No longer were we Reforging cryptic work orders or military commands. Now we Reforged the words of ordinary citizens, and worse, their secrets and personal stories, stories full of anger at the current political situation or their hope for the future. Their words coursed through me, and I felt their full meaning, suffered with them—the Taiwanese people, freed from Japanese occupation, believing things would be better under the Chinese, only to discover occupation always looks the same. No matter how hopeful their words, as soon as they were bleeding out of my body, it was over for them. I didn’t know it then. But I do now. The government had these people arrested, disappeared, labeled Communist sympathizers. They were exiled to small surrounding islands. At the time it was only a hushed rumor. If you had been there, maybe we would have had the courage to ask questions, to rebel, like the characters we wrote. But it was only me, and I was trying to help my parents, who were trying to survive and who really believed this the best course of action for their family and the nation. At least through our pencils we could do something when we had always been powerless.

Then there was the day I found Torou using one of our pencils. Before I could think better of it, I snatched it out of his hand.

He had been in the middle of writing an equation, his hand still shaped to hold the pencil as he looked up at me, baffled.

“I didn’t steal it,” he said immediately.

“I didn’t think you did,” I said, suddenly guilty.

“It was sitting on the table. I thought I’d try it out. How could I resist, after the way you describe them to the customers?”

“They’re not . . . I didn’t think you would like them.” I tucked the pencil into my apron.

“Are you kidding? I understand what my sister was going on about now.” He frowned. “They write beautifully. I can afford it if that’s what you are worried about.”

“It’s not.”

“I feel like I should be supporting your business with all the time I spend here.”

“Mother doesn’t care about that kind of thing.”

His expression turned dark. “Is it because you don’t want locals using your pencils?”

I was able to cut off that line of reasoning quickly.

“You know I have sold to plenty of locals.”

He crossed his arms.

“Then why not to me?”