Books are magic. Lance knows this, which is why he wants to be a writer. His stories, however, never seem to quite capture that sorcery…until his uncle buys him an antique typewriter for his fifteenth birthday. When Lance sits down to create stories on the machine, he finds himself touching parts of his imagination he never knew existed.

Tales of grief and loss, forgiveness and redemption, mortality and immortality, and, above all, the overwhelming power of stories. He begins to think of the typewriter itself as a magical relic, the muse from which the tales spring.Is he right, or has the typewriter merely helped him access the magic in himself? And ultimately, does the distinction even matter?