The Red Trace

I was white.

It may seem strange that the story of a box of colored pencils is being told by a pencil that almost no one ever reached for.

But if you ask me, being overlooked allowed me to see more than anyone else.

I saw the arguments.

The laughter.

The sulking.

And even tears that no human would have believed a pencil could shed.

But most of all, I saw Red.

Red was always angry.

Not the kind of anger that ends with a single sentence.

His rage had gathered inside his wood and core over the years, like a line pressed so hard onto paper that even an eraser could never completely remove it.

We lived in an old wooden box.

The box sat in the corner of a child’s desk. A small rainbow had been painted on its lid—a rainbow drawn with our own colors years ago, when we were all still new and long.

Back then, everything was simple.

Red.

Orange.

Yellow.

Green.

Blue.

Purple.

Brown.

Pink.

Gray.

Black.

And me, White.

We all slept beside one another.

Our tips were sharp.

Our colors were vivid.

And none of us knew that one day some of us would grow so tired of one another that we would wish the box had never existed.

Every morning, when the child opened the box, sunlight poured inside.

Sometimes the child picked up one of us.

Sometimes two or three.

Sometimes the child forgot us for hours.

But as soon as the lid closed, we began to talk.

Yellow was always optimistic.

One day he said:

“Today is sure to be beautiful.”

Green said:

“How do you know? You can’t see outside.”

Yellow laughed.

“I can tell from the light.”

Blue was usually calm.

He thought more than anyone else and spoke less than anyone else.

Purple was always strange.

Sometimes he stared at the ceiling of the box for hours and said things no one understood.

Brown was always complaining.

Black spoke very little.

And Red...

Red was always ready for a fight.

One day Yellow said:

“Red looked really beautiful on the paper today.”

Red immediately replied:

“I’m not beautiful.”

Yellow laughed.

“Fine. Then you’re ugly.”

Red said angrily:

“Don’t call me ugly.”

Yellow’s laughter stopped.

“I was joking.”

Red said nothing.

But I saw that his tip had cracked slightly.

He hated the sharpener.

Every time we heard the desk drawer open and the sharpener being picked up, Red grew anxious.

To the child, the sharpener was just a simple tool.

But to us, it was something like a tiny monster.

A monster that came every so often and shaved away part of our bodies.

The first time they sharpened me, I said nothing.

But Red screamed:

“Why me?!”

The child heard nothing.

The pencil was placed inside the sharpener.

The blade turned.

The sound of wood breaking filled the air.

Small pieces of wood fell below.

Red screamed.

When he came out, he was shorter.

The sharpener was set aside.

Red was breathing heavily.

Black said:

“Don’t make such a fuss.”

Red turned toward him.

“Were you the one being sharpened?”

Black fell silent.

Red continued:

“Were you the one losing a piece of your body every time?”

No one answered.

That night, when everyone was asleep, Red said quietly:

“I hate being a pencil.”

I thought he had said it only out of anger.

But I was wrong.

Days passed.

Every time the child drew on paper, the differences between us grew.

Blue said:

“You always draw lines over everything.”

Red replied:

“Because you always think your color is better than everyone else’s.”

Blue said:

“I never said that.”

Red shouted:

“You don’t have to. It’s obvious from the way you act.”

Yellow stepped between them.

“Stop it.”

Green said:

“We’re all in the same box.”

Red laughed.

“That’s exactly my problem.”

One day the child drew a large picture.

A small house.

A large tree.

A blue sky.

A yellow sun.

And people holding hands.

Blue drew the sky.

Green drew the tree.

Yellow drew the sun.

And Red drew the roof of the house.

Red was silent for a few moments.

Then he said:

“See? I can draw something beautiful too.”

But the child picked up Black and drew a line around the house.

Then the child picked up the eraser.

Part of Red’s line disappeared.

Red stared at the paper from inside the box.

His line was gone.

That night I heard him crying.

I moved closer to him.

“Why are you crying?” I asked.

“I don’t want anyone to erase my line.”

“The eraser only removes mistakes.”

He gave a bitter laugh.

“How do you know I’m not a mistake?”

I had no answer.

The next morning, the child began a new drawing.

