This pen is stained. Not with blood. By the mental cries from its former owners. Years before, this pen was used by writers -- men and women -- who wrote nothing more than heartbreaking tales. This pen has never inked a happy story.
Today, as the pen is prepped once more for another tale, there is something amiss. The writer who possesses the pen has a different expression. This writer, not only do they have soft hands, they are fresh-faced too. The first line begins. The rest follow suit.
One year passes and another story has unfolded. The pen is put down and the writer, instead of exhaustion and an apprehensive whimper, is giggling with delight. This may have been a happy ending after all.
As the pen flicks through the past souls that possessed it: the old and wrinkled ravaged by sorrow. The pen, in feeling such innocence encompass it, can now sense a form of light growing.