The door opened with a quiet creak, allowing you to look into his room.

Wilbur was bent over his desk, which stood in front of the open window. An old candle lantern on the corner of his desktop cast a soft light on his tired features. His fingers squeezed the feather, leaving it in one place on the sheet where a stain of ink was formed.

He neglected his sleep and mental health, just to finish the next poem. In the bookcase there was a separate shelf for his works. His books were loved and appreciated. But what should a writer do who doesn’t understand where to get inspiration from? A writer who has forgotten that real version of himself, lost among the characters in his books.

"...Do you need something?" Suddenly Wilbur's voice was heard. He felt your gaze on the back of his coat.