COLD STEEL, BLEEDING HEARTS
Julian said, puzzled, “who’s writing the world now?”
Maya stood. She felt strange power in her fingers, touching the pen’s tip to a dying flower nearby. Instantly, the flower bloomed bright red and straightened.
“I think... I think I’m the writer now,” Maya whispered.
They left the park and walked through London’s streets. Morning had barely begun, the sky glowing pink and orange.
Maya felt like she was drifting through a dream. Every person she saw seemed like a miracle—a man walking his dog, a girl headed to work, an old woman opening her shop. All real. No puppets.