Pencils and this power we possess ruined my life. I think it may have ruined yours, too. Yet when Edward came, I realized I might have something that could help him, and so reached for the pencil again.

You know how close you feel to someone once you Reforge their words. I didn’t want to feel close to your father, and yet it happened anyway. The pencil was from when he was young and full of hope for himself and his family, and for China. He described your mother with such admiration. He loved her, he really did, and I realized you can both love someone and hurt them irreparably, as he did when he made your mother continue Reforging, even after it was clear it was killing her. I did the same when I burned down the company. As maybe you did, when you pushed Edward toward your own dreams and watched him fail.

I gave the Reforged message to Edward, told him it was written by his grandfather, for his grandmother. I told him there was nobody I respected more in the world than his grandmother. I told him he might be unsure about himself and where he comes from, but that I knew, and there was nothing to fear.

He cried into me like a child. I never had children. I never wanted them. But when he buried his head in me, I thought—so this is the feeling. This is the reason. Why people have children, why people share their stories. These small moments of connection. We used to know that, didn’t we? Back when we wrote our own.

Edward kept in touch. He began to find his footing here. He updated me on his life, and once things were stable for him, I saw him less and less. I haven’t seen him for years now. I don’t mind. I am happy for him, that he has found himself. He does not know this, but I will tell you because I think you may need to hear it—seeing his reaction to your father’s letter helped me too.

To really understand someone I once hated, in such an intimate way, to see their words help someone they never could have imagined. The few stories your father told in his letter grounded your son, gave him a sliver of connection to his history, his family. To watch him interpret your father’s story for himself.

Most people will never understand or experience a story the way you and I can. And yet they’re always trying, and there’s something beautiful in that we can help them. What I thought of as a curse for so long maybe—when the world is not consuming itself in war and betrayal—is not so bad after all.