New York, 1845

Elizabeth Cartwright let her head fall onto the table with a crack. She looked up, an expression of pain on her face. Her head had fallen much more quickly than she would have preferred. The bottle of ink sat open on her desk before her; a layer of skin formed on the top of it. She sat up completely once again and looked down at the blank sheets of paper, releasing a long, tired sigh. She had been up all night trying to write. The clock on the wall was ticking incessantly as it had been for the past seven hours that had been tirefully spent picking at her mind and memory, praying for some amount of inspiration.

The clock struck 6:00, startling her. Frustrated, she quickly stacked her blank pages, stuffed her ink case and quill into the deep pocket of the faded brown coat that had once been her father's, and headed out of the library door.

Rushing somewhat, for reasons unbeknownst to her, she rounded the street corner rather quickly.

Then she was on the ground.

“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” he said, stumbling over himself as he knelt to help her up. He had come out of nowhere--as though he had fallen from the sky. She took his gloved hand and he pulled her back to her feet, clumsily. She looked him over. He was an eccentric sort of man. He seemed too tall and too thin. She felt as though if she were to shake his hand to thank him that it would simply snap off at his wrist. He removed his hat, bowing deeply. “I am so sorry, ma’am.”

“No, that’s fine,” she mostly ignored him, brushing the wet leaves from her skirt.

“I am Mr. John-”

“Sir,” she stopped him, “I have only just met you. I thank you for your assistance, but it is no longer needed. If you would, please, I need to be going.” She walked past him, holding her, now wet, blank pages close to her chest.
-New York, 1845