The silence in Anna's guardian's home was different.
It wasn't a silence that watched you. It was a silence that welcomed rest. That didn't demand you to perform survival, or to fold yourself into a version someone else could handle.
It was gentle.
Purity found herself waking before her alarm not from fear, not from Josh's creaking footsteps outside her door, but from peace. Stillness. And a strange desire to stretch.
POV: Safety is when your body forgets to flinch, even in your sleep.
Anna entered the room without knocking.
Good morning, rising phoenix.
Purity smiled faintly. Too early for drama.
But she didn't mind it. Anna's drama felt like colour, the kind that filled the grey places gently.
Pack up, Anna said, tossing her a scarf. We're going to the centre today.
What centre?
Anna grinned. You'll see.
The ride was filled with music and random bursts of Anna rapping offbeat. Purity stared out the window, noticing how her mind was quieter than usual, not racing, not drowning, just watching.
They arrived at a large studio-like building with splashes of mural all over the walls.
This, Anna said, is The Bloom Space.
Inside, it was warm not just by temperature, but by spirit. People of different ages were gathered, painting, sculpting, journaling, laughing. Nobody was performing for attention. They were expressing themselves freely, without apology.
A woman with salt-silver hair approached. You're Purity, yes?
She nodded cautiously.
We've heard a bit about you from Anna and her guardian. You're welcome here. Paint, write, sit, cry whatever you need. We don't fix people here. We just hold space.
Something loosened in Purity's chest.
POV: Healing doesn't always need an audience. Sometimes it just needs a safe table, open colours, and someone who won't rush your process.
She sat at a canvas for an hour before touching the brush. Anna didn't bother her. No one asked, What are you painting? Not even once.
She finally dipped into cobalt blue.
One stroke. Then another. Then she stopped thinking.
She painted a silhouette barefoot, standing on a ledge, arms half-lifted. Not flying. Not falling. Just… becoming.
She didn't cry this time. Her breathing was enough.
That evening, they returned home and Anna dragged her into a warm dinner with her guardian and the woman's book club friends. Their laughter wasn't perfect or poised. It was messy, ordinary, and healing.
After dinner, Purity sat with her journal again. This time, she didn't write about pain. She wrote purpose.
I am not waiting to be rescued anymore. I am learning how to rescue myself one colour, one breath, one truth at a time.
As Purity stepped out to get some air, she didn't notice the woman in the mustard yellow scarf standing by her canvas. She wasn't a staff member. She wasn't a therapist. She was a guest, an art curator visiting to support a friend's daughter.
Her eyes stayed on the silhouette Purity had painted.
This doesn't look like someone who's just painting. This looks like someone who's trying to say something the world doesn't know how to hear yet, she murmured.
She took a quiet photo. No flash. No name tag. Just curiosity and a feeling that this painting wasn't just art.
It was a voice.
Later that night, while Anna was asleep and Purity sat journaling, a message popped up on The Bloom Space community board:
To the artist who painted the blue silhouette today: if no one has told you yet your silence has volume. And we're listening.
Purity stared at the message.
She didn't reply.
She didn't know who wrote it.
But she saved it.
Just in case one day, she might believe it.
Purity lay on her bed that night with the soft glow of her reading lamp casting shadows across the walls. Her journal sat open, but no words came yet. Just silence. Not the kind that suffocates the kind that listens.
She remembered what Anna said earlier:
Your gift doesn't need a stage to be real. It just needs a reason.
She had never seen her painting as a gift. She had always thought of it as an escape, a whisper in colors, something she did when the words got stuck. But maybe… maybe it had been speaking all along.
The next morning, while helping sort some supplies at The Bloom Space, she noticed a quiet group standing by the painting wall. Her painting. The blue silhouette is the one she never titled.
Anna nudged her shoulder gently.
They're looking at yours, you know?"
Purity shook her head. Maybe they just like the color.
Or maybe they feel seen.
One of the staff walked over and asked casually, "Did you name that piece?
She hesitated, her hands brushing the hem of her sleeves.
No. I didn't think it needed a name.
The woman smiled, not pushing further. Well, just so you know… it's the one people keep pausing for.
Purity said nothing, but her breath caught in her throat. Not fear. Just surprise and a tiny, unfamiliar bloom of pride.
POV: Sometimes healing whispers before it roars. And even the smallest pause in someone's day can be the loudest applause for your truth.
Later that day, Anna's guardian brought her a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "For you, Purity," she said with a warm tone. "A little something from the woman who visited the center yesterday. She didn't leave her name."
Inside the parcel were two books:
1. The Body Keeps the Score – soft-covered and underlined in parts.
2. Art as a Way of Knowing – with a note on the first page:
Your art speaks in a language many don't have words for. Don't stop speaking."
Purity stared at the message.
She ran her fingers across the text like it might vanish.
Then she looked at Anna who was already grinning.
Told you,"Anna said. You're no longer just a survivor. You're becoming a story people want to understand.
That night, Purity added a new entry to her journal:
I'm not trying to be an inspiration.
I'm just trying to stop hiding.
But maybe in the process of showing up for myself…
I'm showing others how to do the same.
She placed the journal on her shelf beside the books and turned off the light.
Her dreams weren't loud, they were calm.
And for the first time, the future didn't feel like a dark hallway.
It felt like an open window.