The elevator stopped on the thirteenth floor with a lurch. It was time to say goodbye to a dream.
He would then cook a spartan meal, work on his part-time writing assignments and fall asleep with sheer fatigue on a tattered mattress. He planned to buy clean sheets and a pillow with this extra income next month.
Next evening, they would both step into the elevator together, and he imagined himself to be a guy Cinderella looking at his Princess. It took a pumpkin to create a carriage, but he did not own that pumpkin either.
On the thirteenth evening, his dream acquired a voice. She was real, and could speak.
“Excuse me, someone told me you are a writer. Could you ghost write a novel for me?”
“Yes, if I can contribute to and develop the story idea.”
He dreamt of the novel having a happy ending that night.