Being an author isn’t all it’s cut out to be.

Especially when he has to make the paper himself, because the entire reason he’s writing books is to make enough money to buy the paper. Especially when almost nobody in the village can even read his novels.

Oda sighed, running a hand through his hair and dipped his brush in the ink once more, writing just one more letter before putting it back in the well. How in the world did he write his last novel…?

And then there was a knock at his door. He lifted his head and then his body as though he was made of lead, opening his sliding door and leaning on the doorframe to see you standing there.