The poet always wins [on hold for rewrite]

chapter one

Chapter One: The Weight of Words

Milo sat at the small, wooden table in their dimly lit cottage, quill in hand, though the words danced just beyond his reach. Outside, the sun dipped low, casting golden rays through the window, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. His sister, Elara, moved about the room, her movements quick and purposeful as she packed the last of her belongings into a fraying leather satchel.

"Milo, you need to understand-I can't stay," she said, her voice tinged with urgency.

He looked up, confusion knitting his brow. "Why are you leaving? You've never mentioned anything about going anywhere." The unease in his chest tightened.

Elara paused, her hands trembling as she folded a simple dress. "It's complicated. There are things I can't explain right now."

"Then tell me! I can help," he insisted, rising from his chair. "Whatever it is, we can face it together."

She turned to him, eyes bright with unshed tears. "No, you can't come with me. I'm asking you not to follow. You have to promise me that."

Milo's heart raced, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "What do you mean? Why? What are you running from?"

Elara took a deep breath, her expression a mixture of fear and determination. "There are dangers I can't expose you to. If you follow me, you could get hurt. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you."

"But I'm not a child! I can handle myself!" he protested, frustration bubbling over. "You can't just leave me here without any answers!"

"I wish I could tell you everything, but I can't," she replied, her voice trembling. "Just know that this is for your own safety. You have to stay here and keep writing. The world needs your voice. You'll need it more than ever."

Milo felt a mix of anger and heartbreak as he tried to grasp her resolve. "You're all I have left. How can you expect me to just sit here and do nothing while you go off to face... whatever this is?"

She stepped closer, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Promise me, Milo. Don't follow me. I'll always be with you in spirit. Write for me, write for us. That's how you can honor what we've lost."

With a deep breath, he nodded, though a knot of fear twisted in his stomach. As she turned back to her packing, he felt the weight of unspoken truths hanging in the air.

Milo picked up his quill and began to write, the ink flowing like a river of emotion. Each word was a step closer to understanding, a bridge across the chasm of his grief. As the sun set outside, casting the room in hues of purple and orange, he felt the warmth of Elara's presence beside him-a reminder that even in pain, love could still bloom.

But with each stroke of the quill, the questions swirled in his mind: What was she running from? And how could he stay safe when his heart was so tightly bound to hers?