The Lost Talent

An elderly man who had recently retired met a famous writer at a local bookstore. They had a wonderful conversation about literature and life that flowed so naturally, the old man felt compelled to invite the writer to dinner. The writer, touched by the genuine invitation, gladly accepted and visited the old man’s cozy retirement home the following evening.

Over a homemade meal, they shared stories and laughed together as if they were old friends. Their conversation wandered through books they had loved, places they had visited, and dreams they had pursued.

When they settled in the living room with cups of tea, the old man suddenly asked the writer to wait a moment.

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying a folder filled with yellowed papers.

“I wonder if you might look at these,” the old man said, his voice suddenly shy as he handed the papers to the writer.

The writer read through the first few pages carefully. With a polite smile, he told the old man, “These are written quite well.”

Encouraged, the old man went back to his room and brought out more writings – stories and poems he had kept hidden away for decades. The writer read through them all, his expression changing from polite interest to genuine fascination.

“These writings have remarkable potential,” the writer said earnestly. “With some polishing and practice, whoever wrote these could become a truly exceptional writer one day. The raw talent here is undeniable.”

The writer looked up to see the old man staring silently at the floor, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“May I ask,” the writer said gently, “who wrote these? Your son or daughter perhaps?”

The old man broke the silence with a voice barely above a whisper. “No, I wrote them. When I was young – barely twenty years old.”

He ran his weathered fingers along the edge of a page. “Everyone around me – my parents, even my friends – they all persuaded me that being a writer was not practical. ‘Find an occupation that promises a good living,’ they said, ‘instead of pursuing some mere wish.'”

The old man looked up at the writer. “So I became an accountant. I was good with numbers, and it provided well for my family. But these stories…” He gestured toward the papers in the writer’s hands. “They were all I truly wanted to create.”

The writer sat silently and handed the pages back to the old man.

“Unfortunately,” the old man continued, “my talent never had a chance to blossom. And now it has disappeared entirely. The words that once flowed so easily no longer come to me.”

The writer left that night carrying not only the memory of their conversation but also a profound lesson.

Six months later, he published a new novel with a dedication that read: “For an accountant who should have been a writer – a reminder to us all that our gifts wither without use.“