Her hand ran over the scribbles again. I wanted to grab the notebook, to run out of the house, hop on my bike, and ride out of Cambridge, over the river, past Boston, to be anywhere except here.

But then she said:

“Maybe you can invite Louise over sometime.”

We looked at each other. Grandfather’s clock ticked on the wall. Outside, a truck rattled by, and a dog barked. Grandmother’s hand brushed my Reforged words again, the lead from my pencil heart staining her fingertips. She understood.

And I fell apart. I can’t remember what happened after that. I must have crossed the room, seeking her embrace the way I had since I could first walk, her arms always open and ready to accept me. Even when my parents were still around, it was her arms I sought, as if I knew even then, she would be the one to love me unconditionally. I ended up in her embrace, and she stroked my hair, that familiar pattern of her strokes, the same after all these years. She hummed a lullaby I had not heard before, or maybe I was too young the last time I had, but the tune went straight into my ear, a soothing buzz until my eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and my throat stung.

“You won’t . . .” And I had to pause because I was breathing too hard. “You won’t forget this, will you?”

She held me tighter.

“There is not a single moment with you that I will ever forget.” She kissed the top of my head. “Every part of you is precious to me and marked on my heart.” But then I felt her warm tears on my scalp. “I won’t forget.” She took a handful of my hair. “I won’t . . . I won’t.”

By then it had become more of a plea than a promise. But I believed her anyway.

Chapter 10

From the Reforged pencil of Wong Yun

I fear I have done something wrong, and you are the only person who may understand. It always comes back to our pencils and the stories we force out of them.

I didn’t think Monica would write anything so personal with the pencil. She is always on her computer. I thought the pencil would be like a toy for her, a novelty. Maybe she would doodle and write her name. She only had it for a week. And yet she opened her heart to it in a way she never has for me.

And then I Reforged it, without first telling her what would happen. Or maybe I did? I can’t remember. Regardless, it was not a story she had wanted to share with me, and there I was, wrenching it out of her pencil, and all she could do was watch.

It was all too familiar. All too much like what I did to you.