But the most interesting aspect of Eva’s room were the sheets of paper, fifty-two in total, lining her wall like a mismatched quilt of white rectangles and black words. Each was the last written page of one of Eva’s unfinished stories. The wall was a homage to ideas never seen to completion. With a few of them, Eva had gotten so frustrated she had stopped midsentence, printed the page, hung it on the wall, and never looked at it again—like a dangling conversation cut short.