By late morning the train slid into the city as if it had always known the way. Metal and glass rose around the station in clean lines; the air smelled like rain that hadn't quite happened yet. Emma stepped onto the platform with the blue scarf light at her throat and the sketchbook Hannah had made tucked under her arm.
Emma: Arrived. The station has a ceiling like a cathedral.
Hannah: I approve of dramatic ceilings. Picture?
Emma: After I find coffee and my feet.
Outside, taxis arranged themselves in patient rows. The city moved at a hum she could feel in her ribs—faster than Maple Hollow, but not unfriendly. She let herself match its pace without chasing it.
Her sublet sat three blocks off the gallery, fourth floor walk-up, a square of sun on a small wooden table by a single window. It looked out over a courtyard full of laundry lines and the back of a bakery with a stubborn apricot tree. Not spectacular. Perfect.
She opened the sketchbook to the first prompt.
The first window that feels like home.
She drew the sill, the chipped paint, the wire basket of oranges left by the previous tenant, the way the apricot leaves flashed a darker green on their undersides when wind threaded through. She labeled one corner in Hannah's small, neat capitals: Home, for now.
Her phone buzzed.
Marin (Marshall Gallery): If you're nearby, swing by! Crates safe. We'll hang first thing in the morning.
Emma: On my way.
Marshall Gallery wore its calm on purpose—white walls with a warmer undertone, floors that didn't echo, light that seemed to know how to land. A vinyl decal waited on the entry wall, letters covered by transfer paper. Marin, short bob, rolled sleeves, and a pencil tucked behind her ear, waved from across the room.
"Emma! You made good time."
"I had a good bell ringer," Emma said before catching herself.
Marin's smile flicked curious, then kind. "We believe in rituals here too." She gestured toward a line of crates resting like sleeping animals beneath track lights. Alvarez's neat Sharpie labels faced outward: Morning at the Counter / Caldwell; After the Rain / Caldwell; Paper Stars / Caldwell.
"Tomorrow at nine," Marin said, checking her clipboard. "We'll unwrap, breathe for two minutes, then start. I'll have two techs and a level so accurate it will shame us all." She lowered her voice, as if confiding. "Your statement made half the staff tear up. The stillness that love makes possible. We all claimed we had dust in our eyes."
Emma flushed. "It was a good line. It found me."
Marin led her to the entry wall. "Want to peel the transfer?" she asked.
Emma swallowed. "Me?"
"Always the artist," Marin said, offering the edge. "It's your name."
The paper pulled back with a quiet sound, and there it was—Emma Caldwell—soft gray letters that already felt like they knew the space. Beneath, The Space Between Moments — Works on Paper.
Something in Emma's chest settled into place, not dramatically, just… correctly. She took a photo and sent it without a caption.
Hannah: I just rang the bell. Loud on purpose.
Emma: I heard it here. (Name on wall.)
Hannah: I knew you would. Mail the postcard when it's time.
Emma looked toward the street. A red mailbox waited at the corner like it had always known her route. She slid Mrs. Ferris's postcard from her tote, thumb running over the fountain picture once. On the back, Hannah's three words watched her: For luck. Mail. She fed the card into the dark and heard it thunk into place, a small, perfect sound.
Emma: Mailed.
Hannah: Then the luck is already on its way.
Back in the sublet, late afternoon moved across the wall in a good, patient stripe. Emma unpacked like someone who understood that order could be a kindness: toothbrush in a cup, scarf on the chair, brass key in the little dish by the door, For-When-It's-Hard list folded into the mirror frame. She placed the blue tin of letters on the top shelf of the tiny kitchenette, ridiculous and right.
She opened the sketchbook to the next prompt.
Someone's shoes, not yours.
Down on the courtyard stairs, a woman in a yellow raincoat sat with her bicycle and a paperback, her boots scuffed in a way that meant she actually went places. Emma drew them—crease at the toe, a loose lace, a smear of city. She wrote: Going, then arriving, then going again.
Her phone buzzed with Maple Hollow.
Hannah: Crowd verdict: lemon bars are "dangerously persuasive." Also, the teens brought a playlist called "Emma's Rail Tour." It is chaotic and perfect.
Emma: I demand a link. Also, tell the espresso machine I see it and respect it.
Hannah: It blushed and pulled a perfect double.
Emma laughed, the sound surprising her with how easily it found its way into the small room. She boiled water because a kettle whistle bridges the same distance bells do, and made tea that wasn't quite Hannah's but tried very hard.
Evening unpacked itself. City noise lifted and laid down again. She walked the three blocks back to the gallery just to see it in night light: her name catching a little glow through the glass, the crates like silhouettes in a quiet aquarium.
On the way home, she passed a florist sweeping the sidewalk. Without thinking too hard, she bought three small stems of something that looked like the city's version of wildflowers—thin, hopeful, slightly stubborn—and set them in a glass by the window. Make a place, even when it's borrowed, she wrote under the sketch of their thin leaves.
Her phone chimed once more.
Hannah: Locking up. Bell, then sleep. Send me your last window?
Emma: First window, last light. (photo)
Hannah: Keeping the rest warm. Count ten breaths by the stove for me.
Emma: Ten. And one more for luck.
She didn't open any of the letters. Not yet. The city wasn't too loud; it was simply new, and new could be held. She slid the Open when you can't sleep envelope forward to the front of the tin anyway, because preparation is its own comfort.
Before bed, she copied the statement line onto a torn scrap and taped it above the table where the sun would find it in the morning: the stillness that love makes possible. It looked less like a boast and more like a direction.
She sent one last message.
Emma: Tomorrow, nine. Level, lights, breath.
Hannah: Tomorrow, seven. Grinder, milk, breath. Parallel magic.
Emma: Ring the bell when you flip the sign?
Hannah: I already put the bell next to the key. Muscle memory engaged.
Emma smiled in the dark. The city hummed its soft engine. She lay still and named what was true: crates safe; name on wall; postcard mailed; first window drawn; luck dispatched; bell waiting on another table in another town.
Forward, she wrote on the next blank page, then slept like the line knew how to carry her.