Chapter Text
As the afternoon wears on, our energy begins to flag. My brother grows bored with his car and starts to pester our father for a turn with some dolls. My father, always patient, obliges, but I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. It's not that I don't want my father to be happy, but I wish he could see that I am not.
I take a break from playing, retreating to the corner of the room with my doll. I nestle into the plush couch, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. The smell of the roses in the vase on the coffee table fills my nostrils, and for a moment, I can almost imagine Alice is here with me.
My father and brother seem to be engrossed in their own activities, giving me some much-needed alone time. I gingerly pet the doll's hair, running my fingers through its silky locks. It's not the same as petting Alice's hair, but it'll have to do for now.
I close my eyes, trying to block out the sounds of their laughter and the revving of the toy car. Instead, I focus on the memory of Alice's voice, soft and soothing. I remember the way she would comfort me when I was upset, telling me everything would be alright. It's been so long since I've heard that voice, and I miss her more than anything in the world.
I open my eyes and look around the room. My father's study is much as it always was: books line the walls, a desk is covered in neatly organized papers, and a large, comfortable chair dominates the center of the room. It's a place where he can retreat to escape the stress of his job, but I know he's been spending less time here lately. Perhaps he's been trying to find solace elsewhere.
I rise from the couch and cross the room, drawn to the desk like a moth to a flame. There are several sheets of paper scattered about, covered in my father's handwriting.
My fingers tremble as I reach out to pick up one of the sheets. It's a blank page, waiting expectantly for my words. I can feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on my chest, like a leaden cloak. This page holds the key to my freedom, to reclaiming a piece of myself that I thought was lost forever.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, and begin to write. The ink flows effortlessly from my pen, dancing across the page like the tendrils of a spider's web. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out the sounds of the room around me. Time seems to stand still as I lose myself in the words, letting them guide me where they will go.
My fingers move almost faster than my brain can keep up, transcribing the story from memory onto the blank page. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to indulge in these tales, to let my imagination run wild and free. The words pour forth like a river in springtime, flowing over the page and carrying me along with them.
One piece was among my favorite stories growing up. I often found myself lost in the adventures of Luffy. They were the epitome of friendship and courage, facing impossible odds and never giving up on their dreams. As my fingers dance across the page, I can almost feel the salty sea air and taste the warmth of the Caribbean sun.
The room fades away, replaced by an endless ocean, waves crashing against the bow of a small, dilapidated ship. The sky is a deep blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds. The crew of the Straw Hat Pirates stand proudly at the helm, their colorful outfits whipping in the wind.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out the sounds of the room around me. Time seems to stand still as I lose myself in the words, letting them guide me where they will go. My fingers move almost faster than my brain can keep up, transcribing the story from memory.
The pen glides effortlessly across the page, painting a vivid picture of the ocean, the ship, and the pirates. The ink seems to dance and swirl, mimicking the movement of the waves, as if it's alive. The Straw Hat Pirates are in the midst of a heated argument about their next course of action, their voices carrying across the deck of the ship.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation of the pen in my hand, the weight of the paper beneath my fingers. The pressure builds inside me, like a caged animal straining against its bars. With each stroke of the pen, a new memory rushes forward, washing over me in a tidal wave of emotion.
I can feel the softness of the worn leather against my skin, the familiar heft of the wooden handle. It's as if my body remembers these sensations, even if my mind has tried to forget. The ink flows effortlessly from the nib, like a stream of tears spilling onto the page.
The scratching of the pen on the paper is the only sound in the room, drowning out the distant murmur of voices outside. I close my eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the words, the way they dance across the page and fill the empty space around me. For a brief moment, I am transported back to another time, another place.
My mind wanders to a small, cramped attic, filled with dusty old books and forgotten memories. The musty smell of old paper and leather surrounds me, as if the past has come alive and is breathing down my neck.
I picture myself sitting at a small, wooden desk, its surface littered with bits of paper and empty ink bottles. My fingers tremble as I grasp the pen harder, the weight of it comforting in a way I can't quite explain. My heart thunders in my chest, as if it's trying to escape this prison. The pen hovers above the page, the nib scratching against the paper, filling the empty space with words.
The scratching sounds are the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that keeps me from completely losing myself in the memories that flood my mind. My fingers dance across the page, telling the story of a girl who once thought she'd lost everything. But now, as I feel the familiar weight of the pen in my hand, I know that she hasn't given up. Not yet.
