Mr. Fischer is talking to Robyn, trying to help her believe again.
“Only special people can see the signs, Robyn.”
“But why?”
He held back for a second or two as they watched a car drive by. “When you were really little, you had the imagination of ten thousand books. There was never a day that I didn’t see you in your backyard, pretending to be different heroes, animals, villains—you name it. You let your imagination soar. You didn’t care what anyone said about the ills of magic. You were making your own kind of magic. Oh, it wasn’t the kind that’s been banned, but a different kind, more innocent, spontaneous. You weren’t afraid to believe.”
Robyn’s mind drifted to those happy times lost in play, unafraid of what people would think. A sweet smile peeked out from behind the sadness.
Mr. Fischer’s eyes met hers squarely. “What happened to that girl, Robyn?”
The smile shrank back into darkness as she thought of her school’s new curriculum—Magic is Myth, Visions are Vain, Reason is Reality. She’d become ashamed of her dreams. Nevertheless, they had grown stronger with each passing year, and the bullies had begun their games. It had all but shut her down. Now that the visions had returned, so did her curiosity about them.
Mr. Fischer turned his focus back to the street. “Tell me more about that writing assignment of yours.”
So she told him about it and the pictures in the cardboard box as well.
“Robyn, those dreams of yours gave you a purpose. They made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t felt before. Few people get to experience dreams of such importance, and most of them never come again. If we open our hearts to them, we may hear the message they’ve been trying to tell us—the possibilities of what might be, or of what is already out there, waiting to be found again.”
Robyn felt a rush of warmth fill her bones. She looked to Mr. Fischer, longing to hear more.
“I think that composition has more life to it than you’re willing to see, more answers than you realize.” He stood up and motioned for her to do the same. “Why don’t you go finish it and see where it takes you?”
“Where it takes me?” Robyn said, confused again over his riddles. “How can I finish a story that isn’t real—a story I know nothing about?” She tried to swallow, but the lemon-sized lump in her throat got in the way. She fiddled with her ponytail again.
Mr. Fischer’s eyes squinted deeply as he smiled. “Oh, you’d be surprised how a simple composition can write itself if you give it a chance.”
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