He was gazing at the rain drops falling against the window pane. At the desk, right in front of him, was a blank piece of paper, wrinkled. Sunk in his thoughts, he sat there in the davenport with furrowed brows as if being displeased over his failure to recollect some memories. He uncreased the paper and sighed.

He wanted to write something. He had a pen right there on the desk. What was stopping him then? He was restless. He straightened his back and started tapping his foot. He, then, rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. Foot-tapping continued. He was very restless. He got up to gander out of the window. The rain was making no sound. The silence of the room was killing him. He took out his tux from the almirah, wore it and left the room.

"Hey, John. Up already? Breakfast?', the landlady was setting the table downstairs. "Good morning, Mrs. Gilbert. I think I will skip the breakfast. Going out to get some air.", he answered. "Ok. Your wish. So, written anything new? Or writing anything? You should let us read.", she said. "Ummm. Nothing. No writing. I will. Leaving now.", he uttered and left the house.

"Who was it?", Mr. Gilbert joined his wife for the breakfast. "John went out for a walk. Poor boy. That man knew how to play with words and please people. But now, not only does he not write anything but also refrains from speaking.", she sighed.

John was an unpublished writer. He used to say that he would be world famous the day he gets published and he had been working on it. All would know him and recognize his writing. "Mrs. Gilbert, you should know that yours truly won't be living with you for long now. Once I get published I will be famous and rich. I will have my own big house with no landlady eager to ball me up all the time.", he would laugh and tell Mrs. Gilbert.

John ran to the other side of the road and started walking down the path. He just kept walking without paying any attention to people or things happening around him. Hands in the pocket and head down. He was looking at the patterns made by the raindrops on the dry ground. By the time he reached the cafe, it had stopped raining. He went inside, took off his coat and hung it by the chair. "Hey John. How have you been man? Long time, no see.", the shop owner greeted him with a broad smile.

"Hello. Just been busy.", John replied briefly, "I will have a coffee." "Yes Boss. One coffee coming your way.", owner replied. John had known the owner, Dave, for five years. He used to come to this shop often. He would sit on the same table every time and scribble on paper napkin.

John looked all over the table and then sat quiet. He looked out the window. He watched people walk by, smile, greet each other. "Looking for something, John? A pen and a paper maybe?", Dave took out a pen and napkin from his drawer and presented it to John. John sat quiet with shady smile on his face. Dave left the pen and paper on his table.

After finishing his coffee, he took up the pen. He scribbled something and left. The paper was lying there on the table with something written on it. Written on it was:

"That Flame Gutted my Fame, It will never be same, ever again. Never again."