A large tree.

Green was delighted.

“This one is mine.”

Green went onto the paper.

Branches took shape.

Leaves appeared.

Then the child picked up Brown.

Red watched from inside the box.

“Always green and brown,” he said.

Brown replied:

“Well, it’s a tree.”

Red said:

“Everyone always has a place.”

Blue asked:

“Is that bad?”

Red answered:

“Why does one person always have to be the sky? One always the tree? One always the sun?”

Yellow said:

“Because our colors are different.”

Red said quietly:

“Then if my color is different, should my fate be different too?”

No one said anything.

Then he said:

“I don’t want to be Red all the time.”

Black raised his head.

“But you are Red.”

Red looked at him.

“I know.”

His voice was no longer angry.

It was tired.

A few days later, the sharpener came again.

Red pulled himself back.

“No.”

Yellow said:

“Maybe it won’t be your turn this time.”

Red said:

“That’s what you always say.”

The child’s hand entered the box.

Red was chosen.

He trembled.

“I don’t want to.”

The pencil went into the sharpener.

The blade began to turn.

One rotation.

Two.

Three.

Wooden shavings fell below.

Red grew shorter.

When he came out, his tip was sharp.

But he himself was no longer the same.

He said:

“Every time they sharpen me, a piece of me disappears.”

Blue said:

“That happens to all of us.”

Red turned toward him.

“Then why aren’t you afraid?”

Blue said:

“I am.”

Red paused.

“Then why don’t you say anything?”

Blue answered:

“Because some things are beyond our control.”

Red said:

“I don’t want to accept that.”

From that day on, his arguments became more frequent.

With Yellow.

With Green.

With Blue.

Even with Black.

One night Black said:

“You think everyone is your enemy.”

Red replied:

“Because everyone wants me to be what they want me to be.”

Black said:

“Maybe that’s because you don’t know what you want.”

Red fell silent.

The sentence weighed heavily on him.

But a few nights later, I understood Red’s secret.

The child was asleep.

Moonlight fell across the box through the window.

Red said:

“White?”

“Yes?”

“Were you never upset about being white?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because no one sees you.”

I laughed.

“Maybe.”

Red said:

“I’m tired of everyone seeing me.”

He fell silent.

Then he said:

“When the child is angry, they pick me up. When they want to draw a heart, they pick me up. When they want to cross something out, they pick me up. When they want to show danger, they pick me up.”

He paused.

“Everyone thinks Red means love.”

Then he said softly:

“But no one asks what Red wants.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

He answered:

“Just once, I want someone to pick me up without expecting anything from me.”

That night I understood.

Red did not hate his color.

He was tired of the image others had created of it.

The next morning, the child opened the box.

Red was picked up.

The child completely erased the paper with the eraser.

Then placed Red on the page.

A line was drawn.

Then another.

A house appeared.

Then a tree.

Then a person.

For the first time, the child drew almost the entire picture with Red.

Red was astonished.

But suddenly the eraser came.

Part of the house disappeared.

Red trembled.

“No!”

“Maybe it’s only erasing a mistake,” I said.

“But that was my line.”

The eraser moved again.

The red line faded.

Then the child drew over the same place again.

Red stared at it for a long time.

Quietly, he said:

“So what was erased wasn’t the end.”

Blue said:

“Because the drawing isn’t finished yet.”

For the first time, Red did not argue with Blue.

Days passed.

The pencils grew shorter.

Yellow was half his original length.

Blue’s tip broke several times.

Green faded.

Black cracked.

And me...

I remained almost as white as before.

Because the child rarely used me.

One day Brown said:

“White is lucky.”

Red asked:

“Why?”

Brown said:

“Because no one ever sharpens him.”

I said:

“Maybe it’s because no one needs me.”

The box fell silent.

Red said:

“No.”

He looked at me.

“We need you.”

I laughed.

“What for?”

He said:

“To remind us that when we all think the world is only our own color, there is still room for other colors.”

I never forgot those words.

But the story was not over yet.

Winter came.

The nights grew longer.

The child drew less often.

One night the box fell from the desk.

Its lid opened.

All of us spilled onto the floor.

The sharpener fell too.

