The pencil moved faster.
Not because he was skilled—he wasn't—but because something inside him refused to slow down. The lines overlapped, scratched over one another, darkened and sharpened until the paper began to crease under the pressure. Light and shadow tangled on the page, colliding again and again, never settling.
He didn't notice the rain anymore.
Didn't notice the sirens fading into distance, or the muffled thumps of helicopters cutting through the clouds. The world had narrowed to graphite, paper, and the ache in his fingers.
When the pencil finally snapped, the sound was loud in the quiet room.
The boy blinked, breath hitching as if he'd just surfaced from deep water.
He stared at what he'd drawn.
It wasn't accurate. It wasn't clean. But it felt right. The figures leaned toward each other, frozen in the moment before impact—neither winning, neither yielding. Between them, almost by accident, he had shaded a small empty space. A gap. A question mark made of white.
