Sophie Bennett sat on her brother's bed, watching him type away at a laptop well into the night. There were several times the boy had stopped and held his head, frustrated. He would mumble "I can't deal with this right now" or "Can't concentrate." He would make noises that proved how miserable he was. It hurt Sophie. Her chest tightened.

She had died. He had been there when she died. Oh, she could only imagine the pain he had suffered. In this moment, she felt much like a guardian angel, helping to distract him from his anguish. She would use her new found power to find new things to help inspire him to keep writing.

Eventually, he rubbed his eyes and closed his laptop. Sophie slipped off of his bed as he climbed. He grabbed his phone, sent his usual good night text to his girlfriend, and went to sleep. The girl watched as her brother tossed and turned before settling down. She leaned over him.

"Jamie, I'm so sorry." She carefully held a hand over his head, hesitant to touch him. She knew if someone didn't believe in an Immortal, they would pass right through them. But it was much easier to believe anything when one was asleep. She took a deep breath and tenderly brushed hair from him face. She sighed, relieved. She was tangible.

"I wish I could make you happy, Jamie." She leaned down to hug his sleeping form. Suddenly, light slipped through the window. Golden sand twisted it's way and danced over Jamie's head. He dreamed of three figures engaged in a snowball fight. She smiled and kissed his forehead. "Sleep well, Jamie."

She stood up and looked to the window. She wondered when Jack Frost would come for a visit. She could stay here for as long as it took. She planned to. But there was something tugging at her. A small whisper that egged her to move. She didn't know where, but she couldn't ignore it. She would come back. She knew her way home.

Sophie opened the window and leapt from the second story, landing deftly in the back yard. There was several inches of snow covering the town. Jack must have been here recently. She wiggled her bare feet in the snow. Man, it was cold. Nope, being Immortal did not do a darn thing to stop her from being cold.

The girl looked back up at Jamie's window. She wanted to go back—really wanted to go back. But the feeling tugged her in another direction. Go away, Jamie needs me to

No, this way!

Ugh. Sophie snuck through the loose plank in the fence and ran down the street. The feeling pulled her and pulled her until the sun rose. She didn't tire. She stopped in front of a small one story home in a residential area. It was quite modern looking. She stopped here. What was she doing here?

She stepped up to the windowed study. A man was sitting at a drawing table. He looked frustrated. A woman walked in with two cups of coffee and a newspaper. She set one beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and looked at his work. He pulled the large sheet of paper from the board and tore it up, throwing it along with other papers on the floor.

Sophie pressed a hand on the surface of the glass. She yelped out, slipping through and tumbling onto the ground.

"You'll figure something out soon, dear." the wife promise. Sophie looked up. She recognized the woman. She was at her first gallery opening. The man looked to his wife and Sophie knew who he was instantly. He was an architect. He was also the first person to ever buy a piece of art from her.

The woman opened the front page and furrowed her brows. She seemed as if she was trying to recall something before it hit her. "Sophie Bennett."

Sophie piqued at her name. The man looked to her, quizzically. "That young artist we purchased mother's favorite work from?" His voice implied it wasn't his mother's favorite work, but probably something she insisted on taking down.

"Look." The woman held out the paper. "It looks like she died a few weeks ago."

"Oh my. What a shame. She's very promising." The man actually looked disappointed in Sophie's death. This brought heat to her cheeks. Complete strangers were upset over her passing. "I've showed you her online portfolio, right?"

"Yes, she's improved quite a lot." the wife nodded, taking the paper back. "Well, it seems the painting we bought has raised in value. We can't let your mother get rid of it now."

"Perhaps we should go the the tribute gallery the family is putting together." the man pointed to the article in the paper. "We can purchase more."

"I'd like that." the wife nodded and wrapped an arm around her husband. "Perhaps it can bring more inspiration."

The man looked fallen. "Yes, perhaps something fresh will help." He ran a hand through his hair and looked back to the drawing board. "Deadline is next week and I have nothing."

