The paper crackles under my hand, and the pen grows hot between my fingers. 

I drop it, and before I can stop the sound, I release a sob that tears into the silence of my room.

Tears stream down straining cheeks as my face twists in an agony that runs far deeper than the burn blooming across my fingertips.

“Please… p-please!” I beg quietly.

I don’t even know what I’m asking for anymore. That my powers will let me write a simple lie? That they let me force them to fix me? Yeah. That’s the one. I need to blot out this hole in my chest, and the only way I know how to is with ink. But it refuses.

The words won’t let me lie, and I know this. Yet I still try to pretend that I have the same soul that once created whole worlds with the stroke of a pen and write with the same confidence that I am unstoppable. Indestructible.

What a cruel joke.

“Please, I can’t do this without you,” I whisper to the glow in the angry page.

I pick up the pen once more. Grit my teeth against the searing pain.

Hold it poised above the paper.

“Please,” I beg, as I try once more to write… I am fine.

This time, the power completely recoils.

I feel it snap from my fingertips up my arm, and I know before the sting ignites that I have a gash across my collarbone that will be stained dark blue around the edges.

It’s not the first wound I’ve received today.

I let the pen fall again, and I lay my head against the paper. My tears drip silently to stain the page that rejected the ink of my lie.

---

I’ve completely avoided the pen for days now.

The power itches in my fingertips, but the ache under my leather gloves reminds me that it will only make things worse. I refuse to face pain anymore.

“Haven’t I already been through enough?” I ask my open palm.

I feel weight pressing against my back, and I close my eyes. I’m going to cry again.

It’s like a warm hug from a father, but I know it’s just the magic. It settles between my shoulder blades in the shape of a large hand, warm and tingling against my skin.

“You’re encouraging me now, but when I write, you hurt me. I don’t understand,” I say out loud once more.

If I lived with anyone, they’d know that I’ve lost my mind. Nobody else has conversations with the power.

We’re Scribes. Our written words hold power – not just the power of storytelling, but we can create with our words. I used to be able to escape into worlds I’d written and explore beautiful landscapes with creatures I’d imagined.

Now, I can’t even write two words on a page.

The ink burns me.

The power, a breath from the creator that settles inside of us, refuses me as I grieve.

Yet it will manifest outside its anchor inside my chest, and it will press me, pull me, entice me to use it again now. And I hate it for that.

No one else has ever described their Scribe abilities acting like this, and I’m scared to ask our elders if this can happen with lack of use.

I’d have to explain why I’m not writing, and I’m not ready to have that conversation with anyone.

The heat against my back nudges me, and I almost trip over my chair.

I finally spin around, ready to punch someone for breaking into my home.

Yet I’m met with an empty room.

The sun shines through my window and glitters off the handle of my fountain pen. The page I’ve been trying to lie to myself with lays there like an accusation. Or perhaps it’s mocking me.

I take a deep breath.

“Fine. Have it your way.” I say to the quiet room.

Presence.

Behind me again.

Pressing.

Warmth against my back.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away.

I stride over to the desk and grab the pen violently, like it’s a weapon I want to cause pain with.

Yet when I bring it to the paper, I freeze completely. Trepidation, maybe reluctance. I’m not sure.

I breathe deep.

The warmth presses in.

I write.

Help Me.

And the ink… it flows.

I freeze, staring at those two words like they’re made of gold. A shiver passes down my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s from my surprise or the power stretching out its sleepy limbs after so long.

I scramble to sit in my chair, and I hold the pen up once more. I gulp once, terrified.

I am not okay. I can’t stop the bleeding in my heart, and I don’t know how I’ll survive this. I… I wanted… I didn’t want to lose them. I never wanted to lose my babies.

Tears spring back into my eyes, and the ache in my chest blooms open like a wildflower in spring, and the words start to glow. I feel the pain spread across my chest, and watch the words light up with threads of ink dancing off the page. I’ve never seen the power react so beautifully.

I write again, and though this time still brings too much agony to handle, I somehow accept it and push through it. It’s not as sharp as the burns. It’s a dull ache that pulses like a fresh bruise, and the more I write, the more it spreads until I’m positive that my collarbone will snap beneath the pressure.

But it’s not the same as the burning rejection of the magic, and so I force the truth to carve itself out from my chest anyway.

I only stop when the tears finally begin to flow, and my eyes are blind with the salty fluid. I breathe deeply through this new pain and let out a misplaced laugh at the irony of all this.

Whether it’s been an hour or ten minutes, I don’t know, but when I have myself composed again, and the tears are stopped, I am exhausted. It’s like I’ve run a marathon while wearing weighted shoes. My chest aches in that familiar, dull pulse, but I’m not afraid of it.

I sniffle back a stray wave and finally look down at my words.

A sharp gasp is pulled free.

The ink that had danced off the page as I wrote with power now settled into a strange, twisting design that I’ve never seen before. It surrounds the words and stains the page in a display of the dance of grief, which I just confessed.

