Eliza's attic studio pulsed with an oppressive aura, as if the very air had solidified into doubt. Cobwebs, spun by dust motes and whispered anxieties, adorned the skylights, each strand a mocking filament of her stalled imagination. Her magnum opus, a sweeping saga of star-crossed sorcerers and forgotten kingdoms, lay crumpled on the floor, each discarded page a battle flag surrendered in the war against writer's block. Weeks had bled into months, the manuscript transforming from a tapestry of vibrant threads into a shroud woven from the whispers of failure.