Mara sat at her desk, staring at the mountain of rejection letters. Some were polite: "We appreciate your submission, but it's not the right fit." Others were brutal: "Your writing lacks depth and originality."

Each one chipped away at the dream she had carried since childhood—to be an author.  

Her father had never believed in it. "Writing won’t pay the bills," he would say, shaking his head whenever she mentioned her latest story. When he passed away last year, they hadn't spoken in months. He had died believing she would fail. And looking at the pile of letters, Mara wondered if he had been right.  

She hadn’t written anything in weeks. The words felt pointless.  

Then, one evening, while sorting through her father’s old belongings, she found a locked wooden box. It took her hours to find the key, buried beneath stacks of unpaid bills and yellowed receipts.  

Inside were dozens of carefully preserved sheets of paper. Not bills. Not legal documents.  

Her stories.  

Printed, edited, some even annotated in her father’s familiar scrawl.  

“Beautiful imagery.”

"Strong dialogue—keep this."

"This one could be published."

Mara sat there, hands shaking. He had read everything. He had believed in her, even when he hadn’t said it.  

A lump formed in her throat as she turned over the last sheet. At the bottom, in his handwriting, were three words:  

"Keep writing, Mara."

Tears blurred the ink.  

The next morning, she sat at her desk, but this time, she didn’t stare at rejection letters. She opened a blank document, fingers hovering over the keys. Then, for the first time in months, she wrote.  

And she didn’t stop.