But unlike the others, in this one that future was unwritten.
So, this was it. This was her life. Her root life. And it was a blank page.
Nora stood there a moment, with her old school pen in hand. It was now nearly one minute after midnight.
The other books on the shelf had become charcoal,
and the hanging light bulb flickered through the dust, vaguely illuminating the fracturing ceiling.
A large piece of ceiling around the lightroughly the shape of Francewas looking ready to fall and crush her.
Nora took the lid off the pen and pressed the open book against the charred stack of bookshelves.
The ceiling groaned. There wasn’t long. She started to write. Nora wanted to live.
Once she’d finished the inscription she waited a moment.
Frustratingly, nothing happened, and she remembered what Mrs Elm had once said.
Want is an interesting word. It means lack. So, she crossed that out and tried again.
Nora decided to live. Nothing. She tried again. Nora was ready to live.
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