More than the bloodshed, which was overdramatic and unrealistic, I was stunned by the joy. In that moment, alone in the attic, reeling from Mother’s death, I felt you with me as your pencil melted into my wrist, as your words came to life once again. The joy we shared in those evenings as we wrote, giving ourselves the power to face the world.

There was joy in stories, too, I reminded myself, as you had always reminded me. There was pleasure, as Mother said.

I drew a phoenix that night. It looked like the one that used to adorn our front door, an abstract set of lines coming together in flames and wings. Mr. Gao complimented it. He even tacked it to the wall of the dining area downstairs. He said it looked regal. I said it looked lonely. He asked if I wanted him to stay longer. I declined.

I had been profoundly stupid, I realized. You had warned me. Your situation in Shanghai was the same as mine. You had recognized the danger of the pencils, and I had somehow interpreted your message as meaning I had to get to America through any means possible. And so I leveraged Reforging and pencils, the very things you burned away, and now I was far from home and Mother was gone.

After Mr. Gao left, it took me a month to sort through my finances. I could not sell the house. It did not belong to me. Instead, I sold the bed, every piece of furniture, my beloved toaster. I set out cups of pencils with a sign indicating they were free for the taking. When one of the pawns brought me more to Reforge, I tossed them right back in with the others.

It was not enough. Mother had made so many. She had given her life to the pencils.

I ended up leaving with only the belongings I had arrived with, the small amount of money I had saved, and a handful of her pencils. The rest I stashed in a wooden box.

I bought a bus ticket that would take me out of California, as far away as I could think of while still being in America. I checked it again, double-checked the date and time and destination.

I knew what I had to do, but my hands trembled all the same. You had made it so obvious. Did you hesitate when it was time? Was it strange or inevitable that my life came to mirror yours?

I turned on the gas stove, the flame flickering reliably alive. Then I tossed in the drawing of the phoenix. The edges curled, burning, before disappearing altogether. I used the flame to light four sticks of incense—one for my grandmother, one for Mother, and one each for you and your mother.