Ink-Stained Souls

The cabin didn’t look like much at first. Just a weathered A-frame tucked against a line of whispering pines, its roof heavy with old leaves that clung on the way memories cling to people who haven’t figured out how to heal yet. But everyone at the Cedar Ridge Writing Retreat swore it had magic in its bones. Or at least that’s what the brochure said, right under a photo of a smiling woman holding a pen like it was a wand.

I showed up late. Because of course I did. That’s kind of my brand. My suitcase snagged on every root, rock, and unfortunate twig from the parking lot to the entrance, as if nature itself was like girl, turn around.

Inside, twelve strangers circled a fireplace like we were waiting for someone to whisper a prophecy. Coffee steamed in mugs. Pens twirled nervously. The air smelled like cedar, ink, and mild desperation.

“Welcome,” said our instructor, Rowan Ashford. Yes, that was her real name. She had the kind of silver hair that made you think she’d spent her teenage years reading by candlelight and her adulthood judging mortals from the top of a mountain.

“So,” she continued, “we’re here to write the stories we’re scared to touch.”

The room exhaled in twelve different emotional dialects. Some people looked ready to stash their trauma under the couch. Others seemed ready to turn it into a three-act structure and an optional epilogue.

Rowan clasped her hands. “Introduce yourselves. And share what brought you here.”

Oh no. The dreaded circle-share. The introvert’s Olympics.

A guy with a flannel shirt and a beard that could store secrets spoke first. “I’m Theo. I write thrillers. My editor says my characters have the emotional depth of a Twinkie. So… here I am.”

Next was Saffron, a woman with turquoise braids and a sweater that looked handmade, maybe by a wizard. “I’m writing a fantasy novel about a kingdom ruled by memory thieves.”

Then a quiet woman named Lydia whispered, “I’m working on a memoir about my mother.”

“Past tense or present?” Rowan asked softly.

Lydia paused. “Both.”

When it reached me, I forced a smile. “I’m Mara. I write short stories and… I’m basically here because my creativity tried to ghost me.”

A few people chuckled. Rowan didn’t. Her gaze felt like it could peel wallpaper.

We settled into the rhythm of the week. Morning workshops. Afternoon writing sprints. Evenings spent pretending the herbal tea didn’t taste like regret.

But something weird started happening on day two.

Rowan gave us an assignment. “Write a scene where a character reveals a truth they’ve never spoken aloud.”

We wrote in silence. Pens scratching. Keys clacking. Fire crackling like it had opinions.

When time was up, Rowan asked for volunteers to read. Theo went first, reading a scene about a detective admitting he’d covered up a mistake that cost him everything. The room applauded. Rowan nodded.

Then Saffron read a piece about a girl who kept memories in jars. It sparkled. The metaphors, the voice, the emotion. Everyone murmured praise.

Lydia didn’t read.

I didn’t either. Partly because mine was… meh. But mostly because something weird stirred in the air as others spoke, like some invisible current threading through the room, tugging, insisting.

That night, I dreamed of ink dripping from the ceiling. Forming words I couldn’t read.

Tuesday, the assignment was “Write a confrontation.” Typical workshop stuff. But when Theo read again, something shifted. His scene wasn’t fiction anymore. He typed out an argument with his father—one that clearly happened in real life.

Rowan listened, nodding slowly. Too slowly.

Then she said, “Good. Keep going.”

Theo blinked. “That’s all I wrote.”

“No,” she said. “There’s more.”

The room froze.

Theo attempted a laugh. “Um. No?”

Rowan tilted her head. “Theo. You left your brother out.”

His face drained of color. “How do you—”

Rowan smiled, small and knowing. “Writers don’t tell the whole truth.” She tapped her temple. “But their stories do.”

We all exchanged looks. Confused. Nervous. A few people shrugged it off. Writers are weird. Instructors are weirder.

But that night, Saffron had her turn.

Her new piece wasn’t fantasy. It was about her sister. A sister none of us had heard her mention. A sister who had disappeared years ago.

When she finished, she shook. “I don’t know why I wrote that,” she whispered. “I haven’t talked about her in years.”

Rowan said nothing this time. Just smiled like she’d opened a locked door.

By Wednesday, people were freaked.

By Thursday, freaked turned into freaked-freaked.

Assignments kept coaxing out truths people swore they hadn’t meant to reveal. Lydia finally read a piece about her mother—except it wasn’t a mother in the traditional sense. It was a woman who had taken her in as a child, who wasn’t related by blood but had become both shelter and storm. Lydia cried mid-sentence. The room held her like a net.

And Rowan? She just sat there, hands folded calmly, like she’d witnessed this a thousand times before.

That afternoon, I found Rowan alone in the deck’s corner, staring at the lake like it owed her money.

“Are you… doing something to them?” I blurted. Subtlety has never been my superpower.

She didn’t turn. “Stories do something to people, Mara. I merely make space for what is already trying to surface.”

“You’re pushing too hard,” I said.

Her smile was soft and unsettling. “You’re more afraid than they are.”

That hit a nerve I hadn’t even labeled.

Because yeah. I’d come here running from a story I refused to write. One I kept buried so deep my own brain tiptoed around it.

Friday morning, we were assigned the final piece of the retreat. “Write what you’re really here for.”

People paled. Chairs creaked. Someone whispered oh no.

I stared at the blank page. My hand trembled like the pen was too heavy. The words came slowly at first. Then all at once.

When it was time to share, nobody volunteered. Rowan waited. And waited.

Theo broke first. Then Saffron. Then Lydia. Each confession more raw than the last.

Then Rowan looked at me.

“Mara?”

My heart beat like it wanted to leave without me.

“I’m not reading this out loud,” I said.

But Rowan just nodded and held out her hand.

I hesitated, then handed her my notebook. The room held its breath.

She read silently. Her expression softened at the edges. When she reached the end, she closed the notebook gently.

“Mara,” she said, “thank you.”

“What now?” I whispered.

She handed it back. “Now you decide if you want to keep writing the truth… or keep running from it.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until Lydia passed me a tissue. The good kind. Not the scratchy ones that feel like betrayal.

The final night, we burned our drafts in the fire. A ritual. A release. The flames glowed gold, as if swallowing our secrets gently.

Theo laughed for the first time all week. Saffron smiled like someone had unclenched her chest. Lydia leaned against me, her shoulder warm.

When it was my turn, I held my pages over the fire. They shook in my hand. But something inside me steadied.

I dropped them into the flames.

The fire roared. A warmth spread through me that wasn’t about heat.

Later, as everyone said goodbye, Rowan pulled me aside.

“You’re a writer, Mara,” she said. “Not because you put words on paper. But because you’re brave enough to face the ones that scare you.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to say something sarcastic. But all that came out was, “Thank you.”

I walked away with a lighter suitcase and a heavier heart in all the right ways.

The cabin behind me glowed softly, like it had been waiting centuries to witness our messy, tangled, beautiful truths.

And somewhere between the pines and the gravel path, I realized something.

The retreat hadn’t been magical at all.

We were.

All twelve of us, ink-stained and terrified and stubbornly alive, learning that sometimes the bravest stories are the ones we write about ourselves.