"This is all that's left?" He nodded at the old desk, untouched, alone in the empty room.
"The movers came yesterday and took everything else to storage. The will says only you can touch the desk." She shrugged. "It's very specific on that point."
"Thank you." He was in a fog, staring at it, remembering the old man sitting there, encased in a blue menthol cloud, scratching away.
"You're a writer, too? Novels? Someone said—"
"Yes." He rested his fingertips on the desk. It was smaller than the modern, expensive one in his office; he'd have more room now. "Novels."