“Hmm, yes? Oh, my goodness, it’s you.”
“And that must mean that I’m …”
“Well, well. I must say, I never expected to actually meet you. Never believed in this sort of thing, you know.”
IF I MAY BE PERMITTED TO USE THE PHRASE, WE LIVE AND LEARN.
“Yes, I suppose we do. So what now, then?”
NOW, I TAKE YOU TO THE NEXT PART.
“Of course. And what, er, what is the next part, exactly?”
THAT WOULD BE TELLING. BUT DON’T WORRY, IT ISN’T ANYTHING TOO BAD, AND THE JOURNEY ISN’T LONG AT ALL.
“I guess we might as well go, then.”
YES, BUT BEFORE WE DO, MR. PRATCHETT …?
“Yes? Go on.”
WOULD YOU AUTOGRAPH MY SCYTHE?
“Goodness, really? Well, after all, why not?”
I wrote those words in the fall of 2012, when I was in London. I don’t know why they came to me then, but I wanted to have them ready for when this day came. I hoped it would be many more years … don’t we always?
I should have known he’d beat me to the punch; I’m sure it’s better this way.
I’ll expound more upon what Pratchett meant to me at a later time. For now, suffice it to say that I consider him probably one of the greatest writers I personally have ever read, and it seems like he was a largely decent human being on top of it. His death is a great loss, and he leaves a rich literary legacy behind him.