Our mothers were now poring over the accounting books that you and I had taken charge of the last few years. They had trusted us with it, and we were lucky the company had done well enough that our mothers had not needed to fuss over the finances. But now they were always whispering to each other, falling suddenly silent when you or I entered the room.

“You aren’t thinking about leaving, are you?” you asked darkly.

Our mothers exchanged a look.

“We’ll see how things go,” your mother said carefully.

“I’m not leaving again,” you warned.

“We might not have a choice,” Mother said.

“There’s nowhere else to go,” you said, voice rising. “They’ve taken over everywhere.”

“Not everywhere—”

You had already stormed out, and I followed close behind.

We ended up in our bedroom, sitting together on your bed.

“I wish this war would end,” you said miserably.

I understood, and not only from my own experience. It was an echo of the words I had Reforged, the writer who asked that same question.

“Maybe it will soon,” I said, trying to be optimistic. “They say the Americans are getting involved.”

“But why do we need to rely on them? Why can’t we do anything?”

I nodded, resonating deeply with the sentiment.

“I feel like I finally got what I wanted.” I admired my arm, which was starting to look like yours. “And I’m glad I know about the pencils. Really, I am. But it’s like I wished for one thing all this time only to find out it can’t help us. Not now.” Not when our home was no longer safe.

I thought we had, for once, agreed on something. But you shook your head vigorously.

“The pencils are important. If you had Reforged those poems, you’d understand. I felt that writer’s hope, his love for his family, his love for his country. And we both saw how much it meant to that woman to have her husband’s words again. These stories the pencils can revive—that’s important, especially now.”

I was peeved you were so eager to disagree with me.

“It’s not useful,” I argued. “If a soldier were to come in right now, point his bayonet at our mothers, what could we do? Show him hello, hello, hello?”

“Maybe in immediate situations it’s not useful,” you conceded. “But in the long run, being able to bring somebody’s words back to life, being able to tell their story after they have lived it, written it—”

“That’s what books are for.”

“But not everybody gets a book! Especially not the people who are going to die now that we’re occupied.”

“We might die, even with our power.”