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She had always had trouble finishing things.

Her room was full of boxes, not unpacked even though it had been months since she moved in.

There was the tapestry, which she’d been working on for almost ten years now, still not even a quarter done.

There were half a dozen half-scarves, in carrier bags and in those still-packed boxes, the needles sticking out accusingly.

There were the books that she had begun to read then abandoned because she’d acquired a new one, stacked in piles beside her bed and her sofa.

And then there was this story, which she

© Kari Fay