Spent the afternoon in a tiny café on the edge of town, surrounded by the hum of conversations and the clinking of cups. A woman at the next table caught my attention—her expression a painting of hidden turmoil. She was absorbed in a book, its cover worn, pages dog-eared. Curious, I leaned over and saw it was one of mine. The realization hit me hard, seeing her lost in the world I’d created. I wondered what part of the story resonated with her. It’s moments like these that remind me why I write. 