I've typed it for the thousandth time today. The same sentence, over and over. Hour after hour.

I found it, a few years ago. I'd decided to downsize after... Well, I was moving to a smaller place, and I stumbled on the typewriter in the attic. I thought it was Maggie's, and part of me just didn't want to leave the sentence unfinished, something from the both of us.

No, that's a lie. I was more bitter. It's funny though, that first sentence I typed. It's the same one I'm typing now.

Once I realized what it could do, I started using it to help my writing. I wrote so many science fiction scenarios into this machine. I made so many worlds for people to enjoy, and as I did, so many little discoveries were made that lined up with my tales. I figured that's just physics. The typewriter made worlds that followed our rules.

Then I started the fantasy story: What if there was a society of assassin wizards?

The books sold like hotcakes. It had a great romance subplot that people just ate up with a spoon. And last night, one of those wizards was caught. The FBI brought me in. Thankfully, my book money pays for a good lawyer.

I did a couple tests, what if I had a cup of coffee?, what if my coffee wasn't cold?, what if I had a donut?, and such. And with a couple tries, it would always work. The typewriter doesn't just show these possibilities, it makes them.

So here I am. I could write anything in here. Maybe I will some day. But in the world I see each time, I don't have the typewriter. I suppose I won't need it. That version of me seems truly happy.

I type in the sentence, once more:

What if Maggie hadn't died?