"Nanowrimo is coming…" He whispered, glancing out the window.
Leaves were changing colors and falling to the ground, more every day.
The fireplace crackled but he could not feel the heat.
A chill wind shook the hut.
He blew on his fingers and looked at the scrolls on the table before him.
"Blank…" he said, tracing his hand across the smooth papyrus.
He placed a cup of ink on the table nearby and took a quill from within his vest.
He dabbed the quill into the ink and began writing.
"It is time to prepare," he said.
Soon, the scrolls would be filled with writing, pages upon pages.
He wrote.
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