The eraser rolled farther away.

Red looked at the open box.

“I wish we never had to go back inside.”

“Why?” Yellow asked.

“Because there’s freedom outside.”

Green said:

“There’s danger outside too.”

Blue said:

“Maybe freedom without danger doesn’t exist.”

In the morning, the child came.

One by one, the child gathered us.

But Red was not seen.

He had fallen beneath the bed.

The box closed.

Red was alone.

Days passed.

One night we heard his faint voice.

It came from beneath the bed.

“Is anyone there?”

No one could answer.

From inside the box, I could only remain silent.

But Purple, who had always been stranger than the rest of us, suddenly said:

“I can hear you.”

Everyone fell silent.

Red said:

“Then why don’t you come after me?”

Purple answered:

“Because I still don’t know how to get out of the box.”

Red laughed.

“Then none of us is free.”

Purple said:

“Maybe freedom isn’t about getting out of the box.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about not being the same person when you return.”

Red said nothing.

The next morning, the child picked up the box.

A new drawing began.

This time, Red was not used.

The sky was drawn in Blue.

The tree in Green.

The sun in Yellow.

The house in Brown.

When the drawing was finished, the child picked up the eraser.

Several parts were erased.

Then the child picked up White.

For the first time, I moved across the paper.

I drew white lines that were almost invisible against the page.

When the drawing was finished, it looked like a road.

A road passing through a forest.

At the end of the road was a small red dot.

I knew what it was.

It was Red.

The child had finally found him.

The child pulled him out from beneath the bed.

Red was dusty and short.

The child picked him up.

Red was still angry.

He said to himself:

“No one came looking for me.”

He said it loudly enough for me to hear.

“No one even noticed I was gone.”

Purple said softly:

“I noticed.”

Red looked at him.

“But you didn’t come.”

Purple answered:

“I couldn’t.”

Red said nothing.

This time, his anger was a little quieter.

The sharpener was on the desk.

Red was frightened when he saw it.

But the child did not pick up the sharpener.

The child simply placed Red on the paper.

And continued the road.

Red drew one line.

Then another.

The road slowly passed through the forest.

It reached the house.

But the child did not finish it.

The red pencil was set aside.

Red looked at the drawing.

The road still continued.

“Where does this road lead?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Red smiled.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because for the first time, I don’t have to know.”

That night Red returned to the box.

“Welcome back,” Yellow said.

Red replied:

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“We were always here,” Blue said.

“Even when you argued,” Black added.

Red laughed.

“I argued a lot.”

“Very much,” Brown said.

Everyone laughed.

Even Black.

Red laughed too.

Then he said quietly:

“I still don’t like being a pencil.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I get angry again?”

“Even then.”

Red lowered his head.

“Then maybe... I can bear it.”

That night, for the first time, the box was peaceful.

But years passed.

And time is not kind even to pencils.

Most of us were no longer in the box.

Some had been used up.

Some had broken.

Some had been lost.

The rainbow on the lid was almost gone.

The sharpener had rusted.

The eraser had grown smaller.

And Red...

Red was the shortest of all.

Almost nothing remained of him.

But he was still in the box.

One afternoon, the same child, now grown, pulled the box from the back of a closet.

Dust covered it.

The lid opened.

A hand slowly reached inside.

Red was picked up.

Red grew frightened.

He looked at the sharpener.

Then at the eraser.

Then at the blank sheet of paper lying on the desk.

“Are they going to sharpen me again?” he asked softly.

No one answered.

The young man smiled.

But this time he did not pick up the sharpener.

He simply placed Red on the paper.

“What do you want to draw?” Red asked.

The young man said nothing.

He moved the pencil.

One line.

Then another.

Red moved slowly across the paper.

The sound of the pencil scratching filled the quiet room.

Gradually, a house took shape.

Then a tree.

Then a window.

And then...

A small wooden box.

Red stopped.

“Is that... us?”

The young man smiled.

“Who is that?” Red asked.

“Maybe himself,” I said.

The young man drew a long line.

A line that began at the box and continued into the distance.

“What is that?” Red asked.

“A road,” I said.

“Where does it lead?”

“I don’t know.”

