The old man ran out of stories. He put his pen down and reached for his apron. “When we run out of stories, we write recipes,” he muttered, heading for the kitchen. No one had visited his cabin for months. “Things are starting to get strange,” he mused to himself. Looking in the fridge, the old man sighed. “Not enough ingredients for what I want to make.”

Three years prior, the old man’s wife had died. He sold their house and moved to a lake in the mountains. “To write my memoirs,” he had told his wife the day before she died. “When you run out of stories, make me a stew,” she had said. The old man didn’t know if this was one of her sane moments or a lapse. He decided not to question it too much.

The old man closed the fridge. “Not enough vegetables for a proper stew.” A tear fell from his left eye, then his right. He looked at the clock. 11 p.m. He would have to go to the store tomorrow. Maybe the stories would reappear once the stew was finished.