You took the previous page and crumpled that one too.

“Stop. Why are you—”

You did the same to each successive page, each more violently, the paper crunching in your fist, even as I begged for you to stop, as I tried to pull what remained of our story from you.

“We can’t write this,” you said, shoving me away. “Don’t you remember the police who came by? They’re looking for people who are against the Japanese, and here we are, writing about infiltrating their buildings and spying on them. As if they weren’t already watching us, as if our mothers weren’t under enough suspicion.” You slumped against your bed. “We can’t have even this made-up story.”

“Yes, we can,” I argued, and took the pages you crumpled and gathered them into my shirt. I left you in our room while I took the pages to the front of the complex, to the workshop. I started the kiln. As soon as the fire was substantial enough, I tossed our story in. I knew you were right. But I also knew there was a way around this.

I came back to our room with an old newspaper and a handful of pencils that Mother had tossed for not passing her discerning eye. You looked up questioningly.

I ignored your curious gaze and continued our story where we left off, writing over the article in the newspaper. It was illegible, my characters tangling with those of the article. I kept writing, allowing my words to stack on top of one another. Somewhere along the way, as I wrote about our characters using the money they had pilfered on their last infiltration to buy two freshly steamed fish, garnished with scallion and ginger, the aroma making their stomachs growl, you peered over my shoulder. Only when I finished the chapter did I put the pencil down.

You took the newspaper, trying to decipher my words, flipping the page, rotating it. It was practically one solid black rectangle where I had written. The side of my hand was stained in graphite.

“It’s unreadable,” you said. I tossed the pencil to you.

“We can still share our story with each other though,” I said. “When you’re done with a chapter, give me the pencil, and I’ll do the same for you. Reforge it so you can experience the story but toss the Reforging immediately afterward or bleed it out over water.” I crumpled the newspaper. “We’ll burn these too, just in case. The story will exist only between me and you.”

You took my pencil with great care.

“That’s clever of you,” you admitted, which pleased me to no end. “We don’t have much, but we have this power, and we have this story.”

“And we have each other,” I added.