Indian Paintbrush Book Novels & Stories

he said simply, and held them out to me. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. I took the supplies with shaking hands and sank into the oversized armchair near the bed, bracing the sketchpad on my knees. The pencil flew across the page like it had a mind of its own. Every movement was sharp with memory. The cover—aged leather, cracked and rough, drawn in long strokes. The spine thick, ancient-looking. On the front, I etched symbols that shimmered in my mind’s eye—runes that glowed faintly in my memory, drawn from the hazy edges of my last vision.