The boy spends most of his time reading. And writing, of course. He copies out sections of books, writes out words and symbols he does not understand at first but that become intimately familiar beneath his ink-stained fingers, formed again and again in increasingly steady lines.

I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you.

The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.

I don't always write in order, so composing multi-book stories could get complicated.

Life takes us to unexpected places sometimes. The future is never set in stone, remember that.

Celia." he says without looking up at her, "why do we wind our watch?" "Because everything requires energy," she recites obediently, eyes still focused on her hand. "We must put effort and energy into anything we wish to change.

You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows that they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.