The rain hadn't stopped all morning.
It whispered against the tall windows of Freya's studio, a quiet, steady rhythm like a lullaby the world had forgotten. Pale gray light filled the space, softening the hard edges of metal shelves, unused canvases, and half-finished works. Everything inside stood still. Silent.
Just how Freya liked it.
She stood barefoot on the concrete floor, a brush in her hand, unmoving. Before her: a large white canvas, untouched. The color she'd chosen—Payne's gray—was waiting on the palette, but her fingers wouldn't move.
Not yet.
Her black smock hung loose on her frame. Her sleeves were rolled up, but she hadn't painted in three days. The studio smelled of oil paint, rain, and the faint ghost of turpentine.
She had the urge to throw the canvas out the window.
Then—
A knock.
Soft. Once. Then again.
Freya frowned.
She wasn't expecting anyone. The gallery assistant never knocked. Deliveries came to the back door. She didn't like surprises. Or visitors. Or—
Another knock, a little firmer this time.
She walked to the door and opened it just enough to see—
A girl.
Soaked from the rain, her boots muddy, her umbrella dripping on the steps. Her cheeks were flushed, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, her bag hanging off one shoulder and sagging with the weight of too many books.
"Hi," she said, voice soft but clear. "I'm Amelia. I—I'm here for the internship?"
Freya blinked once. "That's next week."
"I know," Amelia said quickly. "I just… wanted to see the studio ahead of time. I hope that's okay."
She looked nervous. But not afraid.
Freya studied her for a moment longer. Young. Bright-eyed. Something warm in her that didn't belong in a place like this. A contrast she didn't ask for.
Still—
Freya opened the door.
"Don't touch anything," she said, then turned and walked back inside.
Amelia stepped in carefully. The door closed behind her, shutting out the storm.
And just like that, something unfamiliar entered the studio.
Not noise.
Not mess.
Not even color.
Something softer.
Something warm.
Freya didn't look at her again, but for the first time in days, she picked up her brush.
To be continued....