The magic pen

 Part 2: The Ink of Dreams

As Eliot grew older, the magic pen remained by his side, its feather still as vibrant as the day he found it. But one morning, he noticed something strange: the pen would not write. No matter how hard he tried, not a single line appeared on the page.

Worried, Eliot returned to the forest where he had found the pen. The oak tree stood as strong as ever, its roots cradling the earth like old hands. Kneeling beside it, Eliot whispered, “What do I do now?”

The wind stirred the leaves, and the voice returned, soft and distant:

"The pen is not empty. Your heart is."

Eliot realized he had forgotten something. In helping others, he had stopped drawing for himself—for joy, for wonder, for the love of it. He had given so much that he forgot to dream.

Determined, he climbed to the tallest hill at dawn and drew the sunrise from memory: gold melting into pink, clouds like floating ships, the sky a canvas of hope. As the image took shape, the pen shimmered—and the drawing leapt to life, flooding the hilltop with warmth and color. The magic had returned.

From that day, Eliot taught not just drawing, but balance: between giving and dreaming, helping others and listening to your heart. His students learned that the truest magic wasn’t just in the pen—it was in their stories, their imagination, and the courage to create.

And so, the legend of Eliot and the magic pen lived on, told from one generation to the next.

For in every kind heart, there lies a spark of magic waiting to be drawn.

The end…