I gulp down a heavy breath, then whisper a little cheekily, “I don’t think you’re supposed to be this animated, you know.”

The warmth at my back returns, and I let myself lean into it. I exhale.

I take off my leather gloves and look down at the burns on my fingertips from all my efforts to force the magic to make me stop feeling. A new wave of pain and fresh tears tries to rise within me, but I clench my sore hand into a fist and inhale deeply.

“That’s enough big feelings for one day,” I whisper, standing from my desk.

I swear.

I feel the magic startle.

I feel it pull me back so strong that I’m stuck for a long, frightening second and I can’t step away.

“Hey,” I coo softly, like I’m speaking to a wounded cat, “I’m not used to doing things this way. I just ignore the bad until it goes away. You didn’t let me do that this time. The least you can do is have some patience for me, yeah?”

I consider briefly how I must have broken my mind at the same time I broke my heart open, to be carrying on a conversation with my powers.

And yet, they still respond and support my insanity theory.

The warmth on my back, the pressure pulling me back, it relents reluctantly.

It pulls away and lets me go.

I let out a relieved sigh and leave the room, heading straight for my kitchen to turn on the kettle.

I walk through the familiar motions of making my evening tea, and slowly feel the warmth slide up my back once more.

The tears spring up again, and I wipe at them harshly. I don’t want to keep crying. I don’t want to keep hurting. I want to be done with the horrifying memories of pain and abandonment, and I want to move on.

A hand presses softly against my back again.

I let out a half-crazed laugh, shaking my head.

“I’m definitely losing my mind,” I mumble to the presence comforting me.

Come back. The work is not done. Come back.

My eyes widen. I stumble out of my seat and spin around, but once again, I’m met with an empty room.

The words had been in my head, but they weren’t mine. It was a masculine voice. One that was warm and soothing, like a father cooing to his crying baby.

Come back. It spoke again.

The hand on my back, the sense of a warm cord pulling from my chest. Everything was guiding me back to my office.

I grabbed my tea in a flail of limbs before I finally relented to the power and let it return me to my desk.

I sit.

I sip.

I exhale a shaky breath.

“Okay, what do you want then?” I ask out loud.

The work is not done.

When I lift my pen, it’s already warm, sending a spill of power down my arm to make the instrument vibrate in my hold.

I take a deep breath, and put the pen back to the paper.

I don’t know what else to write.

The work is not done, it continues to whisper, sounding like a small mantra now.

I decide I’ll write that.

The ink glows on the paper, and my body is warm.

This time, when the magic speaks, it doesn’t do so with words, but instead, with a quiet push from inside my chest.

I sense more than hear when it insists, name them.

I choke.

I can’t.

The ache is too sharp, the pressure too much, the memories too recent.

Warmth surrounds me like I’m in a bubble of summer, and fresh tears begin to sting my eyes while I fight between my terror and the request from my power.

The work is not done. Name them. Give them life, and then you can rest.

I bark a misplaced laugh at the absurdity of all this, but it turns into a sob and I just sound like a lunatic.

My hand shakes over the paper, and I take a deep breath.

Instead of names, I first scrawl out the words once more help me.

The power blooms through my hand.

I write.

River. Rose.

And then I sit back in the silent aftermath, feeling like I’ve survived a battle for my life.

My bones are lead, and I don’t know if I can move.

The power quiets inside of me, the warmth fading back into a present hand at my back, like a father’s supportive touch.

I lay my head down on the paper, placing my hands over the names of my miscarried daughters, and I finally let myself sleep. 

---

I’m awakened by a pull. Something tugs at my heart, urging me to rise, and I rub my tired eyes.

“What now?” I ask groggily.

My toes are chilled and feel wet, and there’s a thread of confusion that sharpens as I stand from my desk.

Wet. That’s wrong, I absently consider.

The pain in my chest is dulled, and I take a deep breath, testing it. My lungs fill. They meet no resistance.

I smile. For the first time, it feels like, since the tragedy.

Finally, I look up to investigate what the power wanted from me, and the tiredness sharply leaves as I gasp.

I’m not in my office anymore.

I’m standing in a rolling green field of tall grass.

A gentle breeze sends waves rippling through it, and it’s like a green sea that holds me at its center. The wetness on my toes is the dew dripping off the grass.

All around me, the power blooms, warming my chilled arms, and I feel its quiet satisfaction; like an artist stepping back, waiting for me to look at its masterpiece.

I breathe in deep as the grass sways against my calves. 

I stay still, uncertain. I don’t know what I’m meant to do here.

I bend and run my palm over the tops of the grass, feeling it tingle against my skin.

This world is magic.

Is this my writing?

The power sparks like a cat head-butting its owner.

I laugh.

I can’t help it.

“You made this from what I wrote?” I ask, wonder slipping into my voice. “How did names translate into a field?”

The pain comes instantly.

My heart breaks all over again, thick shards rising to press against my throat, sharp and familiar.

