The "it" in question was a mahogany desk tucked away in the corner of his attic, covered in a fine layer of dust that had become its own kind of upholstery. Beneath that dust lay a collection of half-finished sketches and a typewriter that hadn't felt the strike of a key in years.
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. sometime
He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. The "it" in question was a mahogany desk