I hadn’t seen the Old Man since the day of his funeral. He had looked peaceful, like he was dreaming good dreams. Funny, that was exactly thirteen years ago. Unlike popular beliefs of thirteen being an unlucky number, thirteen was the Old Man’s favorite number. Everything was thirteen. He had published thirteen novels; each having thirteen long, detailed chapters. He always had a vase of thirteen red roses on his desk. In his honor, I decided to go to the florist and buy thirteen red roses to put on my desk. I hopped in my car and drove home. When I got there, I went to my attic to fetch the Old Man’s vase. I climbed down the creaky ladder, rinsed the thick layer of dust off of the vase, and put the thirteen roses in. I placed the vase on the edge of my creaky desk, I sat down and began to type on the Old Man’s chipped, black, 1906 Royal Standard typewriter. I got lost in the pit of words. I was on the twelfth chapter-almost done with my first novel. The exact second I started on the thirteenth chapter,

I heard someone knocking on my front door…

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Thirteen times.