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Today I watched a story grow - it had lain dormant for so long, unnoticed, unwatched, until it finally burst forth like a seedling from its hard casing.

Needless to say that I was completely fascinated by it. Perhaps enamoured would be more accurate - such a colouring I had never seen before! Whether I loved or loathed it I did not know just yet.

And so I gave it nourishment and prodded it to hold itself a little taller, talked to it and wondered and worried and watched.

No matter how you nourish something, though, there are times when it will not flourish - sometimes it chooses to, sometimes it simply isn't meant to be.

As was the case with this story in growth. All I could do was watch with growing horror as it stretched ever so slowly towards the outside, ready to greet the world that lay before it only to recoil from the cold and the heat and retreat back into itself, into gentleness, gentleness.

Within the span of two hours I watched a story grow, realise the very beginnings of its budding potential and the responsibilities it should carry with it, and then decide that what it really wanted was to go back to sleep.

And sleep it did - my story looks no different from when it first burst forth, although I can see the differences between the two clear as day. This story has lived, grown and died, and it will not grow again to develop itself and write its ending.

All stories must end, and the best endings have always been of the bittersweet variety - sweet because you realise that the story has reached its conclusion, bitter because the conclusion has come whether or not you want it to.

But I have never felt the bitter and the sweet this keenly before, nor have I so desperately wished for a story to grow again, to face the light.

Have a care, young nyon - not everyone can keep up with you.