They set the alarm for 6:00 a.m. anyway—practice for Wednesday. When it chimed, the room was the soft gray of almost-morning. Emma sat up, tied the blue scarf loosely at her neck, and rang the bell once, just like they'd planned.
"Rehearsal passed," Hannah said, voice husky with sleep. "Coffee in three… two…"
By seven the café was awake. The grinder sang, the milk hissed, and a ribbon of sunlight slid along the counter like a blessing. Emma kept a tidy checklist by the register: train bag, charger, portfolio folder, umbrella, snack kit (Mr. Patel's aunties insisted), artist statement printouts. Hannah added a small square at the bottom—breathe—and boxed it like a real task.
The day tested them in small ways, as if the town wanted proof of their readiness.
First, the zipper on Emma's suitcase stuck halfway with a stubborn sound like a held breath. She tugged once, twice—panic creeping in—until Hannah arrived with a tea candle and a cotton swab. "Wax the teeth," she said, calm as a YouTube tutorial and twice as efficient. The zipper slid smooth. Emma rested her forehead against Hannah's shoulder for a beat and exhaled. "You're a wizard."
"Just practical," Hannah murmured. "Wizard comes later—after soup."
Then the espresso machine sputtered and blinked an orange warning. Hannah stared it down like a difficult customer. "We have talked about this," she told it, flipping the side panel and reseating a hose with a click that sounded like forgiveness. The light went green. A tiny cheer rose from the three early regulars; Mrs. Ferris actually clapped.
At ten, Marin from the gallery texted a question about the hanging order. Emma's chest tightened; the old itch of perfection knocked. Hannah slid the printed thumbnail map across the table and tapped the sequence they'd sketched the night before—quiet to tender, tender to bright, bright back to quiet. "Trust last night's selves," she said. "They were smart and well-caffeinated."
They were.
By noon, the last practical errands were done. Hannah handed Emma a small, folding umbrella ("City rain behaves different") and a lightweight tote for the show day ("For the heels you'll swear you don't need and then do"). Emma added one more Open When envelope to the blue tin—Open when the wall is finished—and sealed it with a paper star that caught a sliver of sun.
In the afternoon, they took one lap through town—the long way on purpose. Nora from the bookstore insisted on a Polaroid by the front window; the photo developed in soft, milky tones: two women, a scarf, a grin neither of them knew they were wearing. "For our counter collage," Nora said, waving it dry. "Bring me a city postcard to stick beside it."
At the fountain, the water looked glass-still. Emma laid three maple leaves from her sketchbook along the rim, then tucked one into Hannah's pocket. "For luck," she said.
"Greedy for luck," Hannah answered, and kept the leaf.
Back at the café, a trio of teens from the community center arrived with a shoebox. Inside, under tissue paper, waited a handful of clumsy, perfect friendship bracelets—thread in café-brown, sky-blue, and a gold that tried very hard to be sunlight. "For the big day," one said, suddenly shy. "Tie one on before you go."
Emma did, fingers trembling at the knot. Hannah tied one too, then rang the bell once for them, which made all three teens glow like they'd been knighted.
Evening thinned the bustle to a hush. They locked up early, wiped the counters twice for no reason, and stood in the middle of the empty room like sailors reading weather. It felt okay to leave, Emma realized. Not forever—just the way you leave a well-tended garden, certain it will still be itself when you return.
At home, they did the final lay-flat: train outfit on the chair (soft sweater, dark jeans, scarf), ID tucked with the ticket, a paperback from Nora in the outside pocket, the wrapped book from Hannah on top like a secret star. The brass key sat in its little pouch; the For-When-It's-Hard list was folded crisp, ready.
Hannah lifted the flour bin, hesitated, then laughed at herself and slid a tiny envelope deeper into the sack. "There," she said. "Completely unreasonable. Extremely comforting."
Emma smiled. "I promise to bake when the walls feel too white."
"Good," Hannah said. "Flour works better than fear."
They ate mushroom soup standing in the kitchen, then sat and let the quiet grow thick and friendly. When the lamp made a halo on the table, Hannah pulled out a postcard—Mrs. Ferris's old Maple Hollow fountain—and wrote three words on the back. She didn't show Emma. She addressed it to Marshall Gallery and tucked it into Emma's tote.
"You'll know when to mail it," Hannah said simply.
Night came polite and blue. They placed the bell by the door and, for the first time, didn't ring it. Not yet. They just rested their hands on it together, as if sharing a pulse.
"Tomorrow we sleep," Hannah whispered. "Wednesday we fly by rail."
"Tomorrow we stay," Emma answered. "Wednesday I go—and then I come back."
They turned off the light. The apartment held its small, brave inventory: scarf, bell, key, letters, list. In the quiet, Emma felt it—fear shifting its weight into something else. Not smaller, exactly. Just… steadier.
The Monday before had done its work. What was left was a morning, a bell, and the road.