The Tale of a Short Story (That Never Came to Be)

“Are you sure about this?” he asked for what seems to be the hundredth time.

“Yes,” she answered, injecting resolve into her wavering voice, and before she changed her mind, she turned to the Professor and said, “I am ready when you are.”

The Professor paused his tinkering at the machine to face her, his old wise eyes seemingly questioning yet understanding.

“Hannah, you know the risks. If you go back in time, you will change the future. You might never meet Nuel and fall in love with him, and he with you. And though you sacrifice that, you will not stop your mother from dying. You will only be able to be there for her, but the illness will still take her away from you and your family. Such a great and significant occurrence cannot be altered.”

“I know this,” she replied, annoyed at their persistence to question her decision, though she would not admit this was because she was afraid they might just convince her to stop this madness.

“I have to be there for her. It was my greatest mistake. I have to right it. Even at the cost of…”

She looked at Nuel then, his face an open book to the fight going within himself. She knew he wanted to stop her, maybe beg her to reconsider, but he was too selfless to ask this of her.

With sudden haste, she flew to where he sat rigidly, like a monk practicing the ways of utmost self-control, and knelt in front of him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tentatively raising her hand to touch his cheek.

Leaning into her touch, he closed his eyes and breathed in deep before embracing her with such ferocity she thought she would break.

But she would not have it any other way.

“I promise to find you. I will. Just wait for me,” he almost growled, the words more like a declaration, a challenge to Fate, rather an oath to her.

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I wrote this 10 years ago during one of those shifts at work when there wasn’t much to do, but you still had to look busy and productive. (Well, I was productive in a way!)

I was deeply and tremendously inspired by Neil Gaiman’s writing style at this time, and I was so in love with the way he was so descriptive but never superfluous or excessive. To me, his writing always seemed perfectly written and precisely measured for maximum impact.

I am publishing this here on my blog as a sort of reminder to myself to pick this up again (and hopefully finish it!).

To make time for writing again. To avoid doom scrolling on my phone, watching an endless stream of reels and people creating something.

I need to be this productive again in writing (even if this story is very elementary in quality and complexity, lol).

I need to unearth and rekindle this passion for writing, something I had plenty of in my younger years, a time when I was less reliant on ChatGPT and more trusting of my own writing skills.

Let’s get connected!