Memory strikes me in the gut while knowledge of the loss stabs me through my chest. 

See.

This time, I don’t just sense the word, I hear it. Clearly. Floating in the air around my head.

I press a hand to my chest, grounding myself in the ache instead of fighting it.

It takes a moment. I need to breathe through the sharpest edges before I can move on.

I look again.

Some of the grass is thicker here. Almost like stems.

Small green bulbs hide among them; flowers waiting to bloom. Ready, but not yet able.

“Oh.”

My other hand rises to cover my mouth as tears sting my eyes.

The power leans heavily against me, that familiar presence of a father offering quiet support while I struggle to stay whole.

I don’t know if I could put myself back together if I fully broke.

And I don’t want to find out.

“Oh, you made this for… for my pain,” I whisper softly. “You’re trying to help, aren’t you?”

I remember the first words I could write since everything happened. Help me.

My second smile reaches my lips. 

“Okay. What do I do here?” I ask, absently running my fingertips across the grass again. 

The pressure on my back grows warm. 

Father. This time, the word is my own, soft and afraid to say it.

My chest clenches tight. 

“You’re not supposed to be sentient, you know,” I muse softly. 

I don’t hear the power’s response, but feel its laughter through my spine. It makes me shake my head. 

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out through my nose. 

The power leans in. 

Open. 

The word irrationally feels like a threat. 

My whole nervous system reacts without my say so, and suddenly I’m tense, my heart is racing, and I want to flee. 

I clench my fists until my nails bite at my palms. 

Hold my stance. 

Breathe. 

“How?” I ask as I fight myself. 

No more warmth presses on me, and I don’t remember when it left. I still feel the power all around me, though. It’s watching. Observing. Waiting. 

Open. 

“Open what?” I snarl a little too harshly. 

The wind picks up, whipping my hair around my face. The power rushes forward too, and I stumble back without meaning to. 

I lose my footing and fall into the long grass. 

A large hand presses to my chest, and tears prick the corners of my eyes. I shake my head, bite my lip as a sob begins to rise up. 

“I’m not ready for that,” I whimper. 

The hand presses firmly, the wind circles us with my rage and my terror. 

I close my eyes. 

Open. 

The sob rips free. 

I cover my face with hands dirty from the mud under the grass, and I shake with the force of the next sob to pull loose from my chest. 

Arms wrap around me, warming my chilled skin, and the wind can no longer bite at my cheeks. 

“I didn’t want to lose either of them,” I admit out loud, sobbing again, hiccuping when I try to inhale. 

My hands find my stomach, clutching at my shirt in fistfuls. “This body is a tomb now, and I can’t handle it!”

The warmth surrounding me seeps into my skin, like syrup pouring down on me, and I cry helplessly, pathetically into the comfort of a father holding me. 

An absent part of my mind that’s disconnected from the pain takes a moment to mention that the elders would probably lock me up for life if they knew my powers had become their own thinking being. 

I start to confess, the words falling from my tongue with no regard for the added pain they rip out with them. 

“I chose to kill one. I had to. But I didn’t want to. And the other… I was going to fight for it and I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I’m a monster.”

The final word cracks my voice like it cracks open my heart, and even my tears slow down to give me a moment of silence for my confession. 

Silence echoes all around. 

The wind is gone. 

The power doesn’t add anymore instructions. It just holds me. 

And I go still. 

I look up through my tears. 

I gasp. 

Flowers have bloomed around me. Little blossoms of red and pink and blue and purple roses all greet me with a pleasant scent. I sniffle, wiping at my eyes with a sudden sense of embarrassment rising up my spine. 

I raise one shaking hand to gently brush the purple petals of a flower before my eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper reverently. “I should have fought for you. I could have, and I didn’t. But I was so afraid. I was so afraid.” 

A gentle breeze flutters through the field and makes the flowers sway. 

I look around me, standing on weak, shaking legs. 

The power is proud again, showing off its work. 

Not mine. It immediately corrects me. My heart tightens. Your truth.

My truth. 

I brush my fingertips across the silky petals of the purple one once more. 

Lies cannot be written with magic… but the truth will always create something with it. 

I nod in acknowledgement, gulping down a long breath that feels like it has to fight stones in my throat to get into my lungs. 

I hold up my arm and point my finger into the air. 

The power vibrates with excitement all around me, and warmth pours down my arm. 

My finger glows at the tip. 

I begin to write. 

I love you. 

The words shimmer with light, written into the world, the atmosphere. 

The light blooms outward, and the words evaporate into the sky as the sun begins to shine down, warming my chilled skin. The field blooms farther out, colourful flowers opening as far as I can see, and I begin to understand. 

I extend my arm again and write, River and Rose will be remembered. 

A promise. 

Warmth spreads from my shoulders down into the ache in my chest. 

I smile once more as the silence becomes a comfort and the wind makes the flowers dance and sway across the field. My garden, written in grief.