I walk along the street parallel to the border wall that surrounds our city. The city maintenance crew is hard at work, trying to clean up another rebel’s graffiti from the night before. The city has increased security around the wall significantly, but somehow, someone always finds an opening to add some colorful artwork to the wall.

As silly as it seems, the best part of my day is walking past the wall on my way to school. I know I shouldn’t, but I always hope that there will be something new there, a new word or phrase.

The government outlawed the written word years ago, but the rebels have been leaving messages on the wall for years, even though no one can read them. Somehow, even though I can’t read, I can feel how important the words are. I can sense the urgency with which they were written. And while I know that it’s wrong, I feel drawn to them. Sometimes, I even imagine that they were written for me. I could get in trouble for thinking like that, but I can’t help it. I long to read the words that are written there.

I continue to walk, stealing glances at the wall and the new words written there last night. The crew must have just gotten here, because they’ve barely made any progress scraping off the bright red letters. I count 7 words written in huge blocky letters. I wish I knew what they were.

I look around to see if anyone is watching before I duck into a nearby alley between two buildings. I circle around to the back of the building, hiding in the shadows so that I can get a better look. I try to memorize the sentence on the wall, the shapes of the letters that I have no idea how to decipher. I stare at it for a few minutes, as I watch the maintenance crew remove the paint.

Suddenly, a voice whispers from behind my shoulder, “Do you want to know what it says?” I jump, and I almost scream, but I catch myself before I do. My heart races as I turn around and see who the voice belongs to. It’s a boy that I recognize from school, though I don’t know his name. He’s a grade or two ahead of me. He is a little taller than me, with curly, brown hair, an amused look on his face, and a twinkle in his pale green eyes. I am both embarrassed and annoyed that he caught me, but then I remember what he just said.

“You know what it says?” I whisper back, my eyes darting around to make sure we are alone. Even though we are hidden in the shadows behind the building, I suddenly feel like everyone is watching me. No one is supposed to know how to read. And talking about it is very dangerous.

The boy just smiles at me, and nods. My heart races again, but this time out of anticipation as I wait for him to respond.

He leans in and whispers in my ear, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” My heart flutters, not just at the words but because he is still leaning so close to me. Nervous, and unsure what to say, I turn back to look at the wall again.

I don’t look back at him, but I can’t keep myself from asking, “How did you learn to read?” He doesn’t respond. I turn around and he’s gone.

Glancing back at the wall so I can see the words one more time before I have to leave, I repeat them quietly to myself.

“The pen is mightier than the sword.”