The men were kind about removing the pencil from my hand, wiping my blood from the ground, from my arm, then bandaging it. Maybe they really did feel for me. One of them walked me back to the restaurant, even bowing before departing.

Torou was there, waiting for me, pale next to Linda. He took my hand, my arm, and pulled me into him.

“I’m fine,” I breathed, holding on to him tight. “It’s over.”

And then he told me something I thought I would never forget. I will forget it, I know that now, but maybe if I pass it on to you, you can remember for me, and maybe the world can remember that there was once a man like him, who somehow managed to love me through all I have put him through.

“So many messages, sent through you,” he murmured into my hair.

I want to share his words with you, for your life and my life have always been intertwined.

“But you have a story, too, and you deserve to live it.”

How many stories passed through us? Combined with our mothers, it must be in the thousands. Stories Reforged in our bodies and bled back to life, whether we wanted it or not, whether or not the authors wanted it. I don’t know if we have done enough good in the world for all the harm we have caused.

But I understand. Finally, I feel you close once more. I understand and I forgive. Neither of us had an easy time, made worse by our abilities. Perhaps my grandmother was right, all those years ago, to not want me to learn. But that would mean I would not have been able to feel at one with you.

Perhaps you are right, and in this world, which is kinder than the one we grew up in, it would be okay to share my story.

Oh, don’t wave your hand and pretend like this isn’t a big deal for us, or that you don’t still care for me, after all these years. I know what you have done for Monica. Knew as soon as the pencil-shaped package showed up in the mail with Louise’s name on the return address. Where else would your girl get one of our pencils but from you? Thank you, truly.

I’ve asked Monica to go to Shanghai to give you this last pencil heart of mine. Edward has already invited her. I will likely never see you again—who knew, at our young age, that would be the case. Traveling would disorient me too much, and the version you would see likely would not be a version I would want you to see.