Many new stories knocked at my door in the last few months but I ignored them all for the sake of an unfinished story. There was a time when this story occupied my heart but now I am unable to feel its touch and see it happening inside me. The memories of its magic and its strength, with which it ruled my thoughts in those nights, are still vivid. But it lies pale and cold, somewhat dead, on the floor. So I'd, rather with something heavy there, leave this thread loose in the hands of time and walk towards the door.
