It was a dark and stormy night, and.

Michael slid back in his chair and grimaced at the incomplete line of text that glared a dead black against an otherwise ghostly white screen. He had seen a lot of blank screens and bad lines lately. Tired plots and worn out clichés ate away at him from every direction. A thick, stony wall had been constructed at the base of his spine, just under his brain stem. This barrier was completely overgrown, riddled with menacing, thorny vines and dense underbrush. This was the image that came to Michael's mind when he thought of his writer's block, and it was the only creative thought he'd had in nearly a year.

That one yellow line. Sometimes it's solid, sometimes dashed, but it's always that thin crossover between life and death. He remembered watching it roll by him, thinking about how the bright dashes blended together with the speed of his moving car. As he shifted gears smoothly, he glanced over at her. Sarah. She was so beautiful in that silky white dress, trimmed with baby blue lace. Sliding his hand from the gearshift, he made it over to her knee, where she met his right with her left. The diamond ring he had held so nervously in his trembling fingers at dinner five years earlier encircled her slim finger, and its metal rubbed against his flesh. Michael offered his wife a soft smile, then returned his eyes to the road. Just in time to see the light. Too late to react. It's quite amazing how extremely small the immense tire of a speeding semi driving up the hood of your car, buckling metal beneath it, can make you feel. Events between the site of the accident and the hospital were a blur. Rain. Flashing red and blue. Intravenous prick in the crook of his arm. Someone up high did Michael a favor, though. He was awake and walking in time to watch his wife die in her hospital bed. Just in time for his birthday. She never awoke from the accident site. Happy birthday, dear Michael.

The computer chair squeaked loudly as Michael jerked his head off the desk. Sweat dripped down the sides of his chest and the insides of his arms. It would have soaked his shirt, were he wearing one. Reaching up slowly, he removed the yellow sticky-note that found his head in his period of slumber. The images, the same ones he'd relived asleep and awake for the past ten months, burned their way into the back of his eyes. He wiped his cheeks, pushing away the other source of moisture emanating from his body, leaving a salty taste at the corners of his mouth. The thick, sandpapery consistency of the back of this throat refused to fade, even after repeated swallows.

Standing slowly, Michael crossed the small bedroom, approaching the long oak dresser against the wall opposite the computer. Wrapping his hand around a square bottle, he removed its cap and poured the last of its contents into a short, rounded glass, one that had obviously been used frequently. Setting the bottle aside, Michael raised the glass to his lips. Immediately, the smell of cheap scotch filled his nostrils, working up through the sinus cavity, meeting with nerve sensors, which sent a signal to the olfactory receptors within his brain. Michael had a slight relief accompanying the image of at least one thing in his head working as he took a heavy drink from the glass. He grimaced at the taste as he set the drink back on the dresser. Make that two things. Michael had been living in a world that was viewed through a square shaped liquor bottle ever since his wife's untimely death.

Flashing caught his eye. Glancing towards the nightstand by the bed, he remembered its source. He'd done that at least twenty times in the last week. Something blinking in the corner of his eye would make him look, wondering what the hell it was, then every time he would feel stupid. Every time he would remember it was the steadily blinking number on his answering machine. Sam Tollins, the insensitive bastard. Every day he'd call. Every day he'd ask why Michael hadn't pieced together another story. He said it was getting time that Michael moved on, that he at least use his grief as literary inspiration. He nearly went down to the publisher's office and put a dent in that officious little weasel's head for that one. The only thing that kept him at bay was the picture of his wife next to the phone. The frayed end of the phone cord lay dangling over the edge of the nightstand. Michael had ripped it out of the wall three days earlier.

Sitting on the end of his bed, he reached into the pocket of his jeans, removing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The lighter was a dark, emerald green. Green was his wife's favorite color. The cigarette pack was scrawled with the label, BASIC. His wife hated smoking. Igniting the tip of the cigarette to a glowing orange, he tossed both pack and lighter on the bed, taking a deep drag as he stared off into space. A moment later, smoke trailed out of his nose, over his lips. It lifted into the air, making odd shapes, twisting and curling about until it reached the ceiling. Michael looked up at the spectacle for a moment, then finally back down at the floor. That's when he saw it.

In the past few months, Michael, who was usually an extremely neat and organized individual, had come to clutter nearly every square inch of his room. If something wasn't covered with the paper of failed writing attempts and overdue bills, it was stacked with bottomed out bottles and empty glasses. However, one single surface in the room had been left uncovered. The only thing that had been allowed to lie upon its surface was a thin layer of dust. This was the item of interest that held Michael's attention. This was his wife's beloved oak chest. This had been the one thing about his beloved that had always been a mystery to him. He was instructed to never open it, under any circumstance, as it held the things most precious to her. Michael had protested at first, but came to the realization eventually that everyone needs at least one secret, and this was the only his wife kept from him. He gave in to her wish, and agreed never to invade the privacy of the wooden box. Smashing his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the mattress, Michael slid to his knees and crawled over to the chest. Placing his hands on each side of it, he carefully slid it towards him, not oblivious to its apparent weight. Feeling his stomach turning, his lungs quivering, Michael laid his head in his arms atop the chest, and felt tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. They collected on the chest, mixing with the dust to create small spots of mud on his flesh, but he thought nothing of it. He just lost himself in that moment.

