The blueprints had acted as a key, unlocking a room in Sam's mind that had been boarded up for a decade. While Twinkle went back down to the garden to start clearing the perimeter of the blueberry bushes, Sam stayed in the attic.
He sat at his grandfather's old drafting stool. The leather was cracked, but it held him with a familiar firmness. He pulled out the journal Twinkle had given him. For an hour, he just stared at the white expanse of the first page. It was blinding. It felt like a desert he had to cross without any water.
He picked up a piece of graphite. His hand felt heavy, his fingers stiff. He thought about the "grey years"—the hospital rooms, the funerals, the nights spent staring at the ceiling. He almost put the pencil down.
"Don't use your vision," Twinkle's voice echoed in his head. "Use mine."
He closed his eyes and didn't think about his grief. He thought about her. He thought about the way she moved through the woods like she was part of the wind. He thought about the yellow boots and the way she looked at a pile of rocks as if it were a palace.
He leaned over the paper. The first line was shaky, a jagged stroke of charcoal. But then came the second. And the third. He wasn't drawing a building; he was drawing a feeling. He sketched the curve of the well, but instead of moss and rot, he drew it as it could be—wrapped in vines, with water spilling over the edges like liquid light. In the corner of the page, almost unconsciously, he sketched a pair of bright, observant eyes.
When he finally looked up, his fingers were stained black, and the sun was beginning to dip. The "grey" hadn't disappeared, but it had a shape now. It was no longer a cloud; it was a blueprint.