That person, old and worn down, lets out a long sigh. They must've been through a lot. Even their clothes have seen better days.

"It's kind of awkward when you look back at a pile of broken dreams left in your wake and realize they used to be yours."

She can't help but notices the way they just said it.

"Used to be?"

They look at her with one eye closed, whether due to fatigue or something else, she doesn't know. Then, they chuckled. Their voice drags against her ears. It sounds unpleasant- Like the keel of hell itself- An otherworldly mix of thousands of wailings.

"When I was a child," they start. "I used to dream to be a writter."

"Why didn't you write, then?"

"Because..."

They stop.

"I wonder why, myself."

What kind of answer is that?! She clenches her fists. Her teeth grit against each other. Does that dream mean nothing to them?!

"Maybe I was a fool, dreaming of things I couldn't accomplish."

"You're not a fool!"

"Hooh?"

They raise an eyebrow questioningly at her aggression, crinkled face peering at her. Their chuckles come again. She flinches at that unholy noise.

"Why don't you write, then?" they challenge her.