Time passed, no telling how much. Michael opened his eyes and sat up a bit. When he did, something caught his eye. Leaning forward, he peered behind the chest, into the space he had opened up when he pulled it towards him. Not quite able to make out what was hidden in the darkness, Michael reached down and picked up the rectangular object. Bringing it into the light, he immediately recognized it, and it brought the familiar tightening back to his chest. The discovery he held in his hand was a small box, neatly wrapped in beautiful, decorative paper. There was a shiny silver bow in the center, and a small note taped just beneath it. It read, in his wife's beautiful handwriting, "To a wonderful Husband, Happy Birthday. Sarah."

With uncontrollably shaking hands, Michael slid his fingers under the tape that held the wrapping around the box. Pulling it free, he slid away the paper, then placed his hand on the lid of the package. Removing it slowly, he blinked at its contents, finding himself extremely confused at first. Picking it up, he examined the extremely old, silver key. He had seen one just like it before. It fit into his wife's chest. Turning it over, he found an inscription on the handle of the key. It read, simply, "My Permission."

Chewing on his bottom lip gently, Michael eyed the rectangular wooden chest. If anyone were to ask him what the lining on the inside looked like, whether it was fabric or wood, how many times one had to turn the key to unlock the lid, if the hinges squeaked when it opened, he would have no answers. The simple mechanics of the chest itself were a completely mystery to him, and yet he was somehow more oblivious to its contents. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to snap out of his minor stupor. He told himself to just open it, see it for himself, but something was holding him back. He knew his wife was supposed to be here for this moment, and he knew she couldn't be. Finally, moving towards simple reason, rather than emotional response, for the first time in months, Michael reached forward and slipped the key into the lock of the chest. Turning it slowly, carefully, counter- clockwise, he heard the metallic click of the lock once, then twice. He knew at this point the latch within the locking mechanism had been opened, and yet he continued to simply stare at the chest, not quite ready to open it.

The trembling in Michael's hands was nearly impossible to deal with. He could feel them moving involuntarily. Left, right, back and forth. As he placed his palms on either sides of the chest lid, he actually heard the wood rattle from the movement. Allowing his thin pink eyelids to slip closed, Michael felt darkness fall into his world, surrounding everything. Smell, sound, taste still existed...but most importantly, the touch of his hands to fine grained wood. He felt the weight of the wooden lid as his hands pushed it up slowly. Some part of himself, in the back of his mind perhaps, chuckled slightly as he heard the metal hinges creak lightly. Feeling the lid coming to a stop, knowing he had fully opened the chest, Michael allowed his hands to drop to his sides, but did not open his eyes right at first. In his mind, he went over the events leading to his wife's death again. He did not know why he was thinking about it at this moment, a time that should be truly special. Perhaps it was simply because it was the event that had been playing through his brain for the past months, or maybe at this moment it was the best way he could remember her. He wanted so much for his love to be with him when he set his eyes upon her gift. Light slowly, gently filtered back into Michael's world as his eyes slid open. The first thing he focused on was the underside of the open lid of the chest. Dark blue cloth lining. The thing, whatever it may be, was just below his field of vision. Lowering his eyes slowly, Michael felt the very pulse in his body skip for just a moment. The wet burning sensation of tears began to greet his eyes once again, but this time it was accompanied by a soft smile.

He saw the letter S first. Perhaps it held some kind of meaning, being the first letter of his wife's name. It could have also been because he was left handed, and tended to look to that side anyway. No one could know. The shiny metal keys gleamed at him brightly, despite the lack of light making its way into the chest. One sheet of paper had been inserted into the completely restored antique typewriter. Upon its white surface were the words, "I love you." Michael's heart ached and swelled at the same time, feeling a surge of more love, and loss, for his dear wife than he ever thought possible. She had remembered. Months before Sarah's death, Michael had told her the story of his grandfather and his typewriter. As long as Michael had known his grandpa, the man had, every day but Sunday, written a letter to the editor of the New York Times. Grandpa did not live in New York, he never had. Also, he had only read the Times perhaps a dozen times in his life. He never knew if any of his letters were published, the man just felt compelled to write. From a young age, Grandpa had pulled Michael up onto his lap, and let him watch as he typed away, sometimes even letting the boy press a key or two, as long as it was the correct one. From that early age, Michael had decided, and had since known, that his life goal was to become a great writer. And she had remembered.

Reaching into the chest, Michael took hold of the typewriter, carefully lifting it from the spot where it had been sitting over a year. No dust had collected anywhere on its gleaming surface. Carrying it to his large wraparound desk, he shoved some papers aside to make room adjacent to the blank computer screen. Sitting down in his chair slowly, Michael clicked off his computer monitor, then turned to his typewriter. Pulling out the piece of paper left by his wife, he placed it against the photo of the same woman, so that both items faced him. Settling his eyes on the beautiful woman he fell in love with, and the words, created by her hand, they had said so often in the past, he wiped the last of the tears from his face. Then, turning back to his typewriter and inserting a piece of paper into it, Michael took a deep breath, and did something he had not in nearly a year. He began to write.