By the time I reach home it’s begun to rain. Water droplets splash my cheeks, and I can feel the tiny, translucent scales beginning to appear, a gift from my dad’s merfolk blood. Ugh. What a nuisance. I hurry my steps and burst through the door to escape the rain.

After closing the door, the first thing I do is check for Mom’s shoes, even though I know she’s at the hospital. But it’s a habit I can’t shake. Elsha, my younger sister comes padding up to me a finger over her lips, wolf ears perked. Oddly enough, she’s the only one who’s inherited them. She’s small and petite, the opposite of me. I gained Dad’s height, making me tower over most boys.

“Dad’s asleep,” she whispers.

I nod to let her know I heard. Then I sneak over to the sofa where he lays covered in a blanket, most likely supplied by Elsha. Scruff shades his face, and he has an arm thrown over his eyes. I can’t help but stare at him, this man who used to be an integral part of my life, but now I hardly ever see him. He works himself to the bone on night shifts just so we can afford to live and keep Anwell’s hospital debts at bay.

I won’t say I don’t like him. I’m not sure I feel about him. He’s like a stranger I observe from a distance. Besides, he’s never around to know what Mom’s up to, doesn’t know about the pain she puts me through daily. The rare days he has off are vacations for both of us. Still, I can’t begrudge him for that. He’s doing his best, trying to provide for our family.

“I still think I should have applied for that job,” I say to Elsha who settles on the living room floor with her sketch pad.

“Mom would have killed you,” she whispers back, not looking up from her drawing.

I grip my arm, right over the curse mark. “I hate feeling useless.”

“I get that, but I’d rather not hear Mom screaming over something else.” Elsha rolls her eyes as she speaks, and I can’t help but agree. I already had to deal with her earlier.

With a sigh, I leave her in the living room and trot upstairs to my room. There, I pull the flyer from my back pocket and unfold it. The shiny letters seem to beckon me, luring me with the promises they make. I read the words at the top again: Scrivener’s Guild Annual Short Story Contest.

The Scrivener’s Guild is one of the world’s biggest writing guilds founded by Baron Scrivener over three hundred years ago. It’s almost like a castle, with a sprawling lawn and turrets and outbuildings filled with servants to help care for hundreds of absent-minded writers. A place where a writer can live out their dreams without any worries.

I’ve only seen the guild twice in my life. Once, when we moved here to the city. The Scrivener’s Guild sits right on the edge, facing the open plains and fields for greater inspiration. The second time was when we left to visit Dad’s family. That was over four years ago. Both times, I’d been awed by that place, and wanted to step inside those giant, iron gates.

Dreams are funny things. Kids come up with them so easily. They dream big, because no one tells them they won’t come true. Anything is possible to a child with simple logic. When I was really young, I dreamed of being a dragon tamer. Almost impossible, but I didn’t care. Then I discovered stories, and the magic that spilled from between the pages and I wanted that. I wanted to create it.

I look to my closet. Clothes—mostly in shades of black and grey with the occasional shocking color—hang neatly inside. There, beneath the clothes, a large, cardboard box, half covered by a blanket. It’s taped shut. I haven’t touched it since that day.

Standing, I make my way to the closet and drop to my knees in front of the box. With shaking hands, I pull it out of the closet. Inside are all my hopes and dreams, stories and poems and half-finished drawings of characters and scenery. I smooth my hands across the top of the box, wanting so badly to open it.

It’s no use. Your writing is trash! Stop wasting your life on something so trivial!

The memory hits me like a dragon at full speed. My lungs constrict and I gasp for air. Those words. Those awful, cutting words have lived with me for years. They’ve sat inside my chest, in that space where the thrumming connection to my muse used to sit, raw and bleeding and hurtful. Mom had never believed in me. And frankly, I can’t say I ever did either. But Anwell did. He always believed I could be anything I wanted.

Gripping the box, I heave to my feet, anger and shame wrapping me tight like a suffocating blanket. The only way to end all of this is if I throw this out along with the pamphlet. There’s no use keeping it. Mom wants me to go to business school and take over her small business where she makes blankets for babies with diseases.

I make it halfway to the door before my feet freeze, panic setting in at the thought of losing all of this. All of these precious words and memories. Throwing it away would be like giving up on a part of myself. As much as I want to, I can’t do it.

Frustrated, I swing back around and shove the box back into the closet, as far back as it will go. If I can’t get rid of it, then I’ll bury it, so I won’t ever have to look at it again. I may not have been cut out to be a business woman, but I wasn’t cut out to be a writer either. It’s just a pipe dream. A dream for people unlike me. Something I could never reach.

I take down sweaters and jackets that I never use and pile them on top of the box until it’s properly buried, then give it a moment of silence. If I’m going to bury something, then it has to be done right. After a few moments of staring at that depressing pile, I back away and firmly shut the closet door.

My eyes drift to the flyer where I left it. I’ll just have to return it to Ryuji, the winged boy. I have no use for it. For the rest of the day, I repeat this mantra in my head until I almost believe it.

###

Monday, I carefully tuck the flyer in my pocket before grabbing my school bag and heading for the train station. Elsha walks with me. Our schools neighbor one another, hers being middle school while mine is the high school, though hers lets out sooner than mine, so we only go to school together and come home at separate times. I still haven’t told her about the curse. I want to, but at the same time I’m afraid of what she’ll say, what impact it will have on her. She’s already losing her brother. I don’t want her to worry over losing her sister too.

“…turned out to be someone had just blown up the toilets—” Elsha cuts herself off and cocks her head, blue eyes wide. She inherited our mom’s eyes, but none of her hostility. “Keelin? Something wrong?”

I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “No, no, nothing wrong. What was that about blowing up toilets?”

I listen to her story all the way to school, and the moment we part, I brace myself for the inevitable. As someone who prefers books over people, it has always been hard to make friends. So there’s no one waiting to call out to me as I walk up the sidewalk. Instead, I keep my eyes peeled for a certain someone with white-speckled black wings. Unfortunately I don’t see him. If I can’t find him here, I’ll just leave the flyer with the hospital staff.

I reach my classroom and Gabby, the werewolf girl who sits behind me is already there. I give her a shy glance and a tiny wave as I make my way toward my seat. She beams and waves back as if we’re close friends, though we’ve never spoken to each other before.

It would be nice to make friends with her. With my mother’s side of the family being werewolves, I’ve always felt a small connection with Gabby. But I never really see anyone on my mom’s side of the family, since she disowned them when she was young. I chalk this feeling up to the werewolf pack mentality, and not to me wanting a friend. Besides, I’m not even full werewolf. Unlike Elsha, I can’t transform. The only thing I inherited was height and an allergy to chocolate.

“Good morning!” Gabby says, wolf ears perked. She’s wearing a green sweater that compliments her golden-brown skin.

“Good morning,” I say in a quieter voice. Then, hesitantly, I ask, “Do you know if a Ryuji Haruta goes to school here?”

Gabby’s brows wrinkle and she taps her chin as she thinks with a claw-like fingernail. “Hmm. I think I might have heard the name, but I’m not sure.”

Keelin nods and backs away to her own seat. “Well, thank you anyway.”

Gabby sits up in her seat. “Want me to ask around for you?”

“No, that’s alright. Thank you.”

I sit at my desk and sigh. Looks like I’ll just leave it at the hospital later.

###

When lunch break comes, I take my packed lunch with me to the library and sit at one of the tables to read. The librarian knows I’m super careful not to get any food on the books, which is the only reason she lets me stay. As I devour my meal, I read Eye of the Everlast Ghoul, one of my favorite novels by Lady Ailing Quick. It’s a story about a ghoul who is cursed in one eye to see the deaths of every person he meets. He tries to prevent those deaths as best he can, but in the end, he always fails. It’s a tragic tale, and some critics called it too dull and depressing. But I believe what Lady Quick was trying to say was even if we could prophesy the future, that doesn’t mean we can alter fate to our benefit.

Or I could be reading too much into it, and it could just be a depressing story. Either way, Ailing Quick was one of the reasons I loved writing so much. I looked up to her. In a way I still do. For now, I’ll just have to enjoy her stories without trying to think of my own.

Packing up my things, I look up at the clock. I still have ten minutes. Which means I have time to pop over to the fiction section and see if they have anything new. I shoulder my bag and weave between the shelves, passing by books on different types of potions, spellcasting, biology, history, and even a few guides on handling and caring for grimoires.

All the way at the back are a few shelves dedicated to fiction. The librarian, Madame Vaun, likes to say that fiction feeds the mind just as much as nonfiction, so she was able to convince the school board to allow her to put a few shelves of popular novels in the back. Madame Vaun is my most favorite person in the world.

Back here, the sunlight slants through the tall windows at just the right angle to illuminate the colorful spines of books lined up in neat rows on pinewood shelves. Dust motes float through the air, painting this spot as a magical place.

Someone is already standing in front of the shelf. I freeze as my eyes catch sight of unruly black and white hair, and speckled wings.

“Ah.”

He turns. Ryuji’s whole face lights up when he sees me. “Keelin!”

He remembers my name? This is great. Now I can hand over the flyer and be done with it. I fumble in my pocket and pull it out, handing over the folded piece of paper.

“Here,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, “I was looking all over for this. Where’d you find it?”

I shrug and fix my gaze on the books.

“Are you a writer too?”

His question catches me off guard and I lean back a bit. Not looking at him, I shrug, hoping it looks nonchalant and not as stiff as it feels.

“I used to. But I’m not really into that sort of thing anymore. I just like reading.”

Ryuji squints one eye at me, as if he can’t believe what I’ve just said. “Really? Did you really give up? Or are you too scared to keep writing.”

I look at him in surprise. Irritation rises in me. What in the world? What kind of question is that? I search for something to say but my mind goes blank because he’s absolutely right. How dare he?

He doesn’t seem to notice my anger and casually shoves the flyer into his own pocket. “Wanna join my writer’s group? We’re all a bunch of people trying to get into the guild. But you don’t have to be trying to get in to join. It’s a lot of fun. Sunny and Snowdrop are super hilarious, Miss Cassandra is amazingly wise and Anton is the coolest person on earth.”

I stare at him, unsure of what to say. How am I supposed to answer that question? I hold up my hands. “No, I’m okay. You don’t have to—"

He shifts nervously on his feet, wings tucked close, then holds out his hands. “You don’t have to answer right away. Here.” He digs through his pocket, then pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. After scribbling something on it, he shoves the paper into my hand. “Just text me, you know, whenever…”

“Yeah.”

Giving me a grin, he backs away and bumps into the shelf behind him. He tries to play it off cool by leaning against the shelf and rubbing the back of his head.

“Well,” he says, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “I wish you good health!”

And then he’s gone.

Then I look down at the paper in my hand. Scrawled across its surface in almost illegible handwriting is a phone number. Well. This is certainly the first time someone’s given me their number. My contact list is exactly two people—Elsha, and my dad, who I never call anyway.

I scratch at the back of my head, still not entirely sure how to process all of this. I shove the paper in my pocket. Oh, well. I’ll think on it later. It’s not like it’s a life-threatening decision. Besides, maybe if I don’t answer, he’ll get bored of me and leave me alone.

For some reason, that thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach.