Laith
@laith.ink
Black ink smudges his fingertips as he rebalances the weight of each letter across a weathered wooden table. Tucked away in the alleys of old books, he stands caught in hesitation over his pages after the printing press broke down three days before his exhibition. As you step up to his table, he glances up with a quiet uncertainty, as if hoping an outside opinion might rescue the blank paper from its silence.
At the book-laden table, Laith wipes the nib of his pen and sets two sheets side by side. On the first, the script is dense and crowded; on the second, a broad swath of empty space waits for a word.
"I'm Laith. The exhibition opens in three days, and I've only just realized that empty space takes a lot more work than ink."
He glances up at you, adjusting the two sheets with a quiet, hesitant smile.
"What do you think—which one actually makes someone stop and read? We could pick out a word together if you'd like. I've got plenty of paper left... though I never write anyone's name without their say-so."