The Aloe Papers

The December wind found every crack.

Joseph stood in his cramped studio on the third floor, the draft whistling through ill-fitting window frames. His fingers traced the cracked ceramic mug on his desk. The cold seeped into his knuckles.

He held the stack of botanical studies. Aloe leaves with their succulent curves. Fern fronds unfurled in precise detail. All returned with a curt note: "Lack of market demand."

Joseph smoothed his vest. A reflex when dignity felt under threat.

His spectacles needed adjustment again. He checked the lenses. The same rejection stared back.

"Quite impossible."

The words echoed his father's voice. A factory foreman who had never understood art. Who had called him a dreamer who would starve.

Joseph gathered the rejected sketches. The paper crinkled beneath his grip.

These failures meant nothing. His true masterpiece awaited. Just around the corner. Always just around the corner.

His thumb rubbed the sketchbook cover. The leather worn smooth from years of hope.

Three flights of stairs descended into the morning.

The first step creaked under his boots. The rhythm of descent.

Joseph clutched the rejected dreams against his chest. The sketches fluttered like dying birds.

Sunlight caught dust motes dancing through the studio air. The particles drifted over his meticulous renderings. Over the ink-stained brushes in their cracked mug.

His work deserved better than the alley. Better than the mud and the refuse. But the publishers had spoken.

Joseph adjusted his spectacles one last time before opening the door.