A pen.
Slowly, the pen took its tilted turn down the uneven desk, with bumpy rolls preceding a free-fall from the elevated wooden platform. With a soundless clatter it skipped, bounding along the carpeted floor. A cold, clumsy, deathly pale hand reached to take it as it slowed, its arcing roll, yet a stray shift of an old, wooden school chair knocked it away, leaving the hand bruised. For a moment, the pen soared, taking a light spin as the weighted and capped tip shifted its momentum, swinging it in circles along its centre. Again, the pen came to a clattering halt, tipping from end to end before laying still. It was reached for once more, but by a warmer hand - fingers painted white, with skin soft and fair. The gentle fingers pried off the pen’s cap, pushing the tip to paper, and scribbled a quick note of affection. Popping the cap back on its head, the hand took the pen and placed it on top of the paper, now folded, and passed it back to the other, cold, pale hand. The cold hand took the paper and pen with a fearful shiver, sparks seeming to fly as fingers brushed and paleness was replaced by a tinge of warm pink. That pen was never lost again.
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