The coffee shop is dimly lit, shadows dancing gracefully among the periphery. The atmosphere is thick, a comforting pressure on the mind. Creativity hangs in the air like smoke, and there, nestled in a far corner, he sits: the Writer.
His chestnut hair glowing softly in the manufactured Twilight. He sits alone — not lonely — surrounded by notebooks and mumbling quietly to himself as his fingers quickly find their targets on the laptop keyboard.
He takes a sip of his coffee, stopping for a moment to savor the aroma before pressing the mug to his lips. He closes his eyes and a momentary serenity flashes across his face. He breaks into a peaceful smile as if to recognize someone long missed.
Straightening his glasses, he offers a determined smile before returning to the task at hand, his words flowing forth like soldiers in a righteous battle.
Here, he sits and writes; the Writer.
-For my brother Mel