It's on the left side of my desk, precariously perched between a neglected in/out stacking file system and a black, Pixar-like lamp.
It's nothing much to look at. They're stacked haphazardly yet with just enough order to not be a complete mess. Most pieces are the usual "98 brightness" of our copier paper. Whatever that meant.
Some are a bit more crumbled and yellowed. A few are on old, lined paper with handwriting instead of print. Some papers disappear from the pile after a day while others have been there for years.
At first, I thought nothing of them. Perhaps I'd brought my novel notes and simply forgot I put them on the desk. When they were there the next day, and the next, and the next, however, I started to look through them.
They were my stories alright, but not ones I'd written. I mean, I'd had the ideas in my head. But I had never put a pen to paper or finger to keyboard to write them.
Yet they sat there. If paper had eyes, I'd imagine they would stare at me the full eight hours plus half hour lunch.
During the day, the stack slowly dwindles. It's barely noticeable at work. One day, I decided to bring it home, because I was curious. It disappeared by the end of the night.
Despite this, every day, it shows up on my desk promptly at eight am, waiting for me to write them.