Viktor Petrov, a fifty-two-year-old author, sat at his desk, the worn leather chair groaning under his weight. He was of average height, but years spent writing had ruined his posture, making him appear shorter. Viktor didn’t care how he looked; all that mattered to him was his work. His blond hair was messy, his blue eyes hidden behind glasses, and his once soft, pale skin had grown dry and weathered. His latest novel, a dystopian thriller, was nowhere near completion. The deadline loomed, and his publisher couldn’t hold his spot any longer. Viktor needed to finish his work without delay. Something captivating that captured the spirit of the modern world would please his publisher.
But the words wouldn’t come. They no longer danced in his mind as they once did; instead, they just passed by his head like a forgotten train station.
Yes, Viktor Petrov had writer's block—something he never imagined would happen to him. Since moving to Spain a decade ago, Viktor had been overflowing with i ...