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"I really thought you wouldn't be interested in an animation company, that too a Japanese one," Evans said while eating his food.
"Yeah, I forgot to tell you. Sorry about that," Michael said with regret.
If you looked closely you could see a hand like mark on Micheal's face. Maybe his mom was the culprit.
"Anyway, don't worry about it. I will handle it. Even though I have rejected them two times, they still want the adaptation rights," Evans said.
"Hmm..." Michael said while contemplating.
"By the way, have you settled on the venue for the book signing?" Janet asked.
"Yes! We have picked out a store... what was it called? Books & Books?" Terry said.
"Mhm," Michael affirmed while eating his food.
"We would have done it way before... if only you had agreed." Evans looked at Michael.
"Hmph! I don't like to show my face..." Michael said.
"Nah, he's just afraid he will say something offensive to the people who came to see him," Terry said.
Everyone started laughing excluding Micheal.
"Hmph!!" Michael huffed, feigning anger.
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It was already the day for the book signing. Michael was sitting at a table with piles of books all over it. Even though it was a big signing, the people who were allowed to come were limited, and Evans personally sorted them out.
Michael sat at the small table in the bookstore. He took a deep breath. This was his first book signing. He had practiced a sophisticated and stoic face in the mirror all morning. He wanted to look like a very serious writer.
But everything was going wrong.
Since the book cover had a cute, happy picture of a little girl saluting, people thought it was a happy children's book.
"This is nonsense, why did these idiot think it was a children's book? You clearly see a kid with torn clothes and a big pan on her head," Michael thought.
The line in front of his table was full of loud children and smiling mothers.
"Mr. Author!" a little boy yelled. He ran up and slammed a glass jar onto the table. Inside the jar was dirt and a big, confused beetle. "I caught a bug! Just like the kids in your book! Do you want to hold it?"
Michael's stoic face vanished. He stared at the giant bug. "Uh... no thank you," he squeaked.
"Aww..." The boy looked distraught after being rejected by Michael.
"Ugh..." Michael thought.
Michael put out his hand, and the boy's face shone again.
Next, a teenage girl tied a huge, squeaky yellow balloon to his chair. It was shaped like a smiling firefly.
"Thank you," Michael said.
He was sweating. He grabbed his black pen to sign her book, but he squeezed it too hard. POP! The pen exploded.
Black ink sprayed all over his hands, his clean white shirt, and his face.
"Hehehehehe...you are funny!" said the girl who gave him the pen.
"I should have used my pen..." Michael smiled wryly. "You can't hit a kid...calm down."
"Jenny!" The girl's mom tried to reprimand her, but Michael stopped her.
During this the bookstore manager saw everything and started panicking.
"Oh my!" the bookstore manager gasped.
She ran over with wet towels. But she bumped the table hard. Michael's large cup of coffee fell over. Brown coffee spilled everywhere, soaking the most of the books.
Michael just sat there. He was covered in black ink and brown coffee. He was tied to a squeaky balloon. A little boy was shaking a bug jar at him. It was a complete disaster.
Then, the loud bookstore suddenly got very quiet.
"The kids are gone," Michael thought.
The next person in line did not have a balloon or a bug. It was an old man. He walked very slowly, leaning on a wooden cane. He was not smiling.
Michael quickly wiped the ink off his face.
"Hello, sir," Michael said gently. "Whose name should I write in the book?"
The old man did not answer right away. He put his copy of Grave of the Fireflies on the table.
Michael looked at the book. The cover was ruined. The pages were thick and wavy. The paper was warped because someone had cried on it for a long time.
"I read it last night," the old man whispered. His voice was shaking.
Michael stopped wiping his face. He forgot about the ink.
"When I was young, there was a war," the old man said. He looked down at his wrinkled hands. "I had a little sister. Her name was Lily. I was supposed to protect her when the bombs fell. I tried so hard to find food for her."
The old man looked up. His eyes were red and full of tears. He looked right into Michael's eyes.
"I have kept that pain inside my heart for fifty years," the old man cried softly. "I never knew how to explain it. But you... you found the words. You wrote exactly what it feels like to hold a little sister's hand in the dark, and then... to lose her."
A heavy lump formed in Michael's throat. His chest ached deeply. He felt a terrible, heavy guilt. He did not invent this story. He had borrowed it from someone else. He felt like a liar taking praise for another person's masterpiece. But in a way, he felt good too; it was his job to copy, after all.
But then he looked at the old man's tears. The story was borrowed, but the tears were real. The healing was real. The old man finally felt understood.
Michael did not try to look like a serious writer anymore.
He did not pick up his pen. Instead, he reached across the table. With his messy, ink-stained hands, he held the old man's hands tightly.
"I am so sorry about Lily," Michael whispered. His voice broke. "Thank you for sharing her with me."
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"I told you to check the car; the car engine sign was blinking," the girl said.
"Oh, come on, how is it my fault? It's Dad's car," said the oldest.
"Ugh... forget it. We can't reach the venue," the girl said, slamming the door of her car.