. It would be hard to do anything else, especially since she had spent the past several days working towards the end goal of writing her novel. Would she be abandoning all of her work, then? No, he had answered, you are taking a break for now. Temporarily.

Their conversation lost its vocal tones and transitioned into texts sent during dinner (much to Ink’s mom’s mild annoyance) and kept going well into the night. Sometimes it strayed, but for the most part it remained the same: supportive, reassuring, and firm on both sides.

When Ink finally did drift off to sleep, it was with a resolve to not be bothered by her lack of progress; and she dreamed, this time, not of able-bodied men and the stories of vixens entwined in emotional struggle, but of abstract, fleeting images that were nonetheless able to provide rest.

A dark Tuesday morning awoke her. The gloom of the sky drifted through her window and pervaded all around her room. So dark was the sky that she at first thought she had woken up far too early, but a cautionary glance to her clock revealed that it was the usual time. She groaned, then slipped out of bed, rubbing the grogginess from her eyes.

Mornings of this kind never were her type. Too dark to do anything productive, and too early to do anything either; yet she had to surge past the sleepiness and find some hidden strength to get through the first few hours. She wondered if anyone even enjoyed getting up this early, or ever got up any earlier.

A few minutes later, she emerged from her room and headed downstairs, where the gloom was no longer as gloomy and was beginning to drift into shining silver. A morning wind was beginning to drift just outside, and she could hear the rustling of leaves as the tree out front swayed in rhythm. She paused for a moment to listen. The shadow of her mom appeared on the steps, long and thin, and for a moment she watched it, filled with flashing dread and anticipation; then it turned and darted away.

There was a crash.

Ink ran into the kitchen, crying for her mom. She found her bent over the sink, and beside her was a pile of shattered dishes. A coffee mug lay spilled over into the sink. But Ink ignored the fallen items and instead moved to her mother’s side. “Mom! What’s happened?”

Her mom’s face was stricken with pain, but she managed a shaky grin. “I-I’m sorry, Ink. The dishes—they just slipped…”

She winced, one arm leaning on the counter. Ink saw blood. In an instant she dashed away for the bathroom, and came back with a roll of bandages. Against her mother’s soft protesting, she cleaned and then dressed the wound. “You have to be more careful, Mom,” Ink chided, pursing her lips once she was done.

She helped her mom stand, face covered with worry. “You’ve never dropped the dishes before,” Ink noted quietly.

Her mom nodded. “No, I haven’t. I suppose it’s just one of those days.”

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Not just yet.”

Ink took her mom over to the table and sat her down, where the woman opened her medicine case and pulled out her pills. She began taking them one at a time. Ink went into the kitchen to fix herself breakfast, but every so often she looked back over to her mom, making sure she didn’t fall again.

She came back with her food and sat down, eating slowly, keeping watch over her mom. But eventually her worry began to recede. They talked about what was going to happen today, as well as plans for Christmas—there were none so far, and Ink’s mom confessed that she hoped to stay home and enjoy the holiday season if she could. Ink agreed. They didn’t mind going to a part if they were invited, but in all honesty, they would have enjoyed a quiet, festive night.

Her mom asked about her story, and Ink confessed she was going to take a little break. “That’s good,” her mom said. “You don’t want to tire yourself out.”

A voice inside murmured obscene things, chastising her for giving up; she forced it away, reasoning that she wasn’t giving up, that she was just trying not to burn out again. The story will come, she assured herself, chewing on a piece of toast. She almost believed it. Then again, it was only Tuesday. Perhaps that assurance would be more believable during the week.

Momentarily, she became lost in those thoughts. Then her mom’s voice cut through them, drawing her back to the present. “Ink? Aren’t you going to be late?”

Ink glanced at the nearby clock, and then yelped. “Agh! You’re right! Crap, crap, crap!”

She gobbled down the rest of her toast, all thoughts of writing vanishing, replaced with a different kind of worry. She threw the plate into the sink, before rushing upstairs to get ready for the day. Moments later, she came back down, having hastily thrown on some clothing, brushed her teeth, and tended to her hair—breathlessly she came down, huffing and puffing. She gathered her belongings, put on her coat, and kissed her mom goodbye. “I’ll see you later!” she called as she darted out the door. She didn’t look back.

Ink’s mom watched her go, a bittersweet smile on her face. Then she closed the door and released a pent-up breath. Her fist clenched. She couldn’t believe she had dropped all those dishes. That wasn’t like her. Maybe…

No, it was nothing. There was nothing wrong. It was just a little mistake, a tiny error. Nothing more.

You should tell her, a voice said.

She shook her head and walked back into the dining room, that thought hounding her with ever step. It was better that she keep quiet. Ink shouldn’t have to worry. There were far more pressing matters on the girl’s mind, and her mom didn’t think it right to throw some hypothetical problem—one that she had yet to confirm—onto her shoulders. No, it was better this way; she was sure of it.

Just as she was about to clean up, though, the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?” she said into the speaker.

“Glory Quill?” came the cool, composed voice of the secretary.

“Speaking.”

“Could you come into the office today? The doctor wants to speak with you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. I’ll be there in a little bit.”

She hung up, caught off guard by the appointment. Her doctor never had been this sudden. Was something wrong?

No! she insisted, wringing her hands. It was probably just a follow-up to her last examination, nothing more. No need to worry.

Her eyes darted suddenly over to the picture frame that hung next to the china cabinet, one of herself, garbed in white, and a young man in a finely-pressed suit. Their smiles reached their eyes. There wasn’t a trace of worry in them. She found herself drawn to the man’s eyes, and there was a silent exchange between them.

Nothing is wrong, she said. But the picture was silent. The eyes were questioning, pleading.

After a moment, she looked away. If only she could believe those words.