“And that’s what I’m trying to do too.” There was a desperation to her voice I had never heard before. She needed me to understand, and I needed her to understand, but we were too far past each other.

“I’m sorry,” I said even though I really was not.

She exhaled.

“I am too,” she said eventually. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Get some sleep first.” I somehow could not stop caring for her, even now.

The floor creaked as she stood. My door opened then closed, gently. I kept my eyes shut, listening to her footsteps, wondering if she would go to the guest room, collapse on the bed, and wail into the pillow the way I wanted to. Instead, the front door clicked open and closed. Her long stride tapped down the sidewalk. I convinced myself I heard her car door wrenched open and the ancient engine stuttering alive.

I opened my eyes and stared at my phoenix. It was the pencil that had begun our relationship, the pencil she had slid over to me at the frozen yogurt shop with a smile, the pencil that had built the relationship between the four of us—her, grandmother, Meng, and me—the pencil that I still can’t understand, even though its heart is aligned with my own.

I don’t even know why I’m bothering to write all this down, why I’m reliving these awful conversations when every keystroke hurts. After all, what has this journal done for me? I thought it’d help me work through the trauma of grandmother’s illness. I thought it’d help me figure out Louise’s cryptic signals. There’s no way I’ll share this with EMBRS or anything or anyone. Yet I can’t stop writing, trying to make my life make some sort of sense. But maybe there isn’t any sense to be made and this is just how life goes, and any endeavor to turn it into a coherent story is futile, an attempt to make a path out of nothing. I can hardly even type anymore because my arm hurts. The phoenix is pulsing. My wrist is on fire.

Chapter 30

From the Reforged pencil of Chen Meng

I will keep this concise because I know you are longwinded.

First thing, I am not mad at you. I haven’t been, for a long time. But also for a long time, I was. You have reason to be mad at me too. I knew you were alive. You see, I met Edward, maybe ten years ago now. He told me all about you, and I asked him to tell you nothing about me. My impression was that you two were not talking much, and so I did not think it a difficult task for him.