Stephen

It was a beautiful summer evening. The sun was already setting, its rays filling the room with a reddish-amber light.

Stefan sat at his desk in his room in Cambridge. It was quiet. The only sounds were the steady scratching of his pen and his gentle breathing. Finally, lifting his pen from the paper, he reread what he had written and, with a grin, held the piece of paper to the candle. The paper immediately caught fire and, within moments, was reduced to ashes.

Stefan took a new sheet of paper and had already started writing again when someone knocked on the door.