Anne Frank Graphic Novels & Stories

Yam didn’t read it twice. Franc read the details over his shoulder and made a joke about the amount being “just enough for three candles and a good coffee.” They laughed. But the laugh didn’t stretch as far as usual. It stopped somewhere halfway to joy. Later that evening, while Yam labeled his bags, Franc brought out a gift: a small notebook he’d designed himself. The cover was painted—two figures walking separate paths toward a shared skyline. The brush strokes shimmered with soft hues, like twilight over rooftops.

I unfolded it with the care one might give to a centuries-old relic. On the white surface, vibrant crayon strokes formed three stick figures. They were disproportionate and messy, but the intent was devastatingly clear. On the left was a tall man in a charcoal shirt—Gareth’s favorite color. On the right was a woman with long black hair and a green dress—the exact outfit I’d worn when we went to the bookstore last week. And in the middle, a small girl with pigtails held both their hands, anchoring them together. At the bottom, written in large, shaky block letters, was a single word: US.