What do you think?
Rate this book


352 pages, Paperback
First published March 2, 2021
“Take heart, Rosie,” he says. “Only the witches would have you think there is more darkness in the world than there is light. Only they would have you believe that love could ever really leave you.”
The dead boy floats up beside me and glares at the man.
“Don’t worry about the Murderer,” he says. “He’s harmless.” But then he pauses, and appears to rethink his words, because he adds, “I mean, everybody does call him ‘the Murderer,’ and he does want to murder you, and he’s pretty territorial. But it’s not your fault.”
“I’m not really gifted at anything,” I say, “Just making things up.”
The cloud smiles at this, as if I’ve said something incredibly silly. “Here’s what we’ve seen people make up: Skyscrapers. Countries. Cures. Ships that fly to the moon. It took a dream to make the first house. The first language. Made-up things make the world.” An arm of mist reaches out as if to pat my head, and though I can’t feel it, the gesture feels nice inside. “Imagining is a little like the opposite of witches, don’t you think? To stretch and grow beauty from nothing at all?”
And I realize … maybe my mom has returned to these stories again and again for the same reason why I turn to the books in my room: to fill in the places that are missing, to push back against the darkness that has taken those things. To remind herself—because she has no memory—that monsters can be destroyed, and heroes can win, even if it’s only pretend. Maybe stories make us stronger because they make a bridge to things we’ve lost. Maybe stories make powerful things out of broken ones.