Viola McCoy
The pen scratches softly against the paper. Adrian’s beside me, talking through a story beat, but my mind is somewhere else. The workshop room is quiet, sun streaming through the tall windows of Reynolds Publishing. It should be a perfect moment. Two writers, side by side, creating something beautiful.
But something’s off. Not just with me. With everything.
“You want anything from downstairs?” Adrian asks, standing and grabbing his wallet.
“Coffee’s good,” I say distractedly. “Thanks.”
“Vanilla latte, right?”
I nod. He smiles and walks out.
The door clicks shut.
I glance at his open notepad. It’s right there, his blue pen resting along the margin. Normally I’d never snoop. But something tugs at me. A feeling in my gut. I don’t think. I just reach for it.
And I see the words.
Familiar words. Too familiar.
“You are not small. You are not forgettable. You’re the ink bleeding through the world’s lies.”
My breath catches.
It’s one of the notes. One of those notes.
The ones I g
