I breathed. I pulsed. My fingers trembled, and I felt cold, icy air touch my cheeks.

"Just write," he whispered. Then he gently closed the door, vanishing into the blackness of the night.

Write? I couldn't write. Not after It had happened. Not after the Storm had come. Not after He had taken Lena away. My world was shattered. It was changed. And winter's approach brought screaming feelings of memory that could never be taken away.

Write? I couldn't write.

I sprang from my chair, scraping my fingernails across the beat-up armrests. The wind howled outside. I stepped forward and leaned my forehead against the windowpane. Frost bit my skin. I reeled back, breathing heavily.

Write? No. Winter was far too deadly.

The groceries still sat on the counter, forgotten. Eli made me forget. He made me forget everything but the sudden looming wall before me. Write? Could I write?

I chomped on my lip and flung myself into the rolling chair, gliding across the floor until I slammed into my desk. I breathed. I pulsed. I dug into the cracks of my soul and found something I hadn't seen before -- at least, not since It happened. Not since the Storm came. Not since He took Lena away.

I felt pain shake my skull. I felt agony rattle my heart. And then, above them both, exhilaration and something called a Story wound around my spirit until it shattered into a thousand brilliant colors and fell silent. Dead. I blinked and found myself staring at an open document. Then slowly, penetratingly, I pound out four words.

by Jeremiah Frost

I sat back, a bead of sweat rolling down my temple. Then I dove.