"Artists blocks happen, dear," the wife kissed his head.

This is what the feeling was. The man had spent all night, trying to create something and he couldn't. He had no inspiration. He was drained of it. Probably from overwork. Sophie looked around for something. Anything.

She twisted her hands and rounded around the study. "Okay, okay," she breathed. She looked around, touching the piano, a crystal statue, a stone rose, and finally the woman that he looked to with such adoration. They each, in turn, began to glow and sparkle with golds and reds.

The man looked to his wife with a gaze of wonder. He looked around the room. It was as if inspiration had hit him like a brick. He beamed at his wife. "You are beautiful, my dove."

She looked at him, surprised. She smiled back pleasantly and kissed him. "Then, get to work." she touched his nose and left him to his work. Sophie peered over his shoulder as he pulled out a ruler and a pencil and began to sketch. It was amazing, watching the man create. Oh, it was wonderful! He was amazing! Sophie watched, impressed by the technique it took to draw out a building. It was a whole different form of art.

Sophie knelt beside his station and looked up at him with the biggest smile.

"You're great, Mr. Harris. Thank you so much for supporting me. If you ever need me, just call, okay? I'll give you the best inspiration!" she promised.

And then she felt it again. The tug in the corner of her mind, the whisper of a call. A need for inspiration. She bid the man farewell, although he could not hear her, and left, running down the street. There had to be a better way of travel. Maybe she could fly? Sophie, risking the idea of looking stupid, jumped into the air. The girl flipped and tumbled down a hill of concret.

Ouch. Ow ow ow ow ow. That really hurt. Sophie rubbed her backside and groaned. "That was stupid." Why did she think she could fly? She didn't have wings. She couldn't control wind like Jack Frost did.

Maybe she had tunnels like Bunnymund. She pat the ground. Nope. Nothing. Sophie sighed, wishing she could just show up where she was needed. Then, there was light. Sophie looked down. Below her, lights of technicolor blossomed and swirled around her, figures taking shapes in it. Dancers, statues, airplanes and fish all flitted through the light that engulfed her.

She looked up. It was night. There was an unfamiliar skyline around her and she slowly got to her feet. Where was she? A sign with Japanese characters stared down upon her. Oh god.

She was in Japan.

Sophie felt the tug pull her to a home in the strange land. She stared up, nervous. Sophie had never been a climber, but the tug was definitely coming from the second story. She bit her lip and climbed to the window as best she could, which had somehow become much easier due to her lightness.

Inside, a young boy sat glaring at the ceiling. Sophie phased through the window. Why was she called? Was he in the mood to even draw? He certainly didn't look it. She looked around at the robot figures on shelves and the comic books stacked on the floor.

Well, she was called here. Which meant she needed to give this boy some inspiration. For what, though?

Sophie crouched next to the comic books, thumbing down them. Certain pages began to glow. He didn't even look at them. She tapped on a DVD box next to his bedside table. He didn't flinch. Then she saw something. A picture of the boy with a young girl. Sophie touched the picture and that seemed to catch his attention. He picked it up and smiled a bit.

The boy went over to a table and sat next to it, pulling up a notebook. He began to write. Sophie wished she could understand what he was writing about. But he had a fond, lovestruck expression. Sophie smiled. A love letter?

"How cute!" She grinned. "I hope it goes well!"

There was the tug again. A three year old in England needed to figure out what to do with clay. A ten year old in Australia that was given sidewalk chalk and had no idea what to do with it. A seven year old in China that was building with toothpicks.

Sophie traveled the world, following the tug, the need for her presence, getting accustomed to her power and what she could do. Each time, she was completely amazed at the things they could create with a little push.

She had never really experienced lack of a muse. She had different inspiration. Some had been darker and more grim than others. She had never ran out. This must have been why. She had enough inspiration to spread to everyone.