For the first time, Red was not afraid of not knowing.

The young man set the red pencil aside.

Red looked at his tip.

He had grown very short.

“I think I’m finished,” he said.

“But look at what you left on the paper,” I replied.

Red looked at the drawing.

The house.

The tree.

The window.

The box.

And the road.

Quietly, he said:

“Maybe every time a piece of me disappeared, something remained on the paper.”

No one said anything.

His eyes fell on the eraser.

He was still afraid of it.

But this time, his fear was smaller.

“What if one day all my lines are erased?” he asked.

“Maybe someone will draw you again.”

“And if that one is erased too?”

“Then it can be drawn again.”

Red laughed.

“You always have an answer.”

“No. I’ve only learned that whatever is erased was not necessarily worthless.”

That night, the box closed again.

Red slept beside me.

Then he said softly:

“White?”

“Yes?”

“I still don’t like being Red.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t hate myself anymore.”

This time I said nothing.

Some sentences should not be answered.

They should be allowed to remain in silence.

In the morning, the young man opened the box again.

He picked up the red pencil.

And this time, he picked up the sharpener too.

Red trembled.

All the pencils fell silent.

The sound of the blade echoed through the room.

One turn.

A second.

A third.

Then everything became quiet.

Red returned to the box.

He was shorter than ever.

But he still had color.

The young man picked up yesterday’s paper.

He ran the eraser over one corner of the drawing.

Part of the road disappeared.

Red stared at the whiteness where it had been erased.

He said nothing.

The young man picked up the red pencil again.

But this time, he did not continue the road from where it had been erased.

He drew it in another direction.

The road curved.

It passed the tree.

It went by the house.

And then it left the edge of the paper.

“Where does this road go now?” Red asked quietly.

“Maybe somewhere that hasn’t been drawn yet,” I said.

Red laughed.

And for the first time, he was not afraid of not knowing.

The young man set the pencil aside.

Red remained on the paper.

Small.

Short.

Tired.

But alive.

I watched him from inside the box.

Years ago, I thought being white meant being unseen.

Red thought being red meant always being forced to be something.

Blue thought he had to remain calm forever.

Green thought freedom meant leaving the box.

Black thought nothing lasted forever.

But perhaps none of us saw clearly.

Maybe the color we were was not our choice.

But what we drew with that color could be.

And perhaps life is the same.

We cannot always decide what color we will be.

We cannot stop the sharpener.

We cannot preserve every line we have drawn forever.

Sometimes the eraser comes.

Sometimes our tips break.

Sometimes we grow shorter.

Sometimes we think we have nothing left to give.

But as long as even a trace of color remains inside us...

We can still draw one more line.

That night, just before the box closed, Red said his final words:

“White?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think if I am born again, I’ll still be Red?”

I looked at him.

Then at the drawing on the desk.

At the road that had gone beyond the paper.

And I said:

“Maybe.”

Red laughed.

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“But maybe this time, before you become afraid of your color, you’ll understand what you want to draw with it.”

The box closed.

The room grew dark.

And for the first time, Red was not afraid of the darkness.

When morning came, the paper was still on the desk.

The drawing was still there.

But the red pencil was no longer on the table.

Only a very small piece of his wood and colored core remained beside the drawing.

And on the paper...

The road still continued.

It had passed beyond the edge of the page.

It was going somewhere none of us could see.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I understood that perhaps Red’s story had never really been about a pencil.

It was about anything that one day believes that because it has been forced to be what it is, it no longer has the right to become something else.

But some colors are not made to remain.

They are made to draw.

And some people are the same.

They arrive.

They leave a little of themselves on the world.

They grow shorter.

They grow tired.

Sometimes they are erased.

And in the end, perhaps only one line of them remains.

But if that single line has illuminated someone’s path...

Perhaps ending does not always mean disappearing.

Perhaps some people simply leave the box...

to draw a road that no one before them had the courage to draw.

And I, White Pencil, still remain in the corner of the box.

I am still almost untouched.

No one uses me very often.

But every time the lid opens, I first look at the empty place where Red used to be.

And I tell myself:

Some colors do not disappear;

they simply spread so far across the paper

that no one can tell where the drawing ends.