[Autumn Pirika] Kotonoha

What are you going to write today?

A diary?
A letter?
A story?

He took a sheet of cream-colored paper from a shelf with a beautiful wood grain.
He carefully cut the paper, which had a faint ribbon pattern, in half and then in half again with a paper knife.

Then, he chose ink and a glass pen from his desk drawer and lined them up.

Ah, a letter, I see.
Is it for that special someone you care for?

I have never met them, but it seems he has someone he loves.

It makes my heart warm to see him write down words that are gentle, soft... yet brimming with secret feelings.

I watch over him with a smile as he dips his glass pen into the ink on the desk.

He cannot see me, as I am only as small as his little finger.

I slide my hands across the paper and press my cheek against the ribbon loop drawn in white lines.

I feel a warmth as if it had just been spun and woven from a cocoon.

Suddenly, I look up and see his hand has stopped, still holding the glass pen.
Is he troubled, which is rare for him?

Even when he is troubled, it always dwells at the tip of his pen.
His color.

When he writes a letter to that person, it is the color of his thoughts of them.
When he writes a story, it is a color that changes constantly—flying, jumping with joy, feeling sad, or getting angry.

His feelings.
The scenery in his mind.
What he has felt.

I love how those things take shape.

And yet, right now, it is an anxious color.

What is wrong?
There is nothing to be anxious about.

I walk around his hand, looking thoughtful.

Could it be that he is feeling unwell somewhere?

I pressed my palm against his finger, comparing it to the temperature of my own forehead.

It seems you don't have a fever.
You're fine.
Look, the ink is going to dry.

When I tapped his finger with my palm, he finally touched the pen tip to the paper.

That's good.
Your writing has started to flow.

I lay on my stomach, watching the words he was spelling out.

The atmosphere is different than usual.
Unlike when you write to that person, there is a sense of wonder seeping through, with a boyish, playful innocence.

The words, dyed in the deep blue of the ink, overlap with his feelings and take on a colorful energy.

Who are you writing to?
It's making me happy too.

I unconsciously kicked my feet back and forth, humming happily.

You must want to be friends with that person.
It seems you've had a new encounter.

If he is happy, I am happy.
If he is sad, I am sad.

If you are smiling, I will smile too.

I'll cast a spell for you too, so that you can become friends.

I gently placed my hand on the paper he was writing on and prayed.

May your feelings be conveyed.

Humming a tune, I went to read the story he had begun to draw.

I didn't know.
That he was watching my back.

He smiled as he wrote the address and gently placed the letter on the desk.

To the Spirit of Words.

1197 characters

This is my first time participating in the Pirika Grand Prix.
I look forward to working with you.
Thank you.