The Magic Ink

My  favorite memories were of my mom reading her stories to me while I snuggled in bed, warm and toasty in her embrace. You see, my mom was an  author, and she always wrote her stories lying next to me. That’s when  her words came to life—honestly, I swear. Mom said it was her pen; it  had magic golden ink. When she wrote with it, characters leapt off the  pages, endless green hills and meadows unfolded, and the night sky gave way to the golden light of dawn.

Yes, those are my favorite memories.

Every  night, I’d wait eagerly for bedtime, ready for another adventure. Every  day, I’d wake up, eat breakfast, and play in the backyard. My favorite spot was the tree.

It was the only tree in our yard, but I loved it. Every day, I’d climb the  ladder Mom had made for me, going all the way to the highest branch. That tree was my kingdom. That is, until the day it betrayed me.

I fell.

Mom had called me inside, and when I tried to climb down, my foot slipped.  For one terrifying moment, it felt like I was falling from the sky. Then, nothing. Everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in bed. The sun shone through my window like it always  did, and everything seemed fine. Except time didn’t move forward anymore. Every day was the same. I didn’t mind, though. Mom was still  there, writing her magical stories and taking me on new adventures every night.

Each night, as Mom wrote, I drifted into dreams where I lived a thousand  lives. I fought dragons, sailed oceans, and became a warrior with  powerful magic. From my bed, I could see the tree outside the window. Each time I woke up, it seemed taller, its branches stretching higher  into the sky. I always tried to stay awake to see if I could catch it  growing, but sleep always won.

“In the Never-Ending Woods,” Mom began one night, “the light never faded.  The forest glowed with brilliant colors—blue, purple, pink, and white. The flowers radiated warmth, the trees sang softly, and the rivers  sparkled, fresh and serene.”

As  she spoke, the walls of my room folded in on themselves. The Never-Ending Woods unfolded before me, alive with color and sound. I could feel the warm breeze on my face, smell the damp earth under my  feet. Mom’s voice became distant, like it was coming from the sky.

“And running through the forest was a tiger,” she said. “His name was Chia, the guardian of the woods.”

Chia appeared from the glowing trees, his orange fur radiating light. He  looked at me for just a moment before lowering himself to the ground. I  climbed onto his back, gripping his thick, warm fur, and held on tight.

“Chia raced through the forest with incredible speed,” Mom continued. “He  leapt over rivers, soared from the highest peaks, and weaved through the  trees like a dancer. Above them, the moon poured her silver light, like  pearls scattered across the sky.”

I laughed as colorful birds joined our journey, and soon deer, foxes, and  monkeys ran alongside us. For the first time, I felt truly alive.

“When Chia reached the highest point in the woods,” Mom said, “he paused to  take in the endless beauty of his home. Then, wings sprouted from his  back, and the tiger took flight.”

We soared through the sky, weaving between golden words that appeared in the air—words my mom had written just for me.

When I woke up the next morning, the sun wasn’t shining. The world outside  was gray, heavy clouds covering the sky. For a moment, I stayed in bed, thinking of Chia and the adventures we’d shared.

Outside, the tree was taller than ever, its branches disappearing into the  clouds. I climbed it carefully, higher and higher. The air grew colder,  and the clouds thicker, but I kept climbing.

“Mom!” I called out, fear creeping into my voice.

And then, for the first time, I heard her voice while I was awake.

“And  so, the brave boy climbed higher,” she said, though her voice trembled. “He lived more lives than most, and his story will live on forever.”

“Mom?” I called again, climbing faster. “Don’t cry.”

The clouds parted, and a warm, golden light broke through. Words in golden  ink spiraled around me, forming the pen my mom always used. I grabbed  it, feeling its familiar weight in my hand. With a wave, golden ink  spilled into the air, and I began to write.

In the hospital room, my mom sat beside me. She hadn’t let go of my hand  for hours, her fingers trembling as she listened to the heart monitor  slow. She had made the hardest decision of her life, choosing to let me go. My fall from the tree had caused too much damage. The doctors said I  would never wake up, that I would never see her face again or hear her  voice.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I love you so much.”

Her tears soaked the blanket as the heart monitor gave one final, steady tone.

In  her grief, she didn’t notice the golden pen she had placed on the  bedside table begin to shimmer faintly, as though lit from within.

And somewhere, in a place far beyond the hospital room, I was running again. I was flying. I was free.

Yes, I thought, the ink was magic after all.