Having written many, he counts only one as his favorite story.
And that story was written only for one reader. A reader who will never read that story. A story which only that reader could understand in all its complexity as well as its nuanced simplicity. Perhaps more than what he managed to tell.
Now he writes, and he writes for many. And thus, stories are no longer favorite. They are good. But they are not his favorite. Perhaps the lingering taste of a last page sentence still ruminate or perhaps an alluring sense of belongingness ties him to that story. Or simply it might be nostalgic delusion.
But like pages that has been turned over, getting dusted in the shady sun. Stories would be forgotten. New stories would be written and favorite stories would be created.
Of course for somebody who is worth reading it. And thus he continue writing, for that reader who awaits for that story.