With each passing day, the excitement of the upcoming festival permeated the air, mingling with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant echoes of laughter wafting from the town square. It felt like the entire town was holding its breath, waiting for the event that would soon bring everyone together. In contrast, I found solace in my drawing, in the quiet between thoughts and pencil strokes, as the world outside bustled with excitement. As I captured the world around me with gentle pencil strokes, I found solace in the quiet refuge of my art. The old tree, standing like a sentinel, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky as if embracing the heavens, was a silent witness to my thoughts and aspirations, beckoning me closer each day.

One afternoon, as I strolled toward the old tree, my gaze caught Ellie in the distance. She was talking animatedly with a lady I didn’t recognize. I squinted, trying to discern their conversation, but the distance blurred their words into a hush. It felt wrong to intrude on this private moment, so I held back, letting my curiosity linger in the air. The thought gnawed at me, planting a seed of worry: What if Ellie truly intended to depart after the festival? An urge welled up inside me to gift her something to remember me by—a way to commemorate our friendship before it was too late.

Lost in thought, I made my way to my favourite spot under the old tree, where sunlight danced through the leaves in a patchwork of gold and shadow. The wind rustled through the branches, carrying the scent of earth and the distant hum of town preparations. I sat down and began to sketch, my mind swirling with ideas of what to create for Ellie. I wanted something special, something that captured her spirit—a drawing she could carry with her as a reminder of our time together.

After a while, Ellie approached me, a bundle of sketches in her hands. “Hey, Lumen!” she called out, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she waved her sketches in the air. “I tried my hand at some drawings. “You’d better not laugh, or I’ll make you pay!” she said, her mock-serious expression barely containing her grin.

I chuckled, feeling a lightness in my chest at her tone, a mix of amusement and warmth washing over me. “I promise I’ll be nice. Show me what you’ve got.”

Ellie hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she extended her sketches toward me. “Here,” she said, her voice a mix of pride and self-doubt. As I flipped through them, I saw the effort in each line, each stroke an extension of her will, trying to capture something more. Even though they weren’t perfect, they were unmistakably hers—each stroke carrying her essence, her energy. I paused on one particular drawing—a portrait. I glanced at her, and there was a hint of hesitation in the way she fidgeted with her fingers, her eyes darting away from mine.

“This one,” I pointed to the portrait, “is striking. What were you trying to capture?” I couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for her effort, wishing I could convey how beautifully she captured the essence of her subject.

“I tried it, but it was harder than I thought.” She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her sketchbook, her fingers betraying the weight of her self-doubt. “You were right about portraits being tough.”

I nodded, sensing that there was something more beneath her words, something she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

“I’ll draw one for you,” I said, my voice catching slightly, a strange blend of excitement and fear. The weight of the promise hung between us, heavier than I expected. Ellie’s eyes widened for a moment as if realizing the significance. I knew then that this wasn’t just about art—it was about capturing something deeper between us, something unspoken.

She let out a nervous laugh, her blush deepening. “Yeah, I’ll hold you to that.” She glanced over her shoulder as if debating whether to stay or go. “I should get going. See you later!”

As she walked away, her words lingered in my mind, her fleeting presence like a shadow that refused to fade. The thought of her leaving after the festival made me realize I had to gift her something unforgettable—something that would speak of our friendship and the moments we had shared. I looked at my sketchbook, the empty page beckoning me to fill it with her likeness. This portrait would be different—it had to be.

The festival was only a week away, and I had already finished eight sketches. I needed ten for the festival, and with Ellie’s portrait, that made eleven. Three more to go. The deadline loomed, but I felt a determination to meet it. I laid out my completed drawings, each one a piece of the world around me, reflecting my evolving understanding of beauty and connection.

Ellie’s portrait needed to stand out. And for that, I knew I would use the chalk sticks.

The chalksticks were my secret. No one knew about their secret—not Theo, not Ellie, no one. And I wanted to keep it that way. There was something... unnatural about them that both thrilled and terrified me, like holding a spark of magic that could ignite the unknown. Every time I used them, the drawings seemed to come alive, taking on a quality I couldn’t explain. They didn’t just look real—they felt real. It was as if some part of me had transferred into the image and brought it to life. Yet, the chalksticks never ran out, no matter how frequently I used them. By the next morning, they would be whole again, nestled in the small wooden box where I found them.

The enigma of the chalk sticks eluded my understanding, a magic that hummed beneath my fingers every time I used them. And yet, I guarded that secret fiercely, as if sharing it would dissolve its power, or worse, reveal something in me that I wasn’t ready to confront. I never showed the drawings I made with the chalk sticks to just anyone. The strange, ethereal quality they possessed was something I didn’t want to explain—something I didn’t think I could explain.

My attention shifted to the special piece I had been working on for weeks, my fingers itching to bring it to life on paper. Each stroke felt like a heartbeat, pulsing with the urgency of what was left unsaid. This drawing wasn’t for the festival crowd; it was for me, a personal masterpiece that felt too intimate to share. What if they didn’t see the beauty I saw? What if they didn’t understand? What if someone noticed? What if they asked questions I couldn’t answer?

The drawing portrayed a scene encompassing the old tree, the dilapidated wall by the pond, and the mystical forest beyond, capturing the essence of our town's history and nature. The black-and-white strokes vividly portrayed the tree’s gnarled branches stretching toward the sky, and the weathered stones of the wall crumbling under the weight of time. The pond shimmered faintly in the distance, its stillness a contrast to the chaotic tangle of the forest beyond. This place was tied to the very essence of our town—a scene filled with history, memory, and life.

I had spent countless hours perfecting it. Each stroke was deliberate, each detail painstakingly crafted to capture the timeless beauty of the environment—the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, the moss-covered stones by the pond, and the distant echoes of nature's symphony. Yet, as I stared at it now, I felt a gnawing sense of incompletion. There was something absent from the image—some intangible element I had yet to capture.

I sighed, setting the drawing aside. It wasn’t finished, not yet. I’d return to it when I was ready—when the time felt right. Closing the wooden box where I kept the chalk sticks, I felt the weight of my secret settles over me. No one could know—not Ellie, not Theo, not anyone. The mystery of the chalksticks was mine alone to carry.

Time passed quickly as I focused on my remaining sketches. The sky grew dim, the sun sinking behind the horizon, casting the world in a golden glow. The air was still, almost eerie in its calm, and the rustling of leaves created a gentle symphony, punctuated by the distant chirping of crickets and the faint whisper of the wind.

Suddenly, I heard voices in the distance—faint at first, then growing louder before fading away. I ignored them, too lost in my work to care. But then footsteps approached, growing closer until they stopped just behind me.

I looked up, and there was Theo. He looked... different. He didn’t notice me at first, walking right past me as if I were invisible.

“Theo!” I called out, standing up and waving. But as he turned, I caught sight of his face—pale, drawn, like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were rumpled, his usual energy dulled, and his eyes... there was something off about his eyes. A shadow, a heaviness, something I hadn’t seen before.

He flinched, finally turning to look at me with a startled expression. “Oh, Lumen... I didn’t see you there. Sorry.” He looked at me with weary eyes, his voice flat and distracted, as if the weight of unspoken burdens pressed down on him.

“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned. “You look... tired.”

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Theo offered a weak smile, one that failed to reach his weary eyes. “I’m fine. Just... a lot on my mind. I have to finish something right now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

Before I could say anything more, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, confused. His behaviour was odd, unsettling even. But I had my worries to deal with, and whatever was going on with Theo would have to wait.

“Sure, see you tomorrow,” I muttered under my breath, watching as he disappeared into the fading light.

I returned to my drawing, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling in my chest as the festival drew near. I finished my 9th drawing for the festival before dinner time. Counting Ellie’s portrait, two more to go.

That night, under the pale glow of moonlight streaming through the window, I began Ellie’s portrait using black and white chalksticks. I wanted to capture her essence as faithfully as possible—not just her features, but the warmth of her laughter, the spark in her eyes—everything that made her who she was to me. As the chalk brushed across the paper, her face came to life, emerging from the blank page in a way that felt almost ethereal. The chalk sticks worked their usual magic, lending the portrait an aura that made it seem like Ellie was staring back at me.

I finished the portrait in just a few hours, a sense of accomplishment and bittersweet satisfaction washing over me as I stood back to admire my work, a piece of my heart now immortalized on paper. It was more than just a drawing; it was a piece of my heart, a tribute to our friendship that I hoped would transcend the distance that might soon separate us. It was beautiful, more than I had imagined it would be. The chalksticks had done their job well, but this one... this one felt different. I smiled, proud of myself for completing it so quickly, and I carefully signed it with my new pseudonym, “𝕷.”

I chose the ‘𝕷’, but it was more than a letter. The lower stem curved like a dragon’s tail, intricate scales faintly etched into the design, while the upper part arched gracefully like a dragon’s head, complete with horns and eyes. It felt bold, yet secretive—exactly what I wanted.

I wanted to inquire with Mr Dan about creating a small mold for this signature symbol. Drawing it quickly and accurately was challenging, so with the mold, I could use my chalk sticks to replicate the symbol on my drawings like a stamp easily.

The next morning, I made my way to Mr. Dan’s carpentry shop, eager to see if the frames for my drawings were ready. I greeted him with a nod, and we exchanged a few words before getting down to business.

“Lumen, good timing,” Mr. Dan said as I entered the shop. “I was about to inform Mrs. Helen to bring you tomorrow, but since you’re here... the frames are ready.”

“That’s great news,” I replied.

He motioned for me to follow him to the back of the shop, where the wooden frames lay neatly stacked. I pulled out my finished drawings one by one, and Mr. Dan began fitting them into the frames. As he worked, he asked, “So, Lumen, you said you’ll price these between 10 to 50 Brasscoin, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that was my plan.”

He paused, glancing up at me. “Well, I’ve been to other towns, even the city, and I’ve got a bit of an eye for pricing. Each frame itself costs about 10 Brasscoin. And your art is good, really good. People from outside our town will come to the festival, so I suggest pricing each piece at 1 Silverscribe.”

I hesitated, doubt creeping in. One Silver felt like a lot—too much, even. Who was I to charge that? But Mr. Dan’s steady reasoning chipped away at my uncertainty, and slowly, I began to see it from his perspective. My art was worth more than I thought. Eventually, I agreed. It made sense, even if it made me a little nervous.

“You also haven’t signed any of your art,” Mr. Dan noted as he placed another drawing into its frame. “How will people know who drew them?”

“I don’t want people to know,” I replied simply.

Before Mr. Dan could press further, Mrs. Helen entered the shop. “What are you two discussing so seriously?” she asked with a smile.

I greeted her quickly, and Mr. Dan filled her in on the conversation about pricing and the signature. Mrs. Helen offered a thoughtful look. “Well, if you don’t want people to know it’s you, it’s ok. Leave them unsigned. Aside from your friends, no one has paid attention to your work anyway.” And "Lumen, I want to talk to you also about something,” she added.

After pondering her suggestion for a moment, I deliberated on the implications before ultimately agreeing, a sense of resolve settling within me. “What did you want to talk about?”

Mrs. Helen said, “Let's first finish our work here, and then I can tell you while we head towards the orphanage.”

As we were finishing up framing the nine finished drawings, I thought about the special piece I still needed to complete. “Mr. Dan, for the last piece, is it possible to have a thin glass layer covering the drawing? Also, I’d like a cloth cover for a painting about the same size as the others.”

Mr. Dan paused, considering my request. “I can do that. The glass is simple enough, and I’ll have the cloth cover ready. Just come back in two days, and we’ll finish it up.”

I nodded in agreement, my mind already consumed by thoughts of Ellie's portrait and the urgency it now carried. The cloth cover wasn’t really for the festival pieces I would sell at the festival—it was for her portrait. I didn’t want anyone else to see it, not yet. It was meant for her eyes only.

Handing Mr. Dan the next framed drawing, a sudden memory flashed in my mind. I pulled out a small piece of paper from my pocket, unfolding it carefully. On it was the symbol I had painstakingly drawn last night—my signature, the stylized "𝕷" with the subtle dragon motif.

"Mr. Dan, I wanted to ask you something," I started, feeling a little unsure but determined. "I drew this symbol for my art… but it’s hard to make it perfect every time. I was thinking, Could we make a small mold for it?"

I handed him the paper so he could see.

"With a mold, I could use my chalksticks to sort of stamp the symbol onto the drawings. It would save time, and it would always come out just right."

I glanced at Mr. Dan, my heart racing as I waited for his reaction, hoping he would see the potential in my request.

As Mr. Dan examined the symbol on the paper, his brows lifted with interest. He traced the shape lightly with his thumb, considering the design.

"A mold, you say?" He murmured, more to himself than me. Then, after a moment, he looked up and nodded. "It’s a clever idea, Lumen. This symbol has something to it, something distinct. I can see why you’d want it perfect every time. A stamp would do the job."

He handed the paper back, his fingers lingering on the edges of the drawing as if contemplating the craft needed to make such a mold. "It won’t be too hard to make. I’ve got some fine wood and metal left over from a project that should work well for this. Give me a day or two. We can have it ready before the festival."

A weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying lifted from my chest. "Thank you," I said, feeling a spark of excitement. This was coming together better than I’d hoped.

Mr. Dan chuckled as he turned back to the frame he was working on. "It’s good to see you thinking ahead, lad. You’ve got a fine head for these things. Now, don’t forget about the final piece either, eh? We’ll frame it and set that glass cover like you asked. Come by in two days, and we’ll have everything ready."

I nodded, feeling a strange mix of pride and nervousness. As I gathered my drawings and prepared to leave, I couldn’t help but glance at the symbol one last time. Soon, it would be more than just a part of my art—it would be the mark I left behind, something lasting.

"Thanks again, Mr. Dan," I called over my shoulder as I stepped outside.

"Don’t mention it. I’m looking forward to seeing how this all turns out, Lumen," he replied with a warm grin.

The door creaked shut behind me, and I stepped back into the afternoon light, feeling like another piece of my plan had fallen into place.

“Lumen, there’s something I need to tell you,” Mrs Helen began as we walked down the road towards the orphanage, her tone serious but gentle. “I know you’ve been working hard, preparing for the festival, and focusing on your art, but there’s something important you should know about Ellie.”

I frowned, a pang of sadness tugging at my heart as thoughts of Ellie's departure weighed heavily on my mind. “What about her?”

Mrs. Helen hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “She might be leaving the orphanage sooner than you think—perhaps even before the festival.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What? Why?”

“There’s been a family interested in adopting her. They’ve been in contact with the orphanage for a while now, and they’ve met with her a few times. If all goes well, she could be leaving in the next few days.”

I stared at the ground, my mind racing. I had been aware of the possibility that Ellie might depart after the festival, but the immediacy of her potential departure caught me off guard. “Does Ellie know?”

Mrs. Helen nodded. “Yes, but she hasn’t told anyone yet. I think she’s still processing it herself.”

I felt a pang of sadness mixed with urgency. If Ellie was leaving, I had to finish her portrait before it was too late. The thought of her leaving without a proper goodbye felt wrong, like a loose thread that needed to be tied.

“Thank you for telling me,” I finally said, my voice quieter than usual.

Mrs. Helen gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re welcome, Lumen. I know you two are close. Just make the most of the time you have left.”

We continued walking in silence, the weight of the conversation settling heavily in my chest. As we neared the orphanage, I glanced at the sky, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the path. Time was slipping away, urging me to swift action as a sense of determination coursed through my veins.

Once back at the orphanage, I went straight to my room, pulling out the finished portrait of Ellie. Her face stared back at me from the page, captured in the quiet beauty of the black and white chalk. The drawing felt alive, almost as if Ellie herself was looking at me with that same thoughtful expression she always wore. She was leaving—sooner than I thought—and I had only a few days left to give her something that would remind her of our friendship. I delicately ran my finger along the drawing's edge, savouring the silkiness of the paper under my touch, a tangible connection to the art before me. This portrait had to be perfect, not just because it was a gift, but because it represented everything Ellie meant to me.