Abandoned Story - Untitled one with propaganda

"Dad, I'm leaving!"

The Scribe looked up from the inking of a page, his mind settling into place from the black loops of letters and into the melody of a voice. A grinning face peered from the breach of a door, the warm breeze flowing in from outside. Coins clinked in a pouch that she was carrying.

"I see you have your coin purse with you already," his much gruffer words rang out in answer. "Good luck with finding a boy who can pay."

Her face shifted into a curious hesitance. "I can't write as well as you," she considered. Her figure stepped out from the wooden cover. She swayed in a bubbliness and energy common to her. "Do you think they'll notice?"

"Maggie, I've been writing since long before you came to me," the Scribe reminded. "If I say you're good enough, then it is so. This will be an opportunity to learn even more. Soon, you'll be writing alongside me."

"Hm." She's heard this before, but he could still see the small smile of comfort when he reminded her that she was up to a certain level of some skill. In this case, it was the most important skill in their lives - the skill of making words into art, an art that moved and molded the world. His calloused hands were upon paper for that purpose at that very moment. She knew that, so she said "Well, I hope you have a productive day. Bye, Dad!"

"I wish that to you too, Maggie," a murmur that certainly didn't reach her came from him.