It was a quiet morning, sunlight streaming through the hardwood floor like fingers tracing over scarred flesh. Ariella was at the window, a cup of steaming tea cradled in her hands, wearing a thin sweater she'd bought years ago but hadn't started wearing again until now. It was the sort of morning that spoke in hushed tones and not at all—a soft lapping between waves. And for once in a long time, she didn't have to outrun the silence.
She listened to the knock on the door—three confident raps followed by a hesitant pause.
Ariella opened one of her eyes. She wasn't expecting company.
She crossed over and cracked it open, just enough to see.
A woman, perhaps in her early forties, stood there with a basket full of folded linens held under one arm and a smile that cut to her eyes. Her hair was streaked with silver, but not from age, style. Ariella saw the mismatched earrings—a star on one ear, a crescent moon on the other.
"Hi, I'm Leona. I live two doors down," said the woman smiling. "I've spotted you a couple of times and figured I should introduce myself before it's awkwardly late."
Ariella pushed the door a little further open. "Oh. Hi. I'm Ariella."
"Nice to meet you." Leona tilted her head. "Sorry if I'm interrupting something. I just thought… You know, new people deserve a hello."
Ariella's smile was thin. "You're not interrupting anything. Thanks for stopping by."
Leona gestured toward the basket. "Fresh laundry. It's therapeutic, isn't it? I do it when I'm working things out. Or avoiding things. Depending on the day."
Ariella's laughter was soft. "Both, probably."
Leona's face softened. "Well, if you ever need someone to sit with you or show you around the neighborhood—I'm here. Apartment 3C. I make excellent coffee and even better opinions."
"I'll remember that," Ariella said.
As Leona turned to leave, she halted. "Oh—and if you ever need to discover something local to see, there's a fantastic art supply store two blocks from here. It's hidden, like a secret only healers stumble upon. Maybe worth exploring?"
Ariella's breath was caught up by a fraction of a beat. "Thanks."
Leona winked and disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps silent and self-assured.
Hours later, curiosity triumphed over hesitation.
Ariella pulled on a jeans, a loose gray top, and scooped her hair back into a low bun and took off with phone, keys, and a silent intent. The walk was brisk, each step more securely planting her in the here-and-now than in the there-then.
When she found the art supply store, it was just like Leona had described—tucked in between a small flower shop and a bookstore repair. A thin sign overhead read Palette & Pulse in weathered letters.
Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of wood shavings and paint. The store itself was quiet but cozy, the shelves packed with paints, sketchbooks, brushes, and canvases of all shapes and sizes. Jazz music floated in the background.
Winding through the aisles, something stirred inside of her. The last time she painted was before Logan. Before everything had begun revolving around catering to someone else's shadow.
She hovered in front of a shelf of acrylic paint—titles such as "Crushed Rose," "Golden Hour," and "Ashen Dusk" tugging at something inside her. She picked up one tube, then another, their textures and names both familiar and strange. A small canvas caught her eye—a 12x12 square, blank and full of promise.
"First time back in a while?" a gentle voice said.
Ariella turned.
A man stood a few feet away, wearing a paint-stained apron over a loose-knit sweater. He had kind eyes and a tattoo of a tree branch winding up his arm.
"Yeah," she admitted. "Years."
He smiled knowingly. "Happens more than you'd think. People come in here chasing old versions of themselves. Sometimes they find something new instead."
Ariella gazed at the paint in her hand. "I have no idea what I'm looking for. I just… knew I had to come here."
"That's usually adequate," he said, walking a few paces away to exit her room.
Ariella purchased her sparse selection—three tubes of paint, a canvas, and a medium brush—and emerged once more into the world, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
She sat at her kitchen table that night, the canvas in front of her, paint poured out like a palette of potential. She had no idea what she was doing. She didn't have a strategy. But her hand continued to move, strokes producing shapes that needed no names.
Time slipped away.
It wasn't until she laid the brush down that she realized she'd been crying—not the broken, racking sobs, but the quiet kind. The kind that seeps from scabbed-over areas.
Her phone rang beside her.
A text from an unknown number.
Leona: "Felt a shift in the hallway. You okay?"
Ariella smiled. She replied.
Ariella: "Yeah. I think I'm starting to be."
The following day, Ariella brought the small canvas to her living room wall. It wasn't great—it was sloppy, abstract, fuzzy edges and jagged lines, a mixture of dark and bright colors—but it was hers. A beginning.
Later that afternoon, a knock on the door. Ariella opened it instantly.
Leona waved a basket of scones. "I bribe with baked goods."
Ariella smiled. "You don't have to."
"I know," Leona said, stepping inside. "But I want to."
They sat on the couch, scones on the table, the scent of cinnamon in the air.
"I went to the art store," said Ariella.
Leona's face lit up. "And?"
"And I painted."
Leona smiled, then grew serious. "Art has this power to reveal fragments of ourselves we believed were lost forever. I was a sculptor. Clay, primarily. When my partner departed… I didn't even handle it for three years."
"What led you back to it?"
"Grief. And rage. But mostly… tedium with my silence."
Ariella gazed down at her fingers. "I'm afraid of who I was. Afraid of who I'm becoming."
"That's the magic," Leona said to her. "Becoming doesn't require permission. Only presence."
They sat in silence for a moment, the unspoken silence.
Later, when Leona left, she stood and looked over her shoulder at the painting on the wall. "That's not paint, you know."
"What is it, then?"
"Proof. That you didn't leave."
As soon as the door closed, Ariella sat in front of the canvas once more. She ran a finger over the dried strokes, her chest aflame with something she had not experienced for years.
Belonging. Not to someone else. Not even a place. But to herself.
She woke up on the next morning earlier than usual. The light that came through the curtains was different—less oppressive, more compliant.
She put on tea and sat at the window, notebook open on her knees. This time, instead of writing about Logan, or Eva, or what she'd lost, she wrote about color.
About how "Crushed Rose" tasted like vulnerability, and how "Golden Hour" looked like hope on tired skin. She wrote about how white canvases no longer felt so terrifying.
She wrote about the neighbor who knocked without intention.
The paint shop clerk who had spoken with soft wisdom.
And the girl—herself—who had found that creating was another form of breathing.