After that night, the lamp burned on the table more and more often. The pencil grew shorter. The eraser wore away. The bin filled with crumpled sheets of paper.
At last, the line lay straight.
When spring finally softened the earth, the pencil moved easily across the paper. I drew a long, unbroken line through the very center of the page. The horizon.
Below the horizon I drew the sharp, dense waves of a sea I had never seen. Above the line, a house rose: secure walls, a pitched roof, a broad terrace with a sturdy railing, and steps leading straight down to the water.
Then I moved to the lower right corner. I drew two tiny figures. A boy and a girl. Behind them I sketched two taller silhouettes. Myself and a tall male figure. His head was only an outline.
Beneath him I drew two joined hands. Finally I pressed down on the pencil. Its sharp point pierced the top sheet and left a mark on the page below.
I set the pencil beside the notebook. The kerosene flame trembled.