[ WP ] You have discovered an old typewriter in your attic , but it does more than simply print words onto paper ...

As far back as I can recall, I ’ ve written worlds. That ’ s not a figure of speech, either. The words flow from my pen to the paper, and in that transition entire elsewheres are born. Even my first childhood attempts at world-building contained depth within the hastily scrawled lettering. I ’ ve spent the last twenty years refining the delicate craft; twelve volumes decorate my shelves now, leather-bound worlds, unique in every way. 
 
 That ’ s the part that ’ s always bothered me: the books ’ uniqueness makes them almost impossible to share. I tried with my sons, but even fully grown men got greedy when handed the tools of creation. And if my own flesh and blood disappointed me so thoroughly, how can I hope to let the world relish in my works? 
 
 It was a stroke of luck, stumbling upon that typewriter; years would have melted away before the thought to venture into that section of the attic would have crossed my mind again. The dusty contraption sat atop the sealed boxes of my sons ’ childhood memories. In my haste, I stubbed my toe on an awkwardly protruding cabinet. The words that flew from my fiery tongue weren ’ t memorable; their perfect transcription by the ancient typewriter left a far more lasting impression. 
 
 Suddenly, my worlds could be shared. That moment changed everything. 
 
 I ’ ve never regretted any decision more in my life. The mass-produced elsewheres exist, sure, but all the emotion – every bit that made my leather-bound volumes come alive – is gone. The paperback pages have been bled dry of feeling. No one wants a book full of words without an ounce of depth between them. 
 
 My delicate craft lies in ruin. 
 
 I lay down my pen. 
 
 The last of the world-builders is finished.
