My name is Rose, and I am thirty years old.

I was born from the sometimes complicated relationship between Catherine and Watson, her fountain pen.

I am, and always will be, thirty years old.

Watson is charming and kind, but, how shall I put it without offending him… he adores humour in all its forms : bold, dark, light-hearted, tender which does not always suit every story we tell.

As for me, I am serious, courageous, and compassionate. I love people, nature, and I always try to let that shine through whenever I take up the pen.

I am a woman ahead of my time. I wish to publish my articles freely… but according to Catherine, I must wait until the beginning of the twenty-first century before my wish can truly be granted. Never mind.

A creature of imagination, I wander through centuries, from one idea to another, from one event to the next. And sometimes I return carrying objects from the eras I visit… a gramophone, its records… and many other treasures besides.

Catherine’s readers are often amused by this and frequently notice it.

Together, the three of us form a remarkably complementary team.

By the Fireside

The fire crackles softly in the hearth. The room is quiet, wrapped in a comforting warmth. I sit with my hands resting on my knees, watching the flames dance. Watson lies beside me on the small table between the armchairs, slightly crooked, as though abandoned after a battle.

“You are sulking again…”

Rose’s voice is gentle, almost amused. I turn my head slightly. She is there, standing beside the fireplace, elegant as always.

“He exaggerates, Rose.”

I gesture towards the pen.

“He always wants to slip a joke in where it does not belong.”

“He calls it ‘lightening the mood.’”

Rose smiles faintly.

“And you call it sabotage.”

I let out a quiet sigh.

“Exactly.”

At that moment, Watson rolls slightly across the table.

“Sabotage? Is that really the word?”
His voice is lively, faintly offended.

“Let me remind you, Catherine, that without me your beautiful sentences would still be sitting safely inside your head.”

Rose lets out a discreet laugh.

“Oh, forgive him, Watson…”

She steps forward and gently straightens him.

“You are not entirely wrong.”

Then she turns back to me.

“But neither is Catherine. You must accept your role. You no longer write alone — now you guide and observe. Keep watching the screen; we are counting on you.”

She sits beside me, her expression growing more serious.

“You know why I am here.”

I lower my eyes slightly.

“Yes…”

The fire crackles louder.

“I created you because I did not dare. I needed someone who could speak, who could go towards others… someone who did not doubt every single word.”

For once, Watson remains silent.

Rose watches me gently.

“And you believe I have no life of my own, is that it?”

I lift my eyes towards her.

“Sometimes… yes.”

A suspended moment passes between us.

Then she smiles.

“Catherine… look at us.”

She gestures towards the room, the fire, Watson… and me.

“I travel through centuries. I speak with the living. I tell the stories of those who no longer can.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“And you think that is a life confined?”

I do not answer. She leans a little closer.

“You have taken nothing from me. You allowed me to exist.”

Silence settles once more.

Then Watson interrupts in mock solemnity:

“And what exactly am I in all this? The troublesome element, I presume?”

Rose smiles.

“No. You are the balance.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“That suits you perfectly.”

The fire continues to crackle. Watson gleams beneath the glow of the flames. Rose and I remain there in silence, simply enjoying the moment.

And for the first time in a very long while, everything seems perfectly in its place.

And quietly, I find my way home.