Miss Rose

My name is Rose. I am 30 years old.

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

I am, and will forever remain, 30 years old.

Watson is charming and kind, but how can I put it without offending him—he enjoys humor in all its forms: crude, dark, light, tender… which does not always suit every piece of writing.

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

I am a suffragette ahead of my time. I want to publish my articles… but, according to Catherine, I will have to wait until the beginning of the 21st century for my wish to be granted. It does not matter.

A chimera, I move through the centuries, from one idea to another, from one event to the next. And sometimes, I bring back with me a few objects from the eras I visit… a gramophone, its records… and other treasures besides.

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

Together, the three of us form a complementary team.

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By the Fireside

The fire crackles softly in the fireplace. The room is quiet, wrapped in a reassuring warmth. I am sitting, my hands resting on my knees, watching the flames dance. Watson lies beside me on the small table between the two armchairs, slightly askew, as if abandoned after a battle.

“You’re sulking again…”

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

“He’s exaggerating, Rose.”
I gesture toward the pen.

“Always trying to slip in a joke where it doesn’t belong.”

“He calls it ‘lightening the tone’.”
Rose gives a faint smile.

“And you call it ‘sabotaging it’.”
I let out a small sigh.

“Exactly.”

At that moment, Watson rolls slightly on the table.

“Sabotaging? Really!”
His voice is lively, slightly offended.

“Let me remind you, Catherine, that without me, your beautiful sentences would have remained neatly tucked inside your head.”

Rose lets out a soft laugh.

“Oh, pardon, Watson…”
She steps closer and gently straightens him.

“You’re not entirely wrong.”
Then she turns to me.

“But neither is Catherine. You must accept your role. You can no longer write—you comment, and often with accuracy. Keep watching the screen, we are counting on you.”

She sits beside me, her gaze 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 would speak, who would reach out to others… who would not doubt every single word.”

Watson remains silent—for once.

Rose watches me gently.

“And you think I have no life, is that it?”

I look up at her.

“Sometimes… yes.”

A suspended moment.

Then she smiles.

“Catherine… look at us.”
She gestures to the room, the fire, Watson… me.

“I travel through centuries, I speak to 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 have allowed me to exist.”

A silence.

Then Watson intervenes, mockingly solemn:

“And where do I stand in all this? I suppose I am… the disruptive element?”

Rose smiles.

“No. You are the balance.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“That suits you well.”

The fire continues to crackle. Walter gleams brilliantly, brushed by the glow of the flames. Rose and I remain there in silence, savoring the moment.